Archive of Our Own ^beta

Over the years, Luigi has learned that it’s best to keep certain words out of his vocabulary.

He’s never been the kind of man with something to prove. He doesn’t charge headfirst into spitting contests, nor does he look upon the strengths of others with jealous eyes. But for what it’s worth, sometimes… well, sometimes it feels like all he knows how to do is make laundry lists of the things that he isn’t.

He’s never been the fastest. Nor the smartest. Not the bravest, or the wiliest, never the most noticeable person in the room.

The tallest- well, that one’s actually debatable. Warmest, he’s sure he’d be in the running for right now.

He’s walking behind the hotel, sandals sinking into the soft sand, feeling the sun bake him like a bowl of tortellini, cheese bubbling and frothing against the edges of the pan. They’ve only been here for a day and his brother is already peeling across the shoulders, his skin roasted to a tender, dark flake. Where Luigi smears too much sunscreen on his cheeks, it’s more Mario’s style to slather himself in olive oil. Luigi keeps fretting over his skin, and Mario keeps waving him away with an exasperated, “Luigi, it’s a vacation.”

To which he desperately remarks, “No, Mario, this is your wedding!”

For now, Mario is still asleep. He was snoring loudly in his bed when Luigi slipped out, curled up around a pillow, finally too unconscious to fuss about the aloe that Luigi insistently rubbed on the burnt parts of him that will in just two days need to accommodate a tux.

Sometimes it drives him crazy, the way Mario doesn’t understand. He has the full, unwavering confidence of an entire kingdom. He has the support of armies in the friends that he’s collected, he’s got a million favors he hasn’t even started to think about cashing in on, and now look at him. He’s got the first day of the rest of his life arranged with a beautiful, glowing princess.

He’s got his happily ever after.

In some ways, Luigi hopes he’ll never change. Because as long as Mario is taking what he has for granted, Luigi can sleep soundly knowing that he doesn’t understand what it’s like to go without. And certainly, of all things, Luigi would rather him be happy. Even if it does make him want to jump out of his skin sometimes.

Besides. It’s not like he’s miserable or anything. There is plenty of good to work with, living outside his brother’s spotlight.

For one, he gets to go pretty much anywhere he wants without worrying someone’s gonna stop him to shake his hand or ask for an autograph. Two, nobody’s really paying too much attention, so he can sneak back to the hotel buffet as many times a day as he wants.

Mario still calls him, (in some sweet spot between brotherly affection and sibling hostility), string bean- but truth be told, Luigi’s never been better fed in his entire life.

Though the patios here sweep wide, the stones cool on bare feet and glass stretching abovehead like a greenhouse ceiling, the breakfast the hotel offers is not just a feast for the eyes. It’s one for all seven of your stomachs.

Pancakes and sfogliatelle teeming high, dripping with syrups and dusted with powdered sugar, challenging Mario’s wedding cake to put on a more impressive show. At night there’s pasta and risotto and wine, followed by rich desserts. And there’s always coffee. Rich, full bodied, oxygen-smooth coffee that he absolutely wants to run home with and bring to everyone he loves.

He imagines packing a thousand tiny chalices for all of the Toads just so he can listen to their happy squeals as they suck in the steam, taking tentative sips that then bloom in their mouths, the liquid running with full abandon. Notes reminiscent of chocolate truffles, chicken of the woods growing on fallen logs, star anise, teeming woodsmoke…

He’s so consumed by his daydreams that he doesn’t even notice the spiky protrusion jutting up from the sand until he’s almost tripped over it. Luigi lets out a small yelp, barely catching his balance on one sandaled foot, and the wild flailing of his arms is just about the only thing that stops him from eating a helping of sand.

“Sorry!” he cries, jumping back. And then, “Oh- oh!”

It’s normal to find all manner of shells on a beach. Just not… this kind of shell.

It slowly rises out of the ground, sand pouring down its sides in tumbling sifts, and Luigi inadvertently takes a couple more steps back. In his animal mind, he sees the Bowser they used to know emerge: a knife-like grin spread across his face, claws out and ready to shred, giant and formidable and even more terrifying than the most malicious ghost Luigi has ever met.

Bowser surges up, flipping onto his back, and then- he huffs miserably and closes his eyes, sinking back down into the sand.

“... Big Bowser?” Luigi asks.

“Yeah, and what’s so big about me, huh?” he grunts. Bowser wrinkles his face at the sun and then throws a dramatic hand over his eyes, long, gleaming claws splayed across his face like an assassin’s manicure. “The earth’s big. My momma was big. Bowser Jr.’s gonna outgrow me any day now…” He sighs again, a growling sound clicking deep inside his throat.

Uncertainly, Luigi wraps a hand around his own arm, letting it slide down to his wrist. “You know,” he starts tentatively, the words watery and faltering. “Now that I’m taking a good look at you, you’re not... that... big.”

Bowser’s nostrils flare in warning. He pokes a leering eye out from between his fingers and Luigi throws his hands in front of him, backtracking.

“No, no, I just mean- you’re not big, like, big and bad. Just, er… meaty.”

The hand drops safely back over his eyes. Luigi sighs in relief.

“Hmph,” he snorts, placated.

“Bowser...” With an unsure smile, Luigi softens his shoulders, a tiny ripple of optimism spreading across them. “I’m happy to see you accepted my invitation. This wedding would not be the same without you.”

“Hrmph,” Bowser repeats, but it sounds more forced this time.

Luigi prickles suddenly, his face heating with a blush worse than the burn on his brother’s shoulders. “Apologies if I’m being rude, but… I think you would agree that Mario and I have seen you at your worst. And though I still don’t know you very well, I’ve watched you come to an understanding within yourself, and I’ve… had the privilege to see you turn it all around. So.” He swallows, finishing his thought with a tiny nod. “Whatever convinced you to come, I’m glad you’re here.”

Gradually, Bowser lifts his arm so that it’s resting on his forehead instead of shading his eyes. Now Luigi can see the deceptively bored, skeptical look on his face.

And oh, Luigi thinks, feeling himself frown, so engrossed that he can’t wipe the look off his face. It’s not the expression, per se; it’s the way Bowser’s eyes burn like fireballs on his face. Probing, intense, two gleaming amber-red flames surrounding deep, dark pits. They’re more like a weapon than the spikes he wears around his arms. More like a weapon, even, than the horns on his head or the claws punctuating his fists.

Luigi imagines being burned to a crisp in that fire, then shoveled down the pit of his pupils with all its other ashy corpses, and he struggles to open his mouth to even speak.

All at once, he is jealous of his brother. In a way that he never even realized he could be.

Some part of him was quietly aware of the fact that he never felt envy pangs, seeing Peach draped over couches, her hair waterfalling down her shoulders, eyelashes soft as stuffed animals, her legs long and bare. He never felt jealous seeing them spin in each other’s arms, exchanging laughter and kisses, bodies entangling in a way he’d never really dreamed for himself.

All of a sudden, now he gets it. For some reason, Luigi abruptly understands what he doesn’t have, and it’s like being kicked in the just right place for all the air to leave his body.

Bowser narrows his eyes, opening his mouth to say something, but Luigi squeaks out a hurried, “Well, nice seeing you Big Bowser, must check in on the groom!” And before the other man can even call out, he is scurrying away, his flip flops smacking the soles of his feet with every step.

For the rest of the day, the sandcastles in Luigi’s mind stay dense and weighty, unbothered by unexpectedly terse tides. By contrast, the walls in the ballroom are made of air.

They’re a thin canvas, billowing freely in the afternoon breeze, the patio tiles cool on his feet as Luigi sits in his assigned chair. In two nights, he will return to this spot to watch the couple take their first dance. Right now, though, all he’s watching are his hands as they clench tighter and tighter, resting clasped on top of the table.

