Baking Bread

Octavia Philarmonica closed the door behind her with a heavy sigh, leaning against the wood dumbly, her eyes closed, shapes dancing before her eyelids, her breath heavy, her eyes sore from tears.

“Heey, Tavi!” a familiar voice called out from the living room. “How’s it hanging?”

Taking a deep breath and counting to ten, Octavia shrugged off the cello case and proceeded, past the chaos of Vinyl’s room and the stately cleanness of her humble abode, to the common room, where the white unicorn was lounged on the sofa, two sixpacks of beer adorning the glass table before her. With displeasure, Octavia noticed that two beer cans lay empty and smashed on the pristine (Not so pristine now) carpet.

“Hey, Tavi, why the long face?” Vinyl grinned, her magenta-red eyes shining in the dim light of the chandellier. “Oh, no, I get this: because you’re a-”

“Shut up, Vinyl,” Octavia dropped with a heavy sigh, reaching for the wine cabinet. After a moment of contemplation, the grey mare fished out a bottle of Prench Bordeaux and slammed it onto the table, picking up the glass. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I can see that,” Vinyl observed, scrutinising the cellist with her gaze. “Expensive wine, no comment on my being messy, no disdain for the earthly drink of beer.” Another can opened with a hiss. “What’s wrong?”

“Well.” Octavia poured herself a glass, and, contrary to her usual habit, gulped it whole, pouring another one immediately.

“Wow.” Vinyl frowned. “When you’re drinking wine like gin, you know it’s bad. What the hell happened, Tavi?”

“Long story short,” Octavia replied, finishing off the second glass in the same manner, “I got fired.”

Vinyl gasped. “You? Fired from the orchestra?” A look of severe disbelief crossed the unicorn’s face. “You’re the soloist! They can’t fire you!”

Octavia chuckled darkly, dispensing with the glass in one gulp. “Apparently, they can.”

“Why?” Vinyl wondered, sipping beer from the can. “You were perfect at every concert I attended, and I’m sure you-”

“I didn’t want to fuck the manager,” Octavia replied simply, filling yet another glass, stirring it in her hoof, watching the red liquid dance about within the walls of the vessel.

Vinyl coughed on her drink. “You what?!”

“He tried to seduce me into giving him a blowjob,” Octavia continued, not averting her eyes from the glass. “Which, naturally, I refused.” A small touch crossed the mare’s face. “By giving him a buck to the balls.”

Vinyl winced. “Pretty hardcore.” She sighed, sipping beer. “He should’ve known you’re into mares, not stallions.”

Octavia cough, almost doing a spit-take on her wine. “What? Vinyl!” She eyed her roommate sternly. “I am not into mares! I am straight. As an arrow.” The nerve! The audacity!

“They all say that.” Vinyl smirked casually, emptying the can into her throat audibly.

Octavia chuckled. “Vinyl, even if I were into mares - which I am not - I would never have sex with you.” Even if I were immensely drunk. And high. And on an isolated island with no one but Vinyl for months.

“Damn.” Vinyl crushed the empty can between her hooves, throwing it on the floor. “There goes my lucky ticket.”

Octavia sighed, eyeing the bottle, which, by now, was half-empty. Half-full. Let’s be optimistic here. “And I can’t even sue him. The damn guy’s friends with the royal guards, and the State Attorney, and the judge. If anything, he’ll sue me for assault.” She sighed. “I have no evidence. I have no job. No money to pay my share of the rent.”

“I’ll pay yours,” Vinyl quickly supplied.

“That’s not it, Vinyl.” Octavia sighed deeply, the wine kicking in her brain. “I have nothing. Nothing.”

“Listen, Tavi…” Vinyl sighed, opening another beer. “You’re smart. You’re skilful. You’re a damn fine cellist. You’re gonna find another orchestra.”

“Oh, you make it sound so easy, Vinyl, thank you,” Octavia hissed, filling the glass with trembling hooves. “Without a letter of recommendation, it is impossible to find a place in an orchestra. And guess what?” Octavia turned sharply. “There’s just one orchestra in Manehattan. It’s not like your clubs where you play a gig and get shittons of money in one night and move on to the next one!”

“You make it sound like I’m a millionaire.” Vinyl’s tone took a defensive note, her forehooves crossing as she levitated the beer.

“Please, Vinyl.” Octavia chuckled darkly. “You buy super-expensive equipment, state-of-the-art sound systems, you blow your money away on auctions to buy a gold watch that you don’t even wear or need… Do I need to continue?” Octavia downed the glass. “You make hundreds of thousands of bits, if not millions, just by playing that awful noise of yours that you call music!” The mare slammed down the glass in irritation, the table clinging sadly.

“You really think I’ve made all this cash just spinning disks?!” Vinyl exclaimed irritatedly, leaning in to the grey mare. “You really think I just have to make music and score it rich? Hell no! I work hard as fuck to pay the rent, and buy groceries, and, yes, buy shittons of expensive equipment. But I work double, hell, triple shifts. I work T to T, Octavia.” The DJ glared at the cellist, her gaze softening a little, mixing with fear.

A realisation dawned upon Octavia, who raised her brow and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Vinyl… You… You have a second job.” She took a breath. “A job you never told me about. Because it is…” Illegal? Humiliating? Both? “Are you a stripper?” Octavia demanded, gasping immediately. “A prostitute?”

“Me, a hooker?” Vinyl exclaimed. “Hell no!” The DJ sighed. “Ah well. The cat’s out of the bag now. Might as well spill the beans.” She popped another can. “You see, Tavi, I’m not just going to clubs and spinning disks.” Vinyl fell silent for a moment, as if contemplating whether to give away the information. “I make most of my living…” She bit her lip. “Baking bread.”

