Melancholy Man

Author's Note: This is a birthday present for my dear friend Paradigm of Writing, no strings attached. I know it's not much, but sometimes it is the sentiment that carries with it more weight than the gift itself. Tonight I raise a glass in your name, and from the bottom of my heart I wish you all the best on your very special day.

There should be a law that bans anyone from having to work on their birthday. Sometimes it can be utterly depressing, but more often than not it's simply exhausting. Marth was getting the worst of it now, having spent a whopping 6 hours attending business meetings, not to mention partaking in scheduled matches on the side. He gets it. He's supposed to be a representative, the face of the company that otherwise goes faceless among its loyal spectators. It's a job he has grown used to for the past four years, but after all this time, he would expect to have enough seniority to at least scratch a day or two off his calendar.

Those board members can all suck it as far as he's concerned.

Carelessly, Marth shoved himself through the door of his hotel room, dropping his suitcase on the floor and stumbling onto the recently made bed, courtesy of room service. He didn't expect the door to close on its own, but it wouldn't have mattered either way. Secretly he was hoping someone would notice him spilled out in his room, a glaring contrast from the confident and determined man that was leading the conference just a few minutes prior. Perhaps there was a chance the door slammed with enough force to merit an investigation? After all, he wasn't the only member situated on this floor. His fellow representatives were also somewhere in the hall, albeit spread out due to the lack of vacancy at this hotel. He didn't understand why the big boss always had to plan these things in the middle of summer, and would have much preferred what they did last year when the annual Super Smash Boards were held at the beginning of September. At least the kids were in school by then.

He gazed at the ceiling, tugging at the tie around his neck until he somehow managed to peel it off. It ended up slithering off the side of the bed, close to his shoes and some papers that had fallen from the desk a few hours ago. Even after undoing the stuffy collar, Marth didn't feel relieved in the slightest. It was still his birthday, and with only a few hours left in the day he might as well have called it a night. He couldn't recall one person in that board room bring it up to him, and for some reason that bothered him more than it should have. He was turning 23, that mythical age where the body is at its peak of physical stability. A few more years and it will all be going downhill, or so he's told. Some of the older members like Samus and Falcon still treated him like he was a kid, but he supposed that was inevitable being a 23 year old man with the responsibilities of a chief executive officer.

A simple greeting or acknowledgement is all he was asking for. There were plenty of opportunities during the day for them to say something, so many moments where he found himself talking with fellow representatives one on one. He wasn't expecting anything during the meeting of course, but lunch was no excuse. The company made him pay for his own meal (fish and chips on a leaf, which was mediocre at best in his opinion) and forget about ordering dessert. Chocolate gave him stomach pains; perhaps it was the overwhelming sweetness of the delicacy that made him bitter on the inside.

Silently, he turned over and reached for the remote, flipping through the television and its plethora of sixteen channels, some of which even came in foreign languages as a bonus. There was nothing worth watching except for a news station that had horrible reception for some reason. He ended up sticking with one of the foreign channels, an ancient movie about a young man striving to bring honor to his father's name amidst some kind of war. Or so that's what he thought. It's hard to tell without subtitles.

He threw off his jacket and other cumbersome clothing as he pondered what he was going to do for dinner. Since it was rather late, he wasn't fully prepared to go out again. The board meetings had somehow drained him completely, which was kind of pathetic considering he didn't do much except stand there and talk. Granted, a lot of planning came his way as it did with all meetings, but once the presentations were done and the graphs were firmly planted in people's minds, what point was there in keeping any of it? He was only going to have to gather another set of reports for the next board meeting, and then the following one after that. Explaining results and mileage from a season's worth of tourneys could be anyone's job, but alas, it's a spotlight that he doesn't mind dancing in so long as it means everyone else has to watch.

He walked into the kitchenette as angry Chinese men shouted at one another on the TV. Miraculously, his fridge did have some form of food within it, if two-day old half-eaten lasagna even counts as food. Besides that, he had the option of choosing yesterday's leftover cheese pizza, or indulging himself in one of the cans of Coors Light. Those weren't even his and were only here because Falcon's fridge was out of order. Reluctantly, Marth reached in and pulled out a cold one, regretting his decision instantly as he pulled the tab and remembered he wasn't one to drink alcohol. Oh well, can't let the darned thing go to waste.

He hobbled over to the loveseat, sitting himself down in front of the TV yet again. He was caught in the middle of an epic fight, a duel between two swordsmen with facial hair that might have been worth the shot imitating later on. It was easy to tell who the hero was supposed to be, the young man with the fierce glare in his eyes, compared to the darker fighter with a scar on his left cheek. They continued to shout at one another as their blades clashed, but it was all Greek to him considering he knew next to nothing about Chinese dialect. Still, it was the most interesting program currently airing, and if he had to spend the rest of his birthday watching Chinese war movies, then he might as well do it with a beer in his hand. Can't say he's ever done that before.

"Happy birthday to me," he mumbled before taking a swig. The taste wasn't so horrid once he got used to it, but he couldn't imagine someone drinking one of these every day. Maybe if enough people passed by him every year without wishing him a happy birthday he'd eventually get used to that as well. Eventually, the movie had reached its closing lines, while Marth vegetated upon his chair as the credits rolled by, none of which he could understand of course.