After a second, he realizes he’s not the only one fixated on them. Now Peach is darting nervous glances at them too. “Is everything okay?” she finally asks.

He hurriedly unthreads them and places them into detention below the table, neurotically running his palms back and forth over his thighs.

“Yes,” he says quickly, apology written all over his face. “Sorry, princess.”

She tsk’s, turning away, honeyed hair tumbling down her back. “You’re too formal, Luigi. Here.” She returns to the table anchored in the center of the room, an entire city of cake softly crumbling into the platter. “Try a few of these and tell me which is the best.”

Another breeze whips through the open room, scattering sand across the tiles and flinging salty air into Luigi’s lungs. He swallows a purifying breath before he scrambles to his feet, meeting Peach in the center of the room and hesitantly letting her put a fork between his fingers.

“Me?” he asks softly. His eyes bounce from cake to cake, from the one with the marbled texture, to the one as thick as fudge and oozing chocolate, to the one with dainty flowers and delicate frosting swirls.

“Yes, you,” Peach says, laying a comforting hand on his back. “Which should we eat on my wedding day?”

“Princess-” Stammering, Luigi gathers the fork close to his chest. “I should tell you that my opinions are usually wrong.”

Peach laughs, surprised. It sounds like bubblegum popping on her lips.

“Luigi,” she says sweetly. “It’s an opinion. It can’t be wrong.”

Slowly, Luigi turns his eyes to the floor. Those lists start printing in his head again. Not the handsomest, not the most up-to-date on the trends. Not the most popular, not the most knowledgeable, never the most liked person in the room.

“Mine are,” he says quietly.

Peach goes silent for a moment, following him into that moment of insecurity.

Sometimes, when Luigi still looks closely, he thinks he can still see something gleaming inside of her. Some bright lighthouse beam, blindingly blue, electrifying the light behind her eyes. Like some part of her never completely unfolded, a darkness that keeps springing back, and although he can tell himself he’s imagining it, sometimes he sees her give Mario that look- the one that reminds him of chains and claws and leading snapping dogs around on spiked leashes; the one that makes Mario turn pink and soft-headed- and he is sure that there is something devious in her. Something that cackles and seeks delight beneath all that taught, finely-polished castle etiquette.

It’s not scary; it isn’t a darkness that reeks of danger. In fact, he’s loath to say that he actually quite admires it.

Right now, though? All he sees is her usual sweetness.

She thinks for a moment, looking him over, and then finally she asks, “Well… which one do you think Mario would want?”

It’s obvious. He starts to point a quivering fork at the chocolate cake when she nods, fixing him with a knowing look, and grins.

“Alright,” she lilts. “We’ll do the marble.”

Luigi swims, floating on a sea made buoyant with salt, then walks the shore for a few hours until the sun sinks into the ocean. When it’s too dark to trust his eyes, he returns to their room with a new assortment of shells gathered for his collection, dumping them on the bureau and then hurrying to the bathroom to warm up in the shower.

As he strips the wetsuit off of him, steam filling the enclosed room, he takes a moment to consider how nice everything is here.

The glass walls of the shower are scalloped, intricate shells carved into the frosted trim. Rolled blue towels sit beside an array of shampoos and soaps, their scents already spicing his skin. Luxurious is another adjective he’d probably never use in his autobiography, but honestly? He doesn’t find the exorbitance of this place distasteful at all. If he let his dreams run wild, he truly could not mind living this way.

After the shower, once he’s dressed in a light sweater and boxers that stretch down to his knees, Luigi walks into the cool air of the hotel room to find Mario just coming back in, looking flushed and happy.

“Luigi!” he calls, before Luigi can get out a knowing comment about how he’s not supposed to see the bride so close to the wedding. “I have something for you.”

“Oh?” Luigi asks, smoothing his hands over the soft, thin fabric resting over his stomach.

“From reception,” Mario explains, handing over a chocolate chip cookie and a paper cup. Luigi lifts the drink to his face, inhales, and smiles. Hot chocolate.

Mario beams back proudly. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” he sighs happily, folding a knee down on his bed. “Thank you.”

As he settles onto the mattress, resting the cup in his lap, he takes needy swigs of the drink and looks around the room. It’s small, just big enough to accommodate their evenly spaced beds, the end table with its clamshell-shaped lamp centered between them, and the dresser on the other wall. It’s nice on the eyes. But when he turns his head, peering through the thin white curtains to the beach beyond, he can see the tide rumbling sleepily in the dark, and he doesn’t know how he could ever wish to look upon anything else.

For a moment, Luigi feels small. Small and soft, like a pill bug nestled safely in the ground. Not destined for any grand adventures in life, but promised a comfy plot of land, all with a pill bug family that brings him cookies and cocoa before bed.

“Luigi,” Mario says suddenly, drawing his attention back out. There’s a thoughtful frown on his face.

Luigi hums, his face still buried into the cup.

He turns his examining eyes on his brother for a moment, realizing that he is taking him in like this for the last time. Mario will always be his brother, but very soon, he will be a husband too. And then a father. And then a grandfather, and then who knows, after that.

Mario has always been robust, fearlessly active, but now he seems to be softening out a little. His athletic edges have gone rounder, his hair turning fluffy and unkempt. Luigi finds him mostly bundled in robes and sweaters nowadays, his overalls a tender corduroy in place of their once-abrasive denim.

“Thanks,” Mario finishes, his eyes shifting away and cheeks reddening in a way that speaks humility. “For helping me with all this. I’m not the, ah. You know.” He grins, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sentimental type.”

Thoughtfully, Luigi smiles.

He thinks of all the nights they spent together spread out over a kitchen table littered with magazines and bookmarked tabs. Mario frantically on the phone with Peach as Luigi made swift, silent calls, pointing at options for him to suggest, the only thing that could harbor Mario’s frantic demeanor.

He still doesn’t know where the surge of confidence came from. It’s his Little Brother Override, he’d suppose. When Mario doesn’t know what to do, something inside of him rises up to the challenge, and he moves to fill the vacuum that has been left spinning open.

All the same, what Mario is saying isn’t exactly true.

Luigi may have found the place to buy the tuxes, and he might have taken measurements to take the alterations upon himself. He may have helped pen invites and fielded phone calls, booked venues and negotiated prices. But he’s seen how Mario looks when he’s on the phone with Peach. That vulnerable, peaceful glow in his eyes. He’s watched him pick out flowers for her, seen him happily fuss over presents and surprises.

Luigi pulls his knees against his chest and looks out across the beach again, the cup warming both his hands and legs, and he makes a quick decision.

Mario doesn’t need to know all of this. He just needs to be happy.

“You’re welcome,” he says, putting the entire warmth of his heart into his words. He watches the gratitude spread slowly across Mario’s face in return.

Still yawning, with a pair of pants pulled up over his boxers but his sweater still too cozy to swap out, Luigi leave the hotel room at dawn, head dancing with thoughts of morning coffee. He barely remembers to kick off his slippers and slide into his sandals before he quietly shuts the door behind him, leaving Mario snoring in the darkness of the room.

An abrasive morning air hits him the second he steps outside, the sky still a sunless shade of blue. Loose grains of sand roll under his heels as he clops down the patio towards the main building, the cold, briny wind prompting him to wrap his arms around himself.

It’s a relief when he finally makes it to the empty dining room, pulling it open and bursting into the reassuring light of the buffet, only five minutes past its opening hour.

The serving stations are already full with their first round of helpings, fluffy frittatas and plump sausages, glass containers stocked with a variety of cereal and oats. Before pursuing any of it, of course, Luigi beelines straight for the coffee.

“Thank you,” he beams at a server as she sets out a stack of freshly washed mugs. She smiles back at him, and he spoons a little sugar into his cup before turning around to have his pick of the entire dining room.