“Baking bread,” Octavia repeated dumbly. “You are… baking bread.” She sipped on her wine, eyeing the wild-maned DJ curiously. “Is ‘bread’ some wubspeak for ‘meth’?”

Vinyl laughed, waving her hoof in the air dismissively. “No, I’m serious. I’m a baker. Ponies want bread and I make bread. It’s easy as that.”

Octavia filled her glass to the brim once more, the wine finally succeeding at soothing her tangled thoughts. “So… You run a set of bakeries?” Vinyl shook her head. “A single bakery?” One more shake, accompanied by an indulgent smile from the unicorn. “How do you mean, then?”

“You see, Tavi…” Vinyl began, very carefully, as if unfolding a map before the confused cellist. “There has been a great shortage of bread this year. Wheat has become a valuable commodity, what with many farms going out of business and fields struck by famine. Rye, too, but…” She smiled. “That, I can get around.”

“So, you basically mean… You produce factory-wise amounts of rye bread…” Octavia frowned as Vinyl gave her an eager nod. “And then sell it…” She lowered her voice. “At the black market? Illegally?”

Vinyl scowled, gulping her beer. “I wouldn’t say illegally… Semi-legally. Bread is bread, and it’s no illegal thing.” The unicorn drank eagerly from the can. “However… I do not exactly have a license or pay taxes.”

“So… you have all the revenue to yourself.” Octavia nodded. “Clear profit.” I can appreciate that.

“Well, I do share with the distributors, of course,” Vinyl corrected, “but yeah, it’s pretty much it. Nice cash, nice job. I take little rye and much bits.” The DJ leant back with a successful grin.

“Many,” Octavia corrected automatically, out of habit. “Many bits.” She paused. “Just how many bits are we talking here, by the way?” The cellist shook the empty bottle.

“Thousands, Miss Linguistic Perfection.” Vinyl grinned, levitating her shades up to her. “Dozens of thousands.”

“Annually?” Octavia enquired, trying to keep her voice as uninterested as possible.

“Thirty grand a month,” Vinyl replied simply.

It took a great effort not to sip on her coffee. “Thirty…” Octavia fell silent, counting, estimating. That’s what I make a year! “I want in,” she said suddenly, with fierce determination.

Vinyl raised her brow, her purple shades now adorning her face. “Why?”

“Well, I just lost my job, and no letter of recommendation-” Octavia began, but Vinyl waved her off.

“I mean, why should I let you in?” The grin evaporated from the smug face, Vinyl pressed her chin into her chest, looking at the grey mare through her shades. “Why should I share my profits with you? I manage just fine on my own. I hold a few districts, I have my distributors, I get good cash. Why let you in?”

“Because we’re friends?” Octavia suggested, more than a little hurt.

Vinyl chuckled. “Listen, Tavi, friendship is magic but magic doesn’t bring you money. It’s business. Friends and associates; these go separate ways.”

Octavia glanced at the wall, the gears in her head turning rapidly. “Not if I can increase your profit,” she said, a smile of her own commanding her lips.

“Oh?” Vinyl raised her brow again. “And how precisely do you think you’ll do that?”

“Well, my dear Vinyl,” Octavia continued, emboldened, “if you’ve been paying attention, for the past two years that we’ve been sharing this flat, I am the one doing the cooking, because yours, frankly, is sub-par.” Vinyl snorted. “I can optimise your resources. I’ll use less rye and produce more bread.” Octavia grabbed Vinyl’s beer can and drank from it boldly, the unusual taste biting at her tongue. “And it will be of better quality. Ponies will like it, and, as a result, will turn to our bread as a cheap, yet tasty, substitute for what the very few official bakeries are producing now.”

Vinyl held a long pause. “It’s a risky job, Tavi. You can get prosecuted for not paying taxes and having no license.” She lowered her voice. “It’s not just some farmer selling a few loaves of bread to a customer on his farm. It’s an industry. You can get caught. You can go to prison.”

Octavia smiled, her eyes shining with sadness and determination. “Well, seeing as I have no job, no opportunities, and no possible future, I am ready to accept these risks.”

Vinyl sighed, averting her purple-shaded eyes. “Okay. All right. Sure, why not? We can try it.” She smirked. “After all, I can trust you not to rat out or sabotage the whole operation.”

Octavia all but beamed with joy, and yet raised her brow mentally. She knows the word ‘sabotage’? “You’re right, Vinyl. I am also about to bring the whole operation to a new level. So.” She rubbed her hooves together. “Where do you usually cook?”

Vinyl laughed softly. “What, you think I have some underground bakery?” The surprise on the cellist’s face gave away that she thought just that. “No, my dear Tavi, I bake here. At home.”

“At my flat?” Octavia could not help but marvel.

“Hey, it’s my flat too,” Vinyl said defensively. “It’s easy, and you can always pretend I’m just cooking for the household. I bake, and slip the bread off when you’re at concerts or rehearsals, but seeing as you won’t have any anymo-” The DJ bit her tongue.

Octavia gave the unicorn a small smile. “It’s okay. I’m just… It’s okay. So.” She stood up.

“So.” Vinyl followed her motion.

“What do we do now?” Octavia wondered, seeing her friend and roommate in a new light for many years.

Vinyl grinned, light reflecting in her shades. “We bake.”

BaKING BrEAD

Written by psp7master

An MLP/Breaking Bad crossover