For the people who requested more about Martin, Scott, and Kelly.
A good book had the same appeal for Martin that a well-made bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich had for most men: he craved them fiercely, and once he had his hands on one he would sit with it in quiet seclusion until it was completely finished, and only then (after a brief period of contemplation to digest the material) would he be willing to resume dealings with the outside world.
This week it was Great Expectations, for Martin did not normally consider himself a connoisseur of great American classics but he was always willing to make an exception for Dickens. Plus, the local library had just got in a new shipment, and this was in it. In hardcover, no less.
So Martin went into New Book Mode with the speed and efficiency of a hunting shark, but effectively in reverse. He dragged his favorite chair from the living room into his bedroom, shoved the dresser in front of the door, unplugged the phone, and huddled into his chair with the book on his lap and an expression of grim determination on his face. He waited the requisite eight and a half seconds, took a deep breath, and opened the cover of the book.
Then he waited some more. Nothing happened. He exhaled and looked down at the page—
“MAAAARTIIIIIIIN.”
Very calmly, Martin closed his book, stood up, placed the volume on his chair, and braced his hands against the nearest wall. He proceeded to bang his head against the drywall several times in slow, precise succession.
“MARTIN, HELP!”
Dutifully, he pulled the dresser out from in front of the door. Robert, the only one of Martin’s roommates allowed in the room during New Book Time, twined around his human’s jean-clad legs and made a sympathetic mewing sound.
“You and me against the world, pal,” Martin sighed, and wrenched the bedroom door open. “WHAT?” he bellowed into the house.
“COME HERE.”
“WHERE?”
“THE KITCHEN.”
Martin flung the door open haphazardly, only half registering the sound of its crash against the wall as he stomped toward the kitchen. The fan pull in the living room swooped into his face; he struck it aside with enough force to hike the fan speed up to high and continued on, halting in the kitchen doorway.
“Kelly, I swear to high heaven and several gods who probably owe me favors that I will smite you if you do not have a very, very good reason for interrupting me while I was reading, is that clear?” he ground out, holding one hand in front of his eyes (partly out of sheer aggravation and also because who knew what he might see otherwise).
“It’s a very good reason,” Kelly said obediently.
“And if I take my hand away from my face, will I see a scene of utter destruction?”
“…depends. Have you got your eyes open under there?”
Martin whipped his hand away from his face. “Oh my dear sweet sugary god,” he mumbled, and put his hand back over his eyes.
“It’s not that bad!” Kelly said defensively, sticky hands on her floury hips as she glared, somewhat petulantly, from under the liberally powdered fringe of her bangs. “I mean, it’s not as if there’s batter in the actual cooling vents, or…well, there’s not much…um, it’s pretty much contained to the kitchen, at least, so we should be—”
“Kelly, what on earth have you been doing?” Martin asked helplessly. He ventured into the kitchen and promptly slid forward about four inches on a patch of something slimy and pink. He gripped the doorframe for support, righted himself, and sneered at the bottom of his foot…and then at the floor…and then up at the walls…his eyes didn’t make it to the ceiling before he convinced himself to close his eyes again. “On second thought, I’m not sure I want to know.”
“Um…I was trying to be domestic,” said Kelly. The last word was pronounced as if it were some awkward foreign phrase that rolled off the tongue about as easily as porcupine quills off an inquisitive coyote. Martin chanced another look at the kitchen. There was, for lack of a better term, sticky pink goop clinging to the walls, smeared on the floor, dripping in chunks for the ceiling, spread on the window in what appeared to be the vague shape of a handprint, and basically stuck to every available surface, including Kelly herself, who was coated in the stuff as well as a copious amount of dry mix and what Martin guessed was probably egg and a little milk.
“Domestic,” Martin repeated. He was attempting to fit the word in his mind in conjunction with Kelly and everything he knew about homemaking and the way the world functioned as a whole. It wasn’t working out very well. “You?” he added weakly.
“Well, yeah.” Kelly swiped a finger through a congealing puddle on cake mix on the countertop and stuck it in her mouth. She made a face, then shrugged. “I mean, you’re always the one doing all the cleaning and food-making and stuff because me and Scott are irresponsible morons, so I wanted to make a cake, because…you know. Cakes. People make them. For other people.”
“Scott and I,” Martin said absently, dragging a hand through his hair and staring wide-eyed at the mess. No, this was no mere mess: this was an epic mess. This was the sort of mess people wrote grim commemorative poetry about. He shook his head a little and focused. “Wait, you were trying to make a cake for me?”