He settles on an isolated table towards the middle, sliding into the chair and immediately folding over the coffee. Closing his eyes, he drinks it in with all of his senses, tucking this moment away for a time when he’s home and only has his memories to sustain himself on.

He tries to imagine himself weeks from now, at his alterations shop, drinking cup after cup of drip coffee with a pleasantly familiar but dingy sort of view, scraps of fabrics held together with pins sticking out every end. He will hold this place in his head, reconstructing it every morning, just to remind himself that there was a time when everything was perfect.

All at once, his future daydreams are broken by a loud screeching. Luigi snaps his head up, and nearly jumps out of his skin.

Bowser is towering above his table, dragging a chair loudly over to it, an impassive, drowsy look on his face that screams he is not a morning person. Those disinterested eyes stay locked on Luigi all the way to the other end of the table, their intense color making him bow beneath their pressure.

“Er-” he flinches, the sound slipping uselessly through his teeth. In response, Bowser squeaks the chair to a halt and swings over it, setting himself directly across from the other man.

All at once the Koopa leans forward, his eyes narrowed to two accusatory points.

Luigi jolts back in his chair, pulling away. All the hairs are standing up on his arm, because he can smell the sleep on him. Warm, dreamy sleep, reminiscent of fireplaces and marshmallows. It radiates off of Bowser like a furnace, though that might be the literal fire he keeps swallowed in his belly.

“That,” Bowser says in an accusing tone, squinting at him. “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing… what?” Luigi asks through a tight grin, looking nervously away.

Bowser raises an eyebrow. Then he draws back, raising his claws helplessly into the air. “For fuck’s sake,” he huffs, two puffs of smoke coming out his nose, “I am not that friggin’ scary.”

“No!” Luigi assures him, anchoring his hands on his coffee mug so that he doesn’t ball up into himself again. “No, it’s not-”

“Whatever,” Bowser snorts, rolling his eyes. They find themselves landing on the breakfast spread and linger there for a moment, weariness winning out over all the other emotions on his face. “It’s fine. I’m a garish shade of green, certainly no peach to look at, I get it.”

Luigi finds himself thinking of Mario again. Softer, sleepier, older Mario. Older all of them. There is an obvious fire burning reliably underneath Bowser’s demeanor, but Luigi sees the deep fatigue glazed over his once-explosive feelings. It’s something he thinks they are all learning to live with.

“It’s not…” Luigi fumbles to even repeat the word. “Garish,” he repeats stupidly.

Slowly, Bowser’s tired eyes roll back onto him. They burn like the embers of half-moons and settle there, looking him up and down.

“No need to fluff me up, fashion boy,” Bowser decides dryly, twirling a pointed finger around in the air. “I get it. I was the problem, I needed therapy, yada yada.” He sighs and rubs his eyes, a scaly knuckle running back and forth. “It’s gonna take a while for anyone to trust that I’m not a horrible monster anymore. Believe me, I get it.”

Still operating mostly on auto-pilot, Luigi finds himself suddenly stumbling to his feet.

“You know what,” he says quickly, setting a hand down on the table. “You look exhausted. Here. Let me pour you a coffee.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before rushing off to the beverage counter, fumblingly pulling a mug out of the stack. He sets it down, then pours it black, taking a moment to steady himself before gathering it into his hands and walking it back to the table. He’s just about to set it down when he freezes, coming face to face with the offended look in Bowser’s eyes.

“I’m sorry!” he squeaks, mortification creeping hotly up his neck. “Was that rude?”

But Bowser just challenges him with an unyielding glare, staring silently at him for so long that a double shot of heat begins to prickle up the back of his neck.

Finally, he speaks. “You tryina’ get something from me, Linguini?”

“What?” Luigi stutters. “No. No? And- and my-”

Bowser’s eyes narrow even deeper. “I know what your name is,” he rumbles, snatching the mug out of Luigi’s hands.

With two claws pinched down on the handle, Bowser lifts the coffee to his mouth. He holds eye contact as he takes a sip, slurping rudely in a way that Luigi suspects is done on purpose, and on an impulse that he can’t even begin to resist, Luigi claps his hands together and quickly sits back down, tucking them beneath his chin and watching hopefully for Bowser to finish swallowing.

Finally, Bowser pulls the cup away from his face, a renewed look in his eyes. “Mm,” he grunts decidedly, “That’s good.”

To his surprise, Luigi almost laughs out loud. He knows that it makes no sense, but coffee tastes so much better when you’re watching someone else enjoy it. Make a pot too good and it’s even more lonely to drink it alone.

And perhaps it’s not just good coffee, but truly magical coffee, because when Bowser sets the cup down he is sighing, those sharp teeth grating back and forth behind his lips.

“I’m sorry.” He sighs again, more dramatically this time. “It’s hard to just forget the past, I guess. I’m scary. I’m a scary guy. So what. I just gotta accept it.”

Luigi waits for Bowser to look at him again before offering a gentle, sad smile, sliding his hands forward on the table. “Bowser,” he says delicately, “We’ve all forgiven you.”

A hot, smoky puff of air comes out of Bowser’s nose. “Well. Good,” he says harshly, “Because I didn’t spend all that time makin’ it up to you losers for nothin’.”

A twisted smile finds its way to Luigi’s face. He forces it back down.

“So…” Bowser grunts, gazing disinterested back at the serving stations. “You gonna eat somethin’ or are we just here to chit chat?”

“Eat,” Luigi answers, stomach rumbling in time with the thought. “Definitely eat.”

“Sweet,” Bowser grits out tonelessly, pushing out of his chair and heading towards the buffet.

Luigi scampers after him, planning out his courses in one quick succession. He decides he’ll start with toast. But when he lifts up a slice of bread, pressing the toaster’s lever down, Bowser turns to him with a huffed, “Gimme that.”

He punctures it on his claws and then opens his mouth. Flames spit out from between his lips, toasting the bread, turning it a crispy, dark shade of burnt.

“Oh-” Luigi blushes when Bowser offers it back, taking care to only touch the edge where the other’s nails protected it from the heat. “It’s-”

“It’s perfectly toasted,” Bowser interjects heavily, and Luigi swallows, nodding.

“Right,” he agrees bashfully. “Perfectly.”

In response, Bowser rumbles with laughter, and the sound is like the gentlest earthquake splitting the tiles below his feet; it’s not so strong that it causes any harm, but it jolts him enough to leave him pleasantly dazed.

Oh well, he thinks, when they sit back down together and he takes the first bite into his charred breakfast. Even burnt toast tastes good when taken with Italian coffee.

There’s no coffee at the rehearsal dinner, but there is wine. Endlessly flowing wine poured from carafes, and though alcohol has never really been his thing, Luigi likes the dizzying effect it has on his head. It reminds his body of Bowser’s laughter, rumbling through him like a train approaching on the tracks.

Throughout the day, more guests have steadily arrived: Daisy in her desert-best swimsuit, Rosalina from a cosmic limo. A Toad truck delivered about two dozen of them, and together they make up just about most of the noise in the room, screeching excitedly about every new thing they see.

There are also a fair number of guests here that weren’t exactly invited, although, they never are.

He’s the only one who who notices, and though Luigi has decided that he’s just not brave enough to work in the ghost hunting business anymore, he has not learned how to stop seeing them.

A part of him has started to think they are less like disembodied soul and more just… imprints left in time. Memories suspended in place, reliving the good and the bad in some layer of reality that most don’t even know is there.

If that is true, then Luigi understands why memories would linger here. He’s watching, transfixed. as a couple spins around the room, the two spirits alight with laughter and companionship even in death. They are newly married for the rest of eternity.

“More wine, sir?” he hears, and when he jumps, looking up, another ghost has noticed him paying attention.

Respectfully, Luigi nods. He silently takes in the once-busboy’s youthful, boyish face. Then he watches as the spirit dutifully pours a top-off of ectoplasm into Luigi’s cup.

