Tuesday. There was a heavy knocking on his door which slowly brought Marth through several layers of sleep until, breaking free from the tendrils of a dream, he rolled out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown and peered out through his curtains to see who was knocking on his door so early.
"No way. Uh-uh. No. Nope. Nopedy-nope. Definitely not good." Muttering to himself Marth changed quickly into yet another pair of jeans and a pink t-shirt (it had been white before he had stupidly put it in the wash with a red scarf.) Then he padded sleepily down to the front door, and as an afterthought, pulled on his trainers before opening it.
"Morning."
"Morning sir," he replied groggily.
"Had breakfast?"
"No."
Roy seemed to swell with anger, and practically chased Marth into the kitchen, banging the door shut behind him.
"Do you mind not doing that?"
"Eat eat eat eat," Roy chanted, banging his fork on the table and making yet more milk slop out of Marth's cereal bowl. Sighing, Marth took another nervous bite and repeated his question.
"Eat eat eat eat," Roy continued to chant. With great effort Marth took another bite, with his other hand saving his bowl from jiggling steadily off the table thanks to Roy hitting it. For God's sake, he wasn't even eating anything. Why did he have to hit that fork on the table? Did he have a penchant for forks or something?
"Eat eat eat eat."
"Alright, alright, I'm done already," Marth said, swallowing his final mouthful and looking up at Roy, who seemed to have made the table shrink just by sitting at it. But at this news, he stood, and the table resumed its normal size. Instead, the ceiling shortened. Marth threw his bowl in the sink and left the house, narrowly followed by Roy's fly swat, which was narrowly followed by the man himself. Partly out of terror, partly because he knew it was required of him, Marth broke into a fast jog.
Several hours and a strange picnic later, Marth half ran, half walked, and half staggered back to his house, Roy maintaining a steady pace just behind him. At the door Marth slumped down onto his bottom and rested his head on his knees, not caring what Roy thought. Roy swatted him. Suddenly remembering why he cared what Roy thought, he got to his feet and opened the door before heading inside.
"Hmm. Good," said Roy. It was the only nice thing he'd said all day, but Marth had no breath to thank him.
"Only five o'clock. Later you go to gym."
"What?" This man had to be kidding, right? Marth turned around, leaning against the door frame.
"I escort you."
"No way. I'm sorry, but that was too much. I don't even know how far I ran just then, but I am not going to the gym later, you hear me?"
"I'll see you at seven." Marth sighed and Roy smiled. "You will be so good you will be better than me."
"Are you joking?"
"You are a lot fitter than you think you are."
"Yeah right." Marth took a few more haggard breaths.
"You want to be better than me, I think."
"Why?" Marth asked, curious. That would take years of work, surely? All he wanted was to run one lousy Handers Championship.
"Zelda said you like Ike."
He blushed. "I don't think I need to impress him that much."
"Then you will not run race together."
"What?" That didn't sound nice.
"He will take faster pace."
"I don't understand."
"Ike runs faster than me. You want to be equal to Ike, you got to be better than me."
"You're serious?"
"Correct."
There was a long moment of silence.
"Keep eating a lot of protein," Roy advised, and then he left, still jogging. Not knowing what to think, Marth headed inside to fry up some bacon. You are a lot fitter than you think you are. What a loud of rubbish. He had almost died on the treadmills on Monday, practically collapsed today, and today wasn't even over! Going to the gym tonight indeed, who did Roy think he was? He went to the nearest cupboard and took out a protein shake, downing it in one. Ridiculous. He would rebel against this! Why was he doing this again? Wandering over to the bacon strips he plucked them off the saucepan and pushed them, whole, straight into his mouth.
"HOT!" Puffing like an extreme nicotine addict given his first cigarette in months, he danced around the kitchen, toes pointed, a habit he'd kept ever since giving up ballet at ten years old. He couldn't believe he was effectively competing against Roy now. That really annoyed him. Talk about unfair advantage! He had been duelling for years now and he knew about what was a fair and an unfair fight. Duelling had also made him competitive, and even more aware of what was fair and unfair. Irritated, he put another few strips of bacon on the pan and paced. How could Roy expect him to be faster than him in five days? Five days! Then the Handers Championship itself. It was a hopeless business. And he would be attempting to run half of it with Ike tomorrow anyway. Half! He moved back towards the pan and tilted the entire contents into his open mouth, including the oil.
"HOT!" Puffing like a woman in labour he resumed dancing around the kitchen with pointed toes. What was the advice Roy had given him anyway? He couldn't remember. He put more bacon into the pan and slowed to a walk. How was he suppose to seduce Ike anyway? It was all very well impressing him with this Handers Championship running business, but how was he supposed to go about flirting with him? Could he even assume they could get along as just friends? He barely knew the guy. And then he remembered something, or rather, re-remembered it. Ike was straight, that's what Zelda had said. Of course, that was how she persuaded him to wear a dress. The whole idea of him seducing Ike was already down the drain. He should tell Zelda that and have the whole thing over and done with. The thought made him sad. He moved back to the pan and used a wooden spoon to shovel the bacon into his mouth. Mmm, he loved bacon, but…
"HOT!" Puffing like a train on cocaine in pain he resumed dancing, this time putting a whole pirouette into his odd routine. Ow, that was painful. He really should learn to blow on his food before he ate it.
The evening saw the return of the gym. Marth decided that if there was a hell, his was bound to be one long endless grey treadmill, going nowhere for eternity. His consolation was that he ran alongside Ike, who, as usual, managed to make it look easy. Roy was on the other side of the hall on his own treadmill, watching the television screen.
"You're not wearing a dress tonight. Didn't see you this morning either," Ike commented.
"Was out jogging."
"I liked you in a dress. Sorry if I made you self conscious about it. Most people probably think you're a girl."
"They do, unless they know I'm not. How did you know?"
"Hard to say…You look like you've grown muscle overnight. How much have you been training?"
"Oh, a fair bit," Marth acknowledged, thinking of the fly swat.
"Amazing – you can even run and talk the same time. Anybody would think you've been running constantly since Monday."
Almost. "Thanks."
Ike smiled, and changed topic, slowing his treadmill down so that he could talk more easily. They talked of simple things, the news and weather, what food they liked (it turned out that Ike was a bacon fan too), and places they'd like to see. Then, leading on from the fact Marth had worn a dress, they discussed fashion trends, followed by dating (they both loved candlelight), and then homophobia. The conversation flowed so naturally that it was as if Marth had known Ike all his life, and was barely aware of the exercise he was doing, so focussed was he on gathering every bit of information about Ike he could pick up on and storing it in his memory. Far too soon his allocated hour ended, and he said goodbye with some reluctance so that he could head home. Roy, engrossed with watching the television, didn't escort him, another bonus.
Ike and Marth's half-marathon practice tomorrow... and Marth's overdue for an incident with a hedge...
