DISCLAIMER: This is fanfiction OF another author's work of fanfiction. This story will be based on Robin Lee's "Brotherly Love," and the idea is all hers. I requested and was granted permission from the author to do this. Here is a link to the original fic: .net/s/1016107/1/Brotherly_Love, and without further ado, I give you

A Rocky Road to Brotherly Love

(inspired in part by Robin Lee's "Brotherly Love")

Prologue

"Why can't you—" The boy was out of breath and nearing the end of his rope. "Learn—to—dodge!" With every staccato word, he landed a solid whack on his brother's body.

Luigi gripped his own pole in his hands, but made no move to strike back, biting his lip and trying hard not to cry. He never cried in front of his big brother. That lesson had been drilled into him well. That was exactly the problem with Mario. He always had to beat lessons into Luigi. Like now…Luigi's shoulders were throbbing from the stinging, unforgiving bamboo pole with which Mario had struck him, and Luigi had no doubt that ugly red welts were rising in those sore spots.

Red. Hah! That was fitting, Luigi thought, as Mario lowered his pole at last. Taking advantage of this break, not sure how long it would last, Luigi dropped his guard completely and gingerly probed his shoulder with gentle fingers, his eyes narrowing in an automatic wince. Yes, Mario had left his red mark on Luigi. It seemed to him that when he closed his eyes, his senses would be flooded with that color, the color most prominent in his life, the color he associated with pain, blood…and Mario.

"On your guard, Luigi!" Mario ordered impatiently, snapping his pole back into place and preparing another swing. "Focus!"

Luigi was focused. His eyes followed the pole's every movement. He was terrified of being hurt again. He wished he could run away. Unbidden, a daydream floated into his mind. What if he just threw the pole down and ran out of reach, refusing to partake in this vicious training anymore? What if he took a stand against his brother, and just said no?

As if in response, Mario's pole scored a scratch on Luigi's arm. Luigi tried to hold it back, but he howled. He averted his eyes from Mario's face, knowing from experience the scowl of disappointment he'd see there.

"Now you're not even looking?" Mario exclaimed in disgusted frustration, throwing his pole violently to the ground. "I swear, Luigi, it's like you try to be this hopeless. How many times have I told you not to take your eyes off your opponent?"

"It's hard to think of you as my 'pponent, Mario." Luigi frowned. He wasn't even sure what that word meant, but he associated it with "bad guys" and "enemies"—after all, wasn't that why they were practicing? In case they had to fight bad guys? So he was supposed to pretend Mario was the bad guy? But…he couldn't. Mario was tough, and sometimes he was mean, but he wasn't bad. Although, judging from the merciless way he'd fought today, the younger brother guessed Mario had no problems imagining Luigi as the bad guy.

Luigi stuck his thumb in his mouth, consternation crossing his features. His arm hurt! If this was just practice, why did Mario always have to hurt him for real? And anyway, he didn't think normal kids had to train like this. When he had casually mentioned the training in conversation with a classmate in his kindergarten class, she had just stared at him blankly and Luigi had quieted down, realizing that not every five-year-old went home to neverending sparring matches, hand-to-hand training, and weapons combat.

Most kids watched T.V. and colored and played with toys. But not him. Not the freak Mario brothers. Luigi watched his brother pick up the bamboo rods and place them back in their cases for another day. He had always known they were different, but he had assumed it would be a good kind of different. He had thought that they were special, destined for greatness. Mario looked unassuming and pudgy, even shorter than him—which was saying something—but he had a core of steel and a seemingly boundless supply of endurance, stamina, strength, and energy. Mario was a true force to be reckoned with, but his appearance never suggested it, meaning he'd always have the element of surprise on his side. With a combination like that, Luigi'd bet his two front teeth that Mario would win any fight he entered. So maybe one day he would be great.

But not me, thought Luigi, pouting. 'Cause I don't like to hit Mario, and—and—

"It hurts!" Luigi finally burst out, knowing that he was whining and Mario didn't like that, but unable to contain himself any longer. He held his arm out in front of him so that Mario could examine the damage. Only then did he notice that the cut had drawn blood. At the sight of the red stuff shining on his skin, tears started rolling down his cheeks.

Mario finally bothered to look at his brother. He stared, unimpressed, at the small nick he had given Luigi—it looked a lot worse than it actually was. Luigi's sobs slowed as he registered the utter lack of concern on Mario's face and the thick smearing of annoyance and scorn. Luigi used his unhurt arm to drag his sleeve over his eyes and across his nose. He was remembering, too late, that the only thing Mario hated more than a whiner was a crybaby. He sniffed. And the only thing he hated more than a crybaby was a whiny crybaby.

"I'm sorry, Mario," he whimpered softly, gulping back more tears that threatened to erupt.

Mario didn't reply. Teeth gritted and face taut, he turned without a word and stalked to the bathroom, waves of disgust emanating from his body with every step. Luigi was surprised when he returned with the medi-kit they kept in the medicine cabinet.