“Thank you,” Luigi says, forcing a smile. The man acknowledges him with an unblinking nod, then moves on to assist the next table. No one responds. Luigi watches the ghost sigh, locking eyes with him across the room. Customers, his emotionless regard seems to say.

His own table is vacant now that Peach and Mario have abandoned him to greet their new arrivals, something he has also been busy with all day. He’s admiring the moment of respite, waiting patiently for dinner to begin, when a familiar shadow casts its size over him once more, the sound of heavy breathing giving its owner away.

This time, it’s different. Luigi is prepared.

“I don’t know anybody here,” Bowser growls.

Luigi’s face splits into a helpful smile, and he quickly sets the vacant spot at the table with extra utensils in the center. “Of course, Big Bowser,” he offers. “Here.”

Grumbling, Bowser settles himself down into the seat, shimmying uncomfortably. He’s annoyed, a healthy flush of self-righteousness settled over his face, but Luigi often sees things nobody else does, so when Bowser turns to look around the room, Luigi discovers the loneliness in his eyes.

“You left your advisor at home?” he asks, and Bowser’s head turns towards him fast enough to scald.

“Yep,” he says. “Kamek, Junior, all the Koopalings. Just lil old me in this fancy ass hotel, with no one up my crack to tell me what to do.”

“You don’t sound… happy?” Luigi suggests, grinning nervously.

“Nah,” he grumbles, “I’m fine. It’s just-”

All at once, Princess Peach steps out from behind a line of waiters, pulling Mario after her. He happily follows, watching with blank awe as she inspects every plate balanced on their arms, pointing to meals and approving them. Whatever Bowser was going to say is gone, because he’s too busy staring to finish his thought. His frown has deepened now that his attention is completely fixed on her, and Luigi doesn’t know why his heart sinks the way it does.

There’s not much time to dwell on it though, because the waiters start doling out dinner, placing fancy salads and carbonaras in front of each guest. Bowser quickly tears his eyes away, fixing them down onto his plate, attention redirected so forcibly Luigi wonders if he’s going to burn a hole into the table with just his eyes.

He is so lost in thought that he doesn’t wait for the speech before stabbing a claw into his salad. He lifts out a halved strawberry glumly, plopping it down in his mouth.

He catches Luigi staring and gives a little, “Oh,” picking up his utensils between two deadly sets of claws. “Sorry.”

“Sorry,” he insists when Mario clears his throat and calls everyone to attention, dropping the silverware onto his plate with a clang.

It’s a heartfelt speech about love and family and forgiveness, but Luigi is having a hard time focusing on the words. His attention zones in the noise of all the Toads’ collective cheers, and he finds himself thinking only of Bowser.

Bowser, who created so much trouble in their lives. Who made Mario the man he is today, pushing him to solve problems, overcome obstacles, develop the strength of mind needed to get the job done. In some ironic way, Bowser is the reason that Mario is a hero at all.

And here they are now, celebrating with him. Fighting alongside him. Turning to him for help when their foes are too big and too powerful for two brothers to face on their own.

It’s funny how things change. Time is cruel, but it is also forgiving. Luigi has seen it, time and time again. He sees it right now, in fact. It’s spinning around in the center of the room, reveling forever. It’s somberly pouring nothing but air into the cups of the room’s living souls.

The morning of the wedding, Mario is a frantic mess.

Luigi is not shaken. He’s not caught off guard. He knows his brother, and so he knew to prepare for this.

“Mario,” Luigi tells him firmly, clamping his hands down on either shoulder. “You’re ready. You’re ready for this.”

“I know,” Mario answers frenziedly. He’s lent against the bathroom sink with his eyes shut, taking deep, calming breaths. “I just don’t want to mess this up, Luigi. I’m so close. I’m almost there.”

Luigi’s tension lightens. He pats a playful slap on Mario’s cheek.

“You won’t,” he promises softly, and Mario peeks an eye out at him.

“You won’t,” he repeats, more forcefully this time, pushing Mario harder than he ever has before.

Slowly, with his eyes trained on Luigi’s determined stare, Mario’s tension suddenly gives. He winces, a pained smile on his face, and finally, filling the room with relief as thick as steam, answers with a shallow nod. The knot in Luigi’s chest unties.

Confetti rains down from the heavens, scattering onto an aisle already rife with flower petals and rice. The air is loud with laughter, cheers and squeals erupting at every turn. There is a common phrase in the Mushroom Kingdom: if you want a party, invite a friend. If you want a celebration, invite a toad.

They show up in packs of at least a baker’s dozen, and though Luigi has discarded countless brain cells trying to get all their names committed to memory, he doesn’t even bother chasing them down for payroll anymore. He just hands off cash to whichever lovely creatures decide to show up to the shop in the morning. At this point, it’s best to regard The Toads as a mass that cannot be reckoned with.

Mostly he’s just glad they use their numbers for good- if they’re being a little pelty with the rice.

The ceremony itself is everything Luigi has ever dreamed of for his brother. It’s soft around the edges, framed by a dreamy haze, such a contrast to the life Mario had to endure to arrive at this point. The sea lulls behind the wedding arch, the tide more foam than waves this afternoon, sparkling in a way that brings all the color of Mario and Peach’s marriage to life. His berry-red tux. The strands of gray threaded through his warm-brown hair, for once fully bare of a hat.

All his life, people have asked Luigi if he resents having to stand in Mario’s shadow. But Luigi wishes he could show them: he doesn’t stand in his brother’s shadow.

He stands right beside him.

He stands on the podium, proud, the best man, #1 brother, world’s gangliest string bean. He holds the bouquet of flowers lightly in his hands, watching Peach step barefooted onto the rolled-out platform, and Mario’s happiness is his own.

She’s beautiful. You don’t have to be in love with her to know that.

Her dress is frilly and pink, the lace clasped high up her neck. Her hair is a regal poof of gold, eyes soft and smoky at the same time. She has her sights hooked on Mario. Luigi’s gaze scans out over the crowd, absorbing the quiet reverence that has settled beneath the pavilion, and that’s when he sees it. Bowser’s eyes are hooked on her.

Once he’s found it, Luigi can’t look away. Four rows deep into the crowd, the giant Koopa is grinding his nails absently together, his attention completely transfixed. He looks distressed. But more than that, he looks haunted. A ghost amongst the revelry, somehow both invisible and noticeably out of place.

Luigi feels that sad, hollow feeling that he sometimes gets when he’s talking to ghosts. That heavy sense, as dense as water and as empty as air, when he knows he cannot ease their sorrow.

Peach steps up onto the podium with him, taking Mario’s hand, and vows are exchanged. Commitments are consummated. Rings are exchanged, lips are joined, declarations are made, and all the while, Luigi watches the tension building inside of Bowser’s tightly coiled body, the look on his face growing more and more agonized, the twisting of his nails starting to look a lot like the act of sharpening.

Dread grows in Luigi’s throat. He’s afraid he’s about to burst with it, with the burden of this knowledge, too much to hold on his own- and then all at once, the crowd erupts into cheers. He comes back to himself forcefully, the fit of anxiety having tunneled his world, and he realizes a bouquet is being thrown.

It doesn’t have time to hit the ground before Bowser pulls back his chair, and in one anticlimactic burst, merely slips away from the crowd.

Luigi turns. Mario and Peach are laughing, holding hands and bounding down the steps. It’s time for cake. They’re getting ready to take their first dance, to throw kisses and laughter at everyone close enough to grab, to sparkle with love and share it with everyone in a way they will never be able to replicate.

Luigi should be here. He needs to be here.

But just the same, he finds himself turning away from the ceremony and running after the retreating man.

It doesn’t take much to find him. Bowser’s steps are heavy, shaking the earth with every stomp, but they’re also slow. His head is angled towards the ground, a mangled look in his eyes, fiery breath escaping in plumes with each exhale he forces out of his nose.