“Well, yeah,” Kelly said, a little affronted at his disbelieving tone. She slipped her away across the floor and grabbed the counter for balance. “It’s strawberry. Because, you know, you like strawberry…”
Martin blinked, opened his mouth to speak, gave up for a moment, and tried again. “That’s…actually really thoughtful of you. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Kelly said, brightening. She smiled, glittery pink lip gloss blending into the cake batter smeared across her face.
“It was also really stupid of you, because you could have just gone and bought one,” Martin added, sliding over to the other side of the counter and noting that apparently, the mixer had been switched up to its highest setting and was left uncovered. That explained it.
“I wanted it to be meaningful, you jerk,” said Kelly, trying to plant her hands on her hips. Instead, one batter-slick hand slipped over her shorts and down to her bare knee, and she windmilled wildly for a few seconds before regaining her balance. She glared at Martin with sullen brown eyes, ostensibly trying to shame him; the batter prevented it from having much effect.
“Well, it’s certainly some kind of meaningful,” said Martin. He unplugged the mixer with a sigh and gave the kitchen a forlorn look. Robert was huddled on a dry bit of checkered tile, peacefully lapping at a mound of batter and swishing his black and white tail across the black and white (and pink) floor.
Kelly wiped her hands the best she could on the front of her already ruined T-shirt…no, Martin’s ruined T-shirt, he noted. She had stolen one of his from the laundry and knotted it at the waist to keep it from falling to her knees. Then she raked her hands through her powdery hair, tucking the pink-stained black strands behind her ears. “Sorry,” she finally admitted.
“It’s okay,” Martin sighed. He looked around some more, futilely. “Well, I’ll get a mop…”
“No no, let me do it,” Kelly insisted, trying to beat Martin to the broom closet and almost sliding into a wall in the process. “I can have Scott help me when he gets home; it’s his turn to clean anyway.” She paused, eyes wide with horror. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Scott. Oh god, what’s he going to—he’s going to see this and he won’t stop making fun of me for a month, Martin, and he’ll never—this is worse than the time with the water balloons and the syrup, he’s going to annihilate me—”
“Kelly. Kelly, calm down.”
“But he’ll eat me alive,” Kelly hissed, latching onto Martin’s arms and staring wildly up into his face. She shook him a little for emphasis, and he winced as her fingernails dug into skin and fat.
“I doubt that,” he said, gently removing her hands from his upper arms and rubbing at the crescent-shaped pocks.
“You have to save me.”
“I have to do no such thing.”
“No, you’re obligated to protect me from Scott’s wrath, Martin. I’m sure it’s written somewhere.”
Martin sighed as he retrieved the mop from the broom closet. “Why? I am not your older brother, nor your father, and in fact I am not related to you in any way—why do you always come to me to fend him off, anyway?”
“Because,” Kelly said matter-of-factly, flicking her bangs away, “the gay best friend is obligated to protect the female from the attacks of their straight brethren, that’s why.”
Martin looked at Kelly, mop in hand, for several blank seconds. Then he shoved the handle at her and began to pick his slippery way toward the living room. “That’s a load of tripe. I’m going to go finish my book.”
“But Maaartiiiin,” Kelly whined, flailing the mop a little and almost falling over. “I can’t clean all this by myself!”
“Then you shouldn’t have made a mess.”
“I was trying to be thoughtful.”
“You want to be thoughtful? Clean this up and let me read.”
This last bit was spoken from the sofa, where Martin was peeling off his socks. He carried them to the laundry basket amid Kelly’s protestations, went back to his room, slammed the door, and shoved the dresser back in front of it.
There, he thought solemnly, wiping some batter off Robert’s tail when he hopped onto the bed. Let’s see them tear me away from my book this time.
He was only on chapter six when the call came.
“HEY MARTIN.”
Only the dozing cat on his lap prevented Martin from flying into a rage, or some semblance of such.
“MARTIN, COME LOOK AT THIS!”
“DON’T LISTEN TO HIM!”
“KELLY’S COVERED IN CAKE BATTER! AND THE TOASTER IS SMOKING LIKE A FRENCH VILLAIN!”
Robert rose sleepily to his feet and bumped the top of his head against Martin’s chin, meowing inquisitively.
“I’m going to murder them both in their sleep, that’s what,” Martin said coolly, and snapped his book shut.