By this time he had practically fallen asleep, the cold drink now warm as it sat half empty on the nearby stand. He had his head rested on his fist, a position that he'd never be able to sleep in unless he was exhausted. Visions of Chinese swordsmen danced in his dreams, but half of it was blocked out by replays from the day's events. He saw himself checking his emails, going to the calendar and skimming over all of the members that had birthdays this month. His was no longer on the list. He demanded an immediate vacation, say a week's worth of free days in order to make up for this inexcusable crime.

It never used to be like this. A few years ago, he and his friends would go out on the town all the time. Life was simpler then, back before having to dress up in stiffy business clothes, where all he had to worry about was knocking people off of stages and maintaining his position on the leaderboards. Now there was hardly any time for that, and although he did continue to participate in tournament matches, the novelty of the whole ordeal was beginning to wear off quickly. He no longer felt the satisfaction of victory whenever he triumphed over one of his opponents like he had done all those years ago. The stiffness of real life was beginning to take a hold of him, turning him into one of the billions of existing humans walking about on this earth.

A sharp wooden pain shot him on the side of his head, stirring him from an otherwise awkward sleep. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the light coming from the TV, he was met with some commercial of two people trying to sell what appeared to be a compact fruit dicer. His head was a little fuzzy, his cheeks somewhat hot, and it took him a moment to realize he had been drooling down his right arm. The wooden noises continued and even after rubbing his eyes and stretching he couldn't quite place the source of the intruding sound. For a moment he thought that it was coming from the television, but after a few more seconds of mindless staring he concluded that the knocking was instead coming from the door.

Steadily, Marth clawed his way into a standing position, somewhat hazy from the alcohol in his system. It may have only been half a beer, but he was always known among his associates as a lightweight. His normally pale complexion was looking more blush than before, unlike his vision that thankfully cleared up after a few seconds. The knocking on the door continued, somewhat abrasive in manner as if the person on the other side was really hoping he would hurry the hell up.

"Room service," Marth growled, "again."

He may have disliked the hotel, but he had to hand it to the employees that they really knew how to be helpful. A little too helpful in his opinion since more often than not he always found himself bumping into a service lady who just so happened to be on her way to clean his room whenever he left the building. It was a nice thought, but coming in to clean the room after dark was simply overkill, especially since he's never asked for room service once during the entirety of his stay.

Unceremoniously, Marth unlocked the door and swung it open, preparing to berate the poor maid in question, only to be met with the dark eyes of a taller man in a blue jacket. Marth recognized him immediately as his travel companion, the fresh meat that had been so blessed to accompany him on this trip, Ike. They were friends, albeit distant ones since they rarely ever spent time with one another due to their conflicting schedules. This trip was one of the few times where they actually got to see each other regularly, even if those events just so happened to take place behind the glass panes of a board room.

"Good evening, Marth," said Ike with a smile. "Sorry to wake you."

Marth blinked a few times, looking away to rub whatever it was that hinted at him sleeping out of his eyes, but he still looked like a zombie regardless. He's known Ike for a few years now, one of the newer representatives to help assist in their division. There were other members of course, but most of them were recruited just in the past year. Seeing as how Marth normally attended these meetings on his own, the big boss thought it would be a good idea to bring Ike along this time, to "show him the ropes," so to speak, in preparation for Marth's inevitable retirement (which won't be happening any time soon to his dismay). Thankfully, both Marth and Ike were around the same age, although to this day he's still not sure if Ike is older or younger than him. In any case, he still looked older seeing as how he had a much larger frame and a sharper face, and he could probably down the remaining Coors in the fridge and still be tolerant enough to drive to the nearest Dunkin' Donuts.

Admittedly, this was the first time in a few days where Marth had seen Ike without his suit on, now sporting a jacket and black jeans. Was there a party?

"You didn't wake me," replied Marth, holding back a yawn as he leaned on the doorframe. "I was just watching a movie."

Ike caught the sound of the infomercial playing the background, something about a blender that can dice fruits with efficiency.

"You mind if I come in?"

"Oh sure, sure."

Marth led the way, leaving the door to shut on itself again as Ike entered the kitchenette.

"You want something to eat?"

"No thanks, I just ate. Just got back from the bar with Falcon. I needed a break after today."

"You're telling me."

Marth went into his fridge again to re-evaluate his food situation. He closed the door silently.

"Are you sure you don't want anything?"

"Yes, I'm fine thank you. I just wanted to stop by to wish you a happy birthday."

Ike lifted a small gift bag up and placed it on the counter, to which Marth could only gaze in surprise. The bag was small, shimmering slightly with a black velvet coating, while decorative tissue paper poked out from within. It reminded him of the presents that the company used to give him, usually containing a thermos or a keychain with the logo etched onto it. No one gets those anymore, not with the new reward system in place that only awards employees with perfect attendance records. Needless to say Marth hasn't received something like that in at least two years.

"What's with that face?" Ike asked.

"I-It's nothing," replied Marth, reaching forward to receive the gift. "Thank you so much."