“Big Bowser!” Luigi calls. “Big Bowser, wait!”

Bowser turns, nostrils flaring, an intensely defensive look on his face. He stops dead, arms splayed out and claws spread even wider, the hot afternoon sun spearing off of them. And Luigi should be scared, he knows that, but instead of terror, he finds himself wondering, how could he ever find his scales garish? They glow iridescent in the light, miniature rainbows pinging off them, his underbelly so finely detailed it reminds him of the texture of insect wings.

“What, pipsqueak?”

“Bowser!” he cries. He puts his hand on his knees, doubling over and panting. Then the apology is bursting out of him so powerfully he knows he couldn’t have stopped it if he tried. “I’m sorry, I feel horrible! I didn’t even think what it would be like for you to have to watch that. It was careless, I know how you felt about her, but I-”

“Stop,” Bowser huffs.

Fear finally kicking into him, Luigi bites his tongue. He puts up his head, slowly rising back to his full height, but where he expected to see monstrous rage, all he sees is a quirked eyebrow and a tired gaze. Suddenly Bowser sighs, dropping his eyes.

“I don’t feel anything about her,” he mumbles, raising five deadly claws to give himself a little scratch on the neck. “It just… brought up old feelings.”

Frowning, Luigi stares at the Koopa.

“For fuck’s sake, stop,” Bowser groans.

“Wh- what?” Luigi squeaks.

“Stop with those puppy dog eyes. I can’t friggin’ take it.”

“I’m s- sorry, but Bowser…?” Luigi stops, knees and teeth clacking together in exhaustion from all the excitement. “If you don’t mind me asking… why did you come?”

“Ugh. Tell ya the truth.” Bowser turns his eyes skyward like he’s pleading with the heavens, then shakes his head as though chiding himself for it. “Just kinda wanted to know that I was over it. You know, the whole princess envy thing. Guess I had something to prove. Stupid,” he snorts.

“You didn’t?” Luigi guesses, eyes flickering back and forth over the other man. "Prove it, I mean?"

“Nah,” he growls. “Guess not. Just wanted to know I’d moved on, that’s all. Lame thing is, it’s not even about her. Turns out I’m just a piece of shit.”

Luigi’s heart turns over, unearthing a cold, wet loneliness, one that neither the sand beneath his feet nor the sun over his head can warm.

“No,” he says sadly, speaking around the heart in his mouth. “No, you’re not.”

“Whada you care?” Bowser rumbles back.

“I know why you did it,” he says, a sudden bravery surging into him. It is the same force that powered him when he was solving wedding planning obstacles for a crumbling Mario. The same instinct that came over him in the bathroom this morning, refusing to let Mario sabotage it all over one burst of anxiety. “You just wanted a family. You didn’t want to be alone.”

Luigi watches the ripple of anger travel up through Bowser’s shoulders.

Then he watches it run back out, dispersing into nothing.

“Jesus, greenie,” Bowser growls. “You could save your death blows ‘til after the wedding’s over.” His eyes flick down to Luigi’s hands, and he realizes suddenly that he’s still holding onto the bouquet. “Those for my grave?”

“No.” Luigi swallows, bending to place the flowers in the sand. “No, but… I do want to give you something.”

Bowser looks skeptically at him, and Luigi thinks to himself that this is a man who has never known kindness.

“That’s great, kid, but you oughta get back to the big event. Ain’t it the second best day of your life or somethin’?”

Luigi quickly shakes off the guilty feeling that bristles over him. “No,” he decides firmly. “I want to give you a gift. To show my appreciation for you being so cordial with us.”

“Donno if I’d call myself cord-jul,” Bowser growls, nodding his head pointedly towards nothing in particular, “But I sure as hell ain’t goin’ back to la la land, so by all means, lead the way.”

They tromp through the sand, Bowser’s footsteps heavy. The sun shines harshly on his suit, beading his mustache and brow with sweat, and all he can think about is how badly he wants to sit down and have a glass of water.

Luckily, his room isn’t far. He makes it to the sliding door that lets out right onto the beach, unlocking it and then gliding the glass back.

“Well-” he says awkwardly. “Here.”

He ducks into the room, making for the dresser, and only knows that Bowser has stepped in behind him because the bigger man’s shadow falls over the room. Still, Luigi would be able to pick the shell apart from the others in the dark, if not for the unique way it shines, then for its shape. Snail-shell, round, ribbed like a nautilus. He turns around, cradling it in his palms, and slowly unclasps his hands to show Bowser what’s inside.

It’s strange having him in the room. He’s so big. He’s so… not what Luigi would have ever imagined. Not someone Luigi ever pictured being in his life.

He’s staring down at the shell, studying it wordlessly. “It’s me,” he finally grunts.

“It- it reminded me of you,” Luigi agrees. He drags a thumb over its swirling texture, showing how the glowing sheen causes colors to bounce in the air. The surface is first luminously green, then a ghostly shade of yellow, so pale it nearly becomes translucent.

A part of him is afraid that Bowser is going to snatch it out of his hands and damage it- even if it is supposed to be a gift. And maybe he isn’t giving Bowser enough credit, but he’s surprised when the Koopa’s hands just make a cup shape of their own, opening up beneath Luigi’s so that he can drop the shell inside.

For a few beats, Bowser just stares down at it in his paws, a massive frown on his face.

Luigi is nearing the point of speaking just to break the silence when Bowser says, wholly unexpectedly, “I got your letter.”

“You…?” Luigi repeats, confused. “Mario’s wedding invitation?”

“No.” The word comes out heavy. “The one you wrote me a long time ago.”

Language falls short. Luigi studies the bigger man’s face, trying to look for clues, his mind completely empty.

“The first time I took her, you wrote to me. You don’t remember that?”

All at once, Luigi slowly nods. He does. He does remember.

Eyes boring a hole in the shell, Bowser goes on. “You asked me to release her. You told me you’d all forgive me, chalk it up to a bad day, and we’d all get on with our lives. You said you couldn’t stand hearing your brother cry.”

All too vividly, Luigi suddenly remembers that too. Long nights consoling a man who could not be consoled. His big brother, the boy who’d always watched out for and taken care of him, suddenly unable to even get through a day without falling apart. He would have given Bowser just about anything if it meant it would stop.

“Yes,” Luigi says hoarsely, fisting his hands together. He feels tears prickling at his throat, threatening to spill down onto the seafoam carpet. The worst part of hunting ghosts was the way all the comfort in the world had been sucked out for some of them. Many of the spirits he’s had to vanish have been that way: ruled by their losses, no human joy or hope left within them.

He had been so afraid that that would happen to his brother.

“At the time I was glad. Meant it was having the effect I wanted it to.” He sighs, curling his fist closed. “Now I just don’t understand how somebody can live in this world and be so gentle- I mean, such a wuss.” A low, rumbling growl sounds in his throat. “I don’t… I don’t have any idea what it’s like to be delicate. Or kind, or even nice. Makes a guy realize there’s nothin’ good about him.”

“It’s not good to be fragile, either,” Luigi tells him, raising out a shaky hand and then realizing he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“Yes, it is,” Bowser snorts harshly. “It’s not good to be whatever the fuck I am. Such a friggin’ asshole that I’m incapable of feeling anything. And here you are, all puppy dog to hell and back, inviting me to a wedding after I tried to ruin your lives. I don’t deserve this shit. I don’t deserve none of it.”

Slowly, Luigi’s hand falters. His arm drops.

“No,” he says, starting to shake his head. He’s not sure of most things, but he is sure of this. “You don’t feel nothing. I saw you. You felt so much today.”

“Yeah,” Bowser grunts. “Anger.”

“And sadness,” Luigi says. “And guilt.” He shrugs, a gentle look on his face. “Regret. Like no matter what you do, you will always be the person you were.”