Martin did not, in fact, murder either of them in their sleep that night, but he did make Scott pay for the pizza they ordered and he disallowed Kelly from wearing his shirts ever again, so the evening was less of an outright failure than expected.
He didn’t get to finish his book for another week, though.
This week it was Great Expectations, for Martin did not normally consider himself a connoisseur of great American classics but he was always willing to make an exception for Dickens. Plus, the local library had just got in a new shipment, and this was in it. In hardcover, no less.
So Martin went into New Book Mode with the speed and efficiency of a hunting shark, but effectively in reverse. He dragged his favorite chair from the living room into his bedroom, shoved the dresser in front of the door, unplugged the phone, and huddled into his chair with the book on his lap and an expression of grim determination on his face. He waited the requisite eight and a half seconds, took a deep breath, and opened the cover of the book.
Then he waited some more. Nothing happened. He exhaled and looked down at the page—
“MAAAARTIIIIIIIN.”
Very calmly, Martin closed his book, stood up, placed the volume on his chair, and braced his hands against the nearest wall. He proceeded to bang his head against the drywall several times in slow, precise succession.
“MARTIN, HELP!”
Dutifully, he pulled the dresser out from in front of the door. Robert, the only one of Martin’s roommates allowed in the room during New Book Time, twined around his human’s jean-clad legs and made a sympathetic mewing sound.
“You and me against the world, pal,” Martin sighed, and wrenched the bedroom door open. “WHAT?” he bellowed into the house.
“COME HERE.”
“WHERE?”
“THE KITCHEN.”
Martin flung the door open haphazardly, only half registering the sound of its crash against the wall as he stomped toward the kitchen. The fan pull in the living room swooped into his face; he struck it aside with enough force to hike the fan speed up to high and continued on, halting in the kitchen doorway.
“Kelly, I swear to high heaven and several gods who probably owe me favors that I will smite you if you do not have a very, very good reason for interrupting me while I was reading, is that clear?” he ground out, holding one hand in front of his eyes (partly out of sheer aggravation and also because who knew what he might see otherwise).
“It’s a very good reason,” Kelly said obediently.
“And if I take my hand away from my face, will I see a scene of utter destruction?”
“…depends. Have you got your eyes open under there?”
Martin whipped his hand away from his face. “Oh my dear sweet sugary god,” he mumbled, and put his hand back over his eyes.
“It’s not that bad!” Kelly said defensively, sticky hands on her floury hips as she glared, somewhat petulantly, from under the liberally powdered fringe of her bangs. “I mean, it’s not as if there’s batter in the actual cooling vents, or…well, there’s not much…um, it’s pretty much contained to the kitchen, at least, so we should be—”
“Kelly, what on earth have you been doing?” Martin asked helplessly. He ventured into the kitchen and promptly slid forward about four inches on a patch of something slimy and pink. He gripped the doorframe for support, righted himself, and sneered at the bottom of his foot…and then at the floor…and then up at the walls…his eyes didn’t make it to the ceiling before he convinced himself to close his eyes again. “On second thought, I’m not sure I want to know.”
“Um…I was trying to be domestic,” said Kelly. The last word was pronounced as if it were some awkward foreign phrase that rolled off the tongue about as easily as porcupine quills off an inquisitive coyote. Martin chanced another look at the kitchen. There was, for lack of a better term, sticky pink goop clinging to the walls, smeared on the floor, dripping in chunks for the ceiling, spread on the window in what appeared to be the vague shape of a handprint, and basically stuck to every available surface, including Kelly herself, who was coated in the stuff as well as a copious amount of dry mix and what Martin guessed was probably egg and a little milk.
“Domestic,” Martin repeated. He was attempting to fit the word in his mind in conjunction with Kelly and everything he knew about homemaking and the way the world functioned as a whole. It wasn’t working out very well. “You?” he added weakly.
“Well, yeah.” Kelly swiped a finger through a congealing puddle on cake mix on the countertop and stuck it in her mouth. She made a face, then shrugged. “I mean, you’re always the one doing all the cleaning and food-making and stuff because me and Scott are irresponsible morons, so I wanted to make a cake, because…you know. Cakes. People make them. For other people.”
“Scott and I,” Martin said absently, dragging a hand through his hair and staring wide-eyed at the mess. No, this was no mere mess: this was an epic mess. This was the sort of mess people wrote grim commemorative poetry about. He shook his head a little and focused. “Wait, you were trying to make a cake for me?”