With his mind on a seesaw, playing Mr. Honcho was impossible for Marth. In the meetings, everyone only got to see his smiling face, the one that always looks up no matter how down the situation may appear. It came with the job, and he's been busy perfecting his craft for so long that even looking at himself in the mirror gives him the creeps sometimes. There was nothing for him to gain by lying to Ike though, telling him that he "shouldn't have," or, that he "didn't have to do that." He was genuinely happy to see him, not because of the gift, but because of the courtesy that he brought in with him.

"Go on. Open it. I didn't have time to get you a card, but I hope I picked the right size for you."

The bag contained a single folded shirt with a smooth collar and cuffed short sleeves. Unfolding the garment entirely revealed it to be a golf shirt, embroidered with the Super Smash Bros. insignia over the heart. Already Marth could tell the difference between this and his traditional outfits.

"I've never seen this before," he said.

"They're new for this year," replied Ike. "We got a whole shipment of them ordered, but they told me only the higher-ups get to wear them during work hours. I had yours custom made too; take a look."

Marth flipped the shirt around, examining the back to see that his named had been stitched on in bright white lettering. He raised an eyebrow curiously at this, for traditional golf shirts don't come with any sort of decals on the rear. They're meant to be dressy, but informal enough to fit between the thin lines that define business-casual for men.

"It's so the others can finally tell us apart from the back," Ike explained.

It took Marth a moment to realize what he was referring to, but when he did, he couldn't help but stifle a smirk. Since he and Ike both shared such similar hair colors and styles, it wasn't uncommon for their co-workers to approach them mistaking one for the other. This confusion was so troublesome that some representatives eventually coined the name "Mike" as a nickname for Ike, which still remained an inside joke among the older members of Super Smash Bros.

Marth choked before he let loose an outburst of laughter, burying his face into the fabric in an attempt to hide his reaction. He wasn't expecting Ike to put so much thought into the gift being his subordinate. He had to admit, the thought alone did add quite a lot of color to what would be an otherwise grey occupation.

"This is amazing," he said. "I can't thank you enough."

"Hey, it's the least I could do. You're always out bustin' your balls for everyone else's sake. I was surprised no one mentioned anything at the meeting."

"It happens. To be honest, I was feeling kind of depressed about it earlier. It may not seem like much to you, but believe me when I say that I really appreciate this. Not just for tonight, but for all your help in general. You've been taking a lot of work off my back lately."

It was true, as demonstrated in today's board meeting. For every word that Marth had spoken, Ike was right by his side, pointing out objects on slides, or handing out pamphlets to the various members. They worked very efficiently as a team, something that very few of the representatives accomplished consistently due to the rapidly shifting departments. Marth wasn't one to get along with everyone either, but something about him and Ike just seemed to click. Perhaps it was a good thing they wore their hair in such similar styles.

Ike stuttered as Marth embraced him, squishing the golf shirt between their chests. Ike returned the warm gesture, surprised to see the more human side of his normally stoic comrade. It was different than the Marth he knew, the Marth who always kept on task and never let anyone get in his way. He had to admit it was nice, not just to witness him in a state of relaxation, but to be a part of it as well.

The shirt fell to the floor as they parted, and just like out of a cheesy romance movie, the two bumped heads upon reaching down to pick it up. Ike, being the guest and feeling more responsible for some reason, swiftly retrieved it, leaving Marth to rub the invisible bruise on his forehead.

"Sorry about that."

"No no, I apologize."

"You've had a few drinks I can tell."

"Just one! Err, I mean…" Marth shook his head, hating himself for letting that slip. "I accidentally opened one and didn't want to throw it out."

"Right." Ike raised his eyebrows slightly, seeing through his fib in an instant. "Well in that case, I better get going. Don't want to be interrupting your 'me' time, you know what I'm saying?"

Ike headed for the door, but was stopped when Marth reached out to him again. He hadn't dropped his smile at all, miraculous considering how much he was dreading the evening just a few minutes ago.

"Ike. Thank you."

He held his present tightly in his arms, but he almost felt bad watching Ike leave so suddenly. He understood that it was late and that they had to get ready for another mindless day of monitoring brawls, but the very thought of seeing someone outside of work hours is what he cherished the most. Ike had taken the time to come see him on his birthday. For Marth, that's all he ever really wanted.

They shook hands beneath the doorframe.

"Any time," he said. "Have a goodnight Marth. And happy birthday."

He closed the door behind him, his footsteps vanishing down the hall faster than he had appeared. Marth stood there staring at his gift one last time before stepping in front of the mirror to try it on. It was a perfect fit, and he especially liked the way it looked from the back. He planned on showing it off the next morning, when everyone would be out wearing their stuffy business suits at the breakfast buffet. And if anyone asked where he got it from, he'd be more than happy to give them the correct response.

And so concludes another anticlimactic, but nevertheless heartwarming birthday for Marth. He never got the attention he was hoping for, no birthday cake, not even a card in the mail. Still, he was only 23, a mere child compared to the rest of the world in the grand scheme of things.

Casually, he lifts his drink and downs what remains. Here's to another year of dancing in the spotlight.