Bowser doesn’t speak, but Luigi watches his teeth grind back and forth in his mouth, jaw as tightly clenched as his hand is around the seashell. It takes a few minutes for him to look at Luigi again. When he does, it’s through a side-eye, his gaze sharpened into more of a glare than anything, but one that Luigi thinks is more wounded than dangerous.

“You still feel empty,” Luigi says, and his heart curls with sadness for this man.

Bowser still doesn’t answer. He drops his head and closes his eyes, a tightly clenched shame pouring over him.

Finally, Luigi lets himself be brave. He steps forward and watches Bowser’s eyes leap back open, because he has taken his head into his hands.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, those massive, burning eyes so close that he sees his own cremation playing out inside of them. “You've already made it up to me and my family, Bowser, but I... I think that you came here so you could forgive yourself, too.”

For a second, Bowser looks at him with such honesty that Luigi’s heart thumps in his throat, shocked by the sheer awe of it.

Suddenly, Bowser huffs out a dark laugh, the exhale warm on Luigi’s face. “You know, I considered it. Ruining the wedding out of spite.”

“Hm,” Luigi answers, smiling despite himself. “One last kidnapping to bid our dear Mario off?”

“Maybe,” Bowser grunts, holding his eyes in place. They scan back and forth, examining Luigi in a way nobody else has ever taken the time to do. “Maybe I would have taken you this time.”

A blush spreads across Luigi’s cheeks. Before he even understands what’s happening, there’s something new in the air between them. He feels weak on his feet.

“What if you did?” he whispers.

He feels like he’s liquefying beneath Bowser’s intense stare, but he can’t move; his hands are glued to the Koopa’s face. He can’t even pull away when one of Bowser’s claws rises up to twirl around a strand of his hair, setting one of its tamed curls free.

“It ain’t the rawest deal, I mean…” He grunts. “I put her up in a nice bedroom- locked door and bars on the windows, yeah, that was pretty shitty, but you know. Free meals, anything your little heart desires to keep you entertained.” He grins, teeth splitting wide and beautiful across his face. “Endless access to my charming company.”

Against his own will, images spread through Luigi’s mind. He sees himself rolling around on silk sheets in some tall tower, moaning for someone to save him, draped mournfully over the edge of the bed while Bowser raps his fingers impatiently, waiting for Mario to show up.

“I would like that,” Luigi whispers. He flushes, the tips of Bowser’s nails dragging lightly through his hair, sending tingles up and down his spine.

“Luigi-” Bowser suddenly freezes, looking startlingly self-aware. “I-”

An unexpected burst of laughter comes bubbling out of Luigi’s chest. He leans forward, pressing his lips to Bowser’s snout, and all at once he can’t stop, laying kiss after kiss to the other man’s face as he laughs in delight, the sound like hiccups popping in his mouth.

Bowser grunts against his lips, tiny sounds that respond to every kiss.

“You have a wedding to get back to,” he rumbles quietly, the words thick with meaning. It’s an easy out, a trap door installed into his own castle, but Luigi just shakes his head against Bowser’s face.

“No?” he demands.

“No,” Luigi smiles, leaning in until he’s pressed against the warmth of the Koopa’s body. “Not right now. I want…” He swallows, a nervous grin creeping over his face. “I want some of your charming company.”

He hears the plink of the shell getting placed back on the dresser. Bowser’s hands come up to cup around his head, claws curling over either side of his skull.

“I could crush you,” he snarls, in a way that sounds like both a warning and a fear.

Luigi nods, blushing even harder. “Or stomp me,” he agrees lightheadedly. “Or roast me to a crisp.”

Bowser’s hands slide down his back, claws nipping at the fabric of his tux. “Or I could just lick you,” he supposes, and Luigi huffs out a pleased, frightened sound.

“Bowser…” he asks, pressing his palms to Bowser’s chest. The underbelly of his shell is smooth, scaly. It might tear up his palms if he were to drag them along the rough surface of his skin too quickly, but just allowing them to lie still, he is simply both warm and cool to the touch. “Do you… do you like me?”

Bowser snorts. “Greenie, your whole thing is that you’re likable.”

“But do- do you-”

“Do I want you?” he asks lowly, the words vibrating beneath Luigi’s palm. “Yeah,” he rumbles, sending Luigi’s head spinning again. Bowser gently nips at his hair, teeth grazing the skin of his jaw without upsetting the skin. “Lucky for you, I’ve gotten much better at playing nice.”

“Ah,” Luigi nods helplessly, resting his forehead against Bowser’s jaw. “I need some water,” he blurts, feeling like all the moisture has been burned out of him.

Bowser looks suddenly startled, eyes flicking probingly up and down. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Luigi winces, pulling at his collar. “It’s just hot in this thing.”

“Do you need to keep it on?”

“No-” Luigi starts, then bites his tongue with a blush. For all of his bravado, Bowser blushes back, looking momentarily blindsided. They stare at each other, both of them the deer, both of them the headlights.

“I just meant-”

“No, I know what you meant.”

“Well!” Bowser exclaims exasperatedly. “Well, get out of the way so I can hydrate ya before you keel over.” He starts charging for the bathroom, making the clamshell lamp rattle on its end table, then suddenly seems to realize Luigi isn’t following him. He turns, meeting Luigi’s gaze with a confused look. “What?” he asks.

Luigi smiles a little, sheepishly looking down at his feet.

“What?” he demands.

“Nothing, Big Bowser,” Luigi says, a small breath of laughter slipping past his lips. “You’re just sweet.”

Affronted, the Koopa puffs up, a performatively tough expression closing over him. “I’m not sweet,” he insists forcefully. “If anything, I’m a certified a-hole. Real piece of shit. Good as hell at it, the best, some would say, but still. Rotten to the core. Full of bad ideas and mean thoughts.”

But Luigi just softens looking at him, a happy smile warming him inside, and in the momentary stillness, he watches the self-sure look on Bowser’s face begin to falter. He watches the silence close in on the Koopa King, making him doubt.

The second Bowser’s brow creases, Luigi closes in, sending eyes across the room that are fit for a lover.

“You are a sweet boy,” he insists gently.

Bowser’s tongue is as smooth as a glass of affogato. A jolt of heat poured over sleek, chilled sweetness.

Luigi doesn’t mean to end up with him like this; he’s just pulled on a sweater, soft but breathable, loose enough to let in the wind but keep him warm when the sun goes down. In that moment, has every intention of returning to the ceremony. But when he sits down on the bed to pull on his socks, Bowser sits down beside him. And before he knows it, he’s turning his head to kiss Bowser again, lips seeking lips, pressing his face deep into the other’s snout to snuff out the burning heat spreading once more to his cheeks.

He gives a surprised, quiet gasp when Bowser’s tongue flicks out to lick his face, trailing exploringly over his features. He gives a deeper, more intimate one, when he parts his lips and lets it press inside his mouth, smooth and thick and unlike anything Luigi has ever felt before.

“Yeah?” Bowser asks, the word too low and rumbling to be anything but a purr. To his own embarrassment, Luigi starts to tremble, body shaking with the desire to get closer.

Gradually, giving Bowser enough time to push him away, he twists around and sets his leg over the Koopa’s thigh, draping it there. For a second he’s worried that he’s made too bold a move, but then Bowser’s hands scoop underneath his airy sweater, scaly palms dragging along his bare torso. They lift him up, setting him down onto his lap.

Claws snag on the threads of his pullover. They trace lightly up his sides, making him shiver and squirm. Finally, they wrap around his waist, holding him in place while Bowser’s tongue dips down to trail across his exposed throat, and Luigi can’t help but bend back in the bigger man’s grasp, a cry loosening from his lips.

“That okay for ya, greenie?” Bowser breathes in heavy pants against his neck, and Luigi nods weakly, palms wrapping around him for support.