“Well, yeah,” Kelly said, a little affronted at his disbelieving tone. She slipped her away across the floor and grabbed the counter for balance. “It’s strawberry. Because, you know, you like strawberry…”
Martin blinked, opened his mouth to speak, gave up for a moment, and tried again. “That’s…actually really thoughtful of you. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” Kelly said, brightening. She smiled, glittery pink lip gloss blending into the cake batter smeared across her face.
“It was also really stupid of you, because you could have just gone and bought one,” Martin added, sliding over to the other side of the counter and noting that apparently, the mixer had been switched up to its highest setting and was left uncovered. That explained it.
“I wanted it to be meaningful, you jerk,” said Kelly, trying to plant her hands on her hips. Instead, one batter-slick hand slipped over her shorts and down to her bare knee, and she windmilled wildly for a few seconds before regaining her balance. She glared at Martin with sullen brown eyes, ostensibly trying to shame him; the batter prevented it from having much effect.
“Well, it’s certainly some kind of meaningful,” said Martin. He unplugged the mixer with a sigh and gave the kitchen a forlorn look. Robert was huddled on a dry bit of checkered tile, peacefully lapping at a mound of batter and swishing his black and white tail across the black and white (and pink) floor.
Kelly wiped her hands the best she could on the front of her already ruined T-shirt…no, Martin’s ruined T-shirt, he noted. She had stolen one of his from the laundry and knotted it at the waist to keep it from falling to her knees. Then she raked her hands through her powdery hair, tucking the pink-stained black strands behind her ears. “Sorry,” she finally admitted.
“It’s okay,” Martin sighed. He looked around some more, futilely. “Well, I’ll get a mop…”
“No no, let me do it,” Kelly insisted, trying to beat Martin to the broom closet and almost sliding into a wall in the process. “I can have Scott help me when he gets home; it’s his turn to clean anyway.” She paused, eyes wide with horror. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Scott. Oh god, what’s he going to—he’s going to see this and he won’t stop making fun of me for a month, Martin, and he’ll never—this is worse than the time with the water balloons and the syrup, he’s going to annihilate me—”
“Kelly. Kelly, calm down.”
“But he’ll eat me alive,” Kelly hissed, latching onto Martin’s arms and staring wildly up into his face. She shook him a little for emphasis, and he winced as her fingernails dug into skin and fat.
“I doubt that,” he said, gently removing her hands from his upper arms and rubbing at the crescent-shaped pocks.
“You have to save me.”
“I have to do no such thing.”
“No, you’re obligated to protect me from Scott’s wrath, Martin. I’m sure it’s written somewhere.”
Martin sighed as he retrieved the mop from the broom closet. “Why? I am not your older brother, nor your father, and in fact I am not related to you in any way—why do you always come to me to fend him off, anyway?”
“Because,” Kelly said matter-of-factly, flicking her bangs away, “the gay best friend is obligated to protect the female from the attacks of their straight brethren, that’s why.”
Martin looked at Kelly, mop in hand, for several blank seconds. Then he shoved the handle at her and began to pick his slippery way toward the living room. “That’s a load of tripe. I’m going to go finish my book.”
“But Maaartiiiin,” Kelly whined, flailing the mop a little and almost falling over. “I can’t clean all this by myself!”
“Then you shouldn’t have made a mess.”
“I was trying to be thoughtful.”
“You want to be thoughtful? Clean this up and let me read.”
This last bit was spoken from the sofa, where Martin was peeling off his socks. He carried them to the laundry basket amid Kelly’s protestations, went back to his room, slammed the door, and shoved the dresser back in front of it.
There, he thought solemnly, wiping some batter off Robert’s tail when he hopped onto the bed. Let’s see them tear me away from my book this time.
He was only on chapter six when the call came.
“HEY MARTIN.”
Only the dozing cat on his lap prevented Martin from flying into a rage, or some semblance of such.
“MARTIN, COME LOOK AT THIS!”
“DON’T LISTEN TO HIM!”
“KELLY’S COVERED IN CAKE BATTER! AND THE TOASTER IS SMOKING LIKE A FRENCH VILLAIN!”
Robert rose sleepily to his feet and bumped the top of his head against Martin’s chin, meowing inquisitively.
“I’m going to murder them both in their sleep, that’s what,” Martin said coolly, and snapped his book shut.
Martin did not, in fact, murder either of them in their sleep that night, but he did make Scott pay for the pizza they ordered and he disallowed Kelly from wearing his shirts ever again, so the evening was less of an outright failure than expected.
He didn’t get to finish his book for another week, though.