"Sit," Mario ordered harshly, pointing at the sofa and Luigi hurried to obey, tripping over his shoelace in his haste. Picking himself off the floor, he scrambled to the sofa and practically launched himself onto the plushy cushions, again not meeting Mario's gaze.

Mario didn't remark on Luigi's clumsiness. Instead, he just rolled up red sleeves and yanked Luigi's injured arm closer, taking a few moments to examine it. Then he opened the medi-kit and grabbed a bag of cotton balls and a bottle of alcohol.

Almost before Luigi knew what was happening, Mario had unscrewed the cap from the alcohol, doused a cotton ball, and directly applied the drenched swab to his wound. Luigi sucked in his breath again, biting his lip and using all his willpower not to cry out. He couldn't help his eyes watering, though, as his arm felt like it was on fire! Mario pressed the cotton ball down on every inch of the cut, effectively staunching the bleeding but searing Luigi's skin in the process.

Mario's eyes met Luigi's watery ones unsympathetically. "Don't be a baby. This'll kill all the bacteria and prevent an infection."

Luigi nodded miserably, wishing that Mario cleaned wounds in ways that didn't hurt so badly.

Mario sighed, finally finishing with the alcohol treatment and swiftly wrapping a tight bandage over the cut. "See, it's over. That wasn't so bad," he told Luigi gruffly, his face softening just a bit. But after a moment, he added, "You're lucky I did that for you. If you're stupid enough to get hit like that next time, you're on your own. You're not a baby."

Mario abruptly left, disappearing down the hall and into his room, and in a few moments Luigi could hear several thumps and thuds, the sound of Mario training alone. Luigi winced as he heard a particularly loud smack. He was glad that the hit had landed on some unfortunate punching bag or dummy and not on him.

He drew his knees up to his chest, feeling very much like crying again. If Mario had a core of steel, then Luigi had a core of jello. It just wasn't fair! Why couldn't he go outside and play and make friends like everyone else? Why couldn't he spend his childhood learning to ride a bike or fly a kite or fish? Luigi hated fighting. Especially against Mario, who was stronger and faster and never relenting.

Despite himself, a sob managed to escape his lips and he shut his eyes, hugging his knees tighter. Mario's right. I'm pathetic. And I cry too much, and…and I'm all alone! And I'm scared! Luigi balled up his fists as waves of loneliness attacked him, as they usually did when he least expected it.

"You're not pathetic. And you're not alone. I'm here. Dry your tears."

Luigi was startled out of his sobs. He looked wildly back and forth. The voice had sounded like it was whispering in his ear, right next to him, but he could see no strange intruder. "Am I going crazy?" he wondered aloud, before another, more frightening theory occurred to him, making his heart leap into his throat. "Or are you a g-ghost?"

The chuckle sounded from all sides of him, somehow physically pressing him deeper into the security of the sofa, but it was not mocking or malicious laughter. Instead, it wrapped around him like a comforting blanket. Luigi had squeezed his eyes shut, but he now opened one and then the other cautiously.

"I am a friend, Luigi."

A friend…! Really? Luigi was afraid to trust this, tempering down his happiness with logic. It was too good to be true. It had to be a dream, or some kind of crazy hallucination. Maybe Mario would know what to do. He pushed himself up off the couch and plopped to the floor.

"Are you sure you want to disturb Mario while he's in the middle of training?"

Luigi stopped, glancing fearfully at the door where he could still hear Mario hard at work. He scratched his head, admitting, "No…no I don't."

He crossed his arms, disappointed now. "Why does my only friend have to be invisible?" he muttered.

"Because you just have all the luck, kid," the voice drawled dryly. "Now, listen. If you let me, I can help you match Mario, maybe even beat him."

Luigi blinked, absurdly wanting to laugh. Had his invisible friend even seen Mario? Well…maybe not. Luigi wasn't sure that disembodied voices could see. After a moment, Luigi shook his head. Are you listening to yourself? You sound nuts. You are nuts. "This is…this is impossible," Luigi said, looking all around because he had no idea where to focus. "And it's especially impossible for me to get the best of Mario."

"But it isn't. You're strong, Luigi." The voice was gently confident, and despite himself, Luigi found himself listening, addicted to the quiet assurance and encouragement. "You're a Mario too, after all. Mario deserves to be paid back for what he did to you, and that will motivate you. With just a little work, you can give Mario a run for his money." There was a chuckle, and Luigi wished he could sound half as confident and proud. "Have at him."

Luigi tested the phrase, giggling a little at its bizarre wording. "Have at you!" He tried to sound poised and self-assured, but the tone was so foreign that it sounded like bad acting, like he was playing dress-up with his voice. He collapsed into laughter, imagining what Mario would think if he really did somehow get good enough to win one of their sparring matches. "Have at you," he whispered again, still smiling. He liked it.

The voice was, quiet, serious, thoughtful. Luigi almost didn't catch the murmur.

"Excellent…"