“Hm,” Bowser vibrates, eyes trailing down. Luigi follows them to where they settle on his own chest, two pectoral muscles squeezed in Luigi’s hands. “You like that?”

“No!” Luigi quickly says. Then, “Oh! M- maybe.”

Bowser tilts his head, eyes gleaming. Pleased.

“You wanna see how I work?” he asks.

“I-” Luigi says. Words failing him, he just gives a bashful nod, flatting out his hands and sliding them up to the other’s shoulders. The scales gleam rough and cool below his skin, flattened and glittering as though weapons that have been disengaged. “Please, amore mio.”

“Can I take your hand?”

Luigi’s voice drops lower. “Please, amore mio,” he whispers.

One of Bowser’s hands disappears from around his waist and gently takes Luigi’s wrists into its grasp, claws curling around thin bone. He traces Luigi’s touch down his chest, then his belly, then settles the smaller man’s palm between his legs, tracing gentle circles until Luigi starts to feel something respond, a protrusion steadily growing until all at once, it springs out into the open, unsheathed.

“Can I…?” Luigi asks around a dry swallow, fingers tentative curling around the new shape, hand unable to fully encircle it.

“Mhm,” Bowser hums, his own hand slowly releasing Luigi’s. The tips of his claws appear on Luigi’s scalp, their points raking encouragingly down his scalp.

“How do you hide this?” Luigi whispers, awed. He strokes his hand upward, squeezing as he goes, and Bowser’s cock throbs smoothly under his grasp, so slick it’s almost wet. It feels like his tongue. Like licking gelato straight out of the glass.

Laughter like thunder rumbles in Bowser’s chest. “My momma built me right.”

“I’m sorry,” Luigi says suddenly, feeling like there’s too much blood rushing to his face. “I think I am shy.”

“That’s okay, pipsqueak,” Bowser says. “I got enough for the both of us. Any way I can help?”

“Could we…” He swallows, finally collecting enough bravery to meet Bowser’s gaze. A flush of affection and desire meets him when he does, Bowser’s powerful eyes so fiery he is sure he sees black smoke dancing around the inner iris. “Lie down, perhaps?” he finishes weakly.

“Yeah,” Bowser purrs, licking a stripe up Luigi’s neck.

Still quivering, Luigi lets Bowser lower them onto their sides, readjusting until they’re both comfortably squished on the twin mattress, the window’s thin curtain billowing over their heads. “Better?” he asks, and Luigi nods, exhales shuddering.

Eyes closing, Luigi wraps both his hands around Bowser’s cock, dragged them up and down with the appendage squeezed in their grasp. He’s exploring, letting himself adjust to the sensation, but with every new movement, Bowser breathes more heavily, head tipping further back.

Something inside of Luigi is starting to break open at the sounds Bowser’s making. The Koopa is panting, mouth open and tongue hanging out, arching gradually back in pleasure, and it feels like there are sparks going off underneath Luigi’s skin. He’s never known it before now, but to see a lover in ecstasy is to be granted an honorary chair in heaven.

He starts moaning himself, hot desire spitting through him, and realizes his thighs are clenching around the formidable shape of Bowser’s erection, squeezing together so he can rub himself against it through his clothes.

“Oh, yeah,” Bowser growls, head fully thrown back now, squirming a little, like a turtle stuck on its back. “Ride it.”

“B-B- Big Bowser,” he shivers, clenching down around the smooth, slick shape, holding it still with his hands to help him roll his groin against it.

“Yeah,” Bowser says again, mouth open, “Yeah.”

Bower’s hands clench suddenly, tightening around Luigi’s waist, and they just manage to stop from piercing too hard through the skin before his cock pulses and releases, spilling hot and wet between their chests.

Bowser groans, thrusting a few more times into Luigi’s hands before his body relaxes into the bed.

Luigi is thrumming with need, his thighs trembling. All at once, Bowser looks at him with a coy expression on his face, both self-conscious and proud at the same time.

“What do you think of me?” he asks.

It takes Luigi some effort to get the words out. “I like you- ah- very much,” he blushes. “In many ways.”

Bowser studies him for a long time. Then he snorts. “You’re gonna make me sick.”

Luigi’s hands snap to Bowser’s face, taking hold of him. “You’re going to make me combust, tesoro,” he shivers.

“No,” Bowser purrs. A claw trails down to the rim of his pants, curling pointedly beneath the waistband. “Just bust, I would say.”

“Please,” Luigi answers, burying his face into Bowser’s chest. “Please, Bowser.”

Gently, Bowser hooks another claw under the waistband and drags Luigi’s trousers down just enough to slide him between two of his fingers, pointer and index flaring out to protect him from their sharpened ends.

A small gasp pops from Luigi’s throat. “R- rough,” he whimpers, involuntarily bucking up against the warmth of Bowser’s touch despite the discomfort of his scales.

“Here,” Bowser rumbles. He angles his head down, bringing his hand to his mouth, and licks his palm until it’s covered in a soft coat of saliva before returning it to Luigi’s groin, slotting his erection back into the space between two fingers. “That better, cutie?”

Luigi’s heart pulses at the nickname. He nods with abandon, already pushing up against Bowser’s palm, fingers clenched so hard around the Koopa’s shoulders that he’s grateful he doesn’t have claws.

He’s quivering, warmth rolling and bursting all over his body, and he can’t help but start to whimper when Bowser asks, “You feel good?”

He nods, opening his mouth to say yes, but all he can do is mewl helplessly as release hits him, emptying his head off all but the pleasure in his body and the sound of Bowser breathing.

His chest is heaving when he comes back down, twisted up, a mess on the bed. He’s clutching Bowser with his hands, still whining out of pure overstimulation, unable to do anything but hide his burning face, the softness of love sloshing and melted in his electrified heart.

In that moment, Luigi wants to bring Bowser hand-fed sourdough. He wants to make him cakes for special occasions, to send him care packages unexpectedly in the mail. Wants to walk through town with him, fit him in a sweater designed perfectly to his liking. He wants to see that tower Bowser speaks of, to know what it might feel like to be locked in there. He wishes to walk in there willingly, then walk back out, Bowser’s hand held in his own.

He realizes he is hopeful.

He realizes he is afraid.

He looks up, eyes wide and open, and Bowser gazes back down at him. And slowly, as Luigi scans his gaze back and forth, terrified that this might not be as genuine as he believed it to be, those claws start raking comfortingly through his hair again.

When Luigi wakes, early evening has set in. The sunset has already spilled in through the window while they were asleep, and now a drowsy shade of twilight drenches everything. He’s been drooling; his face is hot and sticky, pressed up against a soft, breathing chest. At once, Luigi recalls the events of the day.

His brother’s wedding. His own consummation.

He draws himself up on one elbow, looking around, and the movement causes Bowser to stir, two eyes sleepily cracking open.

Luigi immediately freezes. They stare at each other, Bowser’s eyes heavy with sleep. Luigi can still feel the warmth, beckoning him to curl back into it.

All of a sudden, Bowser looks hurt.

“You know,” he says harshly, snorting through his nose and turning his eyes away, “If you wanna chalk this all up to a dumb horny mistake, you won’t hear a word about it from me. Ya might be sweet and all, kid, but a guy’s a guy and I can accept that.”

Luigi stares at him for another beat. Then he quickly collects himself.

“No,” he says firmly, the word solid in his mouth. He sinks back into the bed, gathering Bowser’s face into his hands and taking hold of his eyes with his own. “No. That is not what I want, Big Bowser.”

For just a second, so quickly you could blink and miss it, Luigi sees something slip through the cracks. Vulnerability. Vulnerability and relief.

“Well, I mean, of course,” he growls, quickly covering it up. “Who wouldn’t be obsessed with me after seeing what I’ve got to offer?”

Luigi blushes, body slackening. “Who wouldn’t?” he agrees.

“But really,” he speedily goes on, “You gotta stop calling me that. It’s somehow both unbearably dumb and way too formal at the same time.”

“Okay, Big Bowser,” Luigi grins crookedly.

They take turns showering, Luigi sparing a few extra moments to daydream, the soap clutched lightly in his hand as his mind wanders off, staring at the shells carved into the glass door. When he comes back out of the bathroom, freshly dressed for the third time today, Bowser is seated on the end of the bed, his hands folded out with his palms facing up. Luigi can’t help himself; he walks forward and takes them, placing his hands into Bowser’s.

Bowser’s hands close around his. He pulls the smaller man in, making him stumble forward, and they kiss chastely, though numerously, Luigi laughing a little at the nuzzle of their mouths on each other’s.

He’s in heaven, his mind so clear he feels like he’s floating in a cup of Italian coffee brewed with clouds.

Just as suddenly, the vision is shattered.

He doesn’t hear Mario carefully edge the door open, nor look perplexedly around for him. All he hears is the startled, “Luigi!”, echoing like a static shock through the room.

Luigi and Bowser pull away at the same time, their bodies arcing away from each other even though they forget to unclasp their hands. What remains is an awkward scene: them clinging to each other, too startled to let go, and Mario gaping at them in shock.

His hair and clothes are ruffled, likely from dancing. There’s a pink glow on his cheeks, a pretty hue mixed by the hands of wine and love and revelry, and guilt that he was not there to enjoy it pierces Luigi so deeply that he can’t do anything but gape, mouth trying and failing to form words.

The shock subsides, and Mario’s face darkens. “I knew it was a mistake to invite him,” he says.

“Hey!” Bowser snaps.

“Mario!” Luigi finally exclaims, pulling his hands out of Bowser’s and taking a step towards his brother. “He didn’t do anything. I-”

Luigi falters, the words dying on his lips at the way Mario looks back and forth between the two of them, face twisted in betrayal.

“I love you more than the stars, but ma dai, Luigi! You can be so naive.”

Whatever sense of bravery Luigi thought he had gained, he certainly does not have it to fall back on now. He feels weak and pitiful, both belittled and misunderstood. “It was my fault, Mario,” he starts to say, like it was even a misdeed, but his brother cuts him off with an exasperated sigh.

“Whatever happened here, you missed the only wedding party I’ll ever have.”

“I’m sorry,” Luigi says hoarsely. “I lost the time.”

“I’d say you were focused on other things,” Mario states coldly.

“Wait!” he calls, trying to stop his brother from walking out of the room, but Mario is finished with the conversation, throwing the door back on its hinges and walking angrily out in the night.

He’s just standing there, feeling lost and empty, when Bowser suddenly barrels off the bed, grumbling out an unrestrained, “Okay, that’s it.”

He’s just squeezed himself out onto the beach when Mario turns around, rage flying. “What, Bowser?” he demands, Luigi running after him, bare feet sinking into the cool sand. “You're finally ready to ruin our marriage now, too?”

“Oh, cut me some slack, plumber boy,” Bowser growls. “Or don’t, I don’t really give a shit. Just doesn’t seem fair to punish your best man for my fuckups, though.”

Mario points an accusing finger at him. “I don’t even know why I let him invite you. He’s always making more trouble for himself, always being too nice, never seeing things the way they really are. I should have put an end to this before it even started.”

Bowser jerks forward, teeth snapping. “Don’t act like it’s a bad thing that he sees the good in everyone.”

“Oh yeah,” Mario seethes. “I’m sure that works out nicely for you.”

All of a sudden, Luigi can’t take it anymore. He doesn’t want to be a shadow. He doesn’t want to be the quiet guy that everyone walks all over.

He doesn’t want to be a ghost, watching the rest of the world go on around him, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s still among them.

“Enough!” he yells, running in between the two men. He places a hand down on Bowser’s chest, then turns to face his brother. “I can make my own decisions, Mario!” he cries, heat flying to his face. “And I’m sorry I missed your reception, but it was an accident. I spent months on your wedding, planning everything as perfectly as I could. Doesn’t that matter anything to you?”

Mario stops, his anger dissolving instantly. He looks shocked again, but in a much deeper way this time. “Luigi-” he says.

“I want you to be happy, of course I do. But I want to be happy. You’re right, I am naive. And I do put others’ needs ahead of my own. So I don’t want to spend my entire life on your happiness alone.”

A part of Luigi expects fire and anger. He’s never resisted his brother like this, let alone raised his voice. But maybe that’s the reason why Mario deflates, his hands folding together in front of his chest while a sad, shamed look takes him over.

“Luigi…” he says, buckling. “I didn’t- I’m sorry.”

Luigi wants to fold and apologize, say that he’s wrong and stupid and ask how would he ever know better than Mario himself. But Bowser’s chest is still warm beneath his palm, slowly breathing in and out, and somehow, knowing the Koopa stands behind him gives him the strength he needs to stand on his own.

“It’s okay, Mario,” he sighed exasperatedly. “I just need you to understand that I’m not a little boy anymore. I am who I am, and I’m not sorry about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Mario says again, hanging his head. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. It’s just-” He throws out a hand, gesturing. “Him? It really has to be him?”

Behind him, Luigi feels Bowser’s hot breath on the back of his neck. He turns, meeting Bowser’s glazed expression, and presses both his hands to the Koopa’s chest. Bowser looks down at him, eyes wide and waiting.

“It really has to,” he says.

Luigi packs, stuffing as many shells and rocks as will fit into his duffle bag. He tucks them between his clothes, hides them inside his shoes. He squeezes them into zipper compartments, next to lotions and shampoos also stolen from the hotel.

He stops, however, when his hand lands on Bowser’s shell, sitting lonely on his dresser.

Mario is with Peach. They’re finishing up at reception, attached at the hip with even more glue now, so when Luigi walks outside, he’s not expecting to see anyone. Hoping- but not really expecting.

Just the same, there, lent against the wall in sunglasses and a Hawaiian shirt, is Bowser. He’s staring disinterestedly at the sea, pretending not to see Luigi until the smaller man gives a sheepish wave and he acts surprised, but only so much as to not blow his cool exterior.

“Oh hey,” he grunts. Shrugs. “Figured we’d take the ferry together since we both happened to be here.”

“You can’t swim us back?” Luigi teases through the half-smile on his face. “I’ve always wanted to go for a ride on a turtle’s back.”

Bowser seems to consider it. He drops his gaze down, razor-thin sunglasses sliding down his nose so Luigi can see his eyes. “You’ll have to pay the ferryman for that one, greenie.”

Still smiling, Luigi slowly opens his hands. The shell dances and sparkles in the sunlight.

“Done,” he says.

Nonchalantly, Bowser accepts the shell and raises his head back to the sun, tipping the glasses back over his eyes. He rolls the shell around in his palm before saying, “Might not drop ya back at home at all. Might find yourself all locked up in fancy green dresses.”

Bashfully, Luigi blushes. “As long as they are nicely tailored,” he responds.

“Yeeahh, I forgot that’s your whole thing.” Bowser grins, teeth glistening in the morning light. “You must be appalled at my getup.”

“It suits you,” Luigi smiles, and the disgusted sound Bowser makes doesn’t fool him.

An hour later, they’re loaded onto the ferry. Luigi sits next to Bowser on the upper exposed deck, letting the seabreeze kick back into his face. He discreetly traces the tip of his pinky along Bowser’s palm behind the chairs, listening as Mario and Bowser make awkward small talk that mostly consists of grunts and nods.

Attention wavering, he turns his head towards the shore, silently saying goodbye, and there, in the distance, he can still see them. The effigy of the ghostly couple spinning on the shore, still dancing together like they’re the only two things left in the world.