UPDATE 12/26/18: Merry Late Christmas! I got similar questions from many readers, so I shortened this tag below to clarify everything :D
This fic is rated T.
This fic is self-aware and contains (silly) parody.
This fic hints at suggestive themes, but will not contain smut.
Thank you always for your support :)
TO PEOPLE NEW TO EARTHBOUND/MOTHER3 series:
- Earthbound is a retelling of Ness's quest to defeat the alien menace Giygas, whose mind eventually falls apart after remembering human kindness. Ness's neighbor, Pokey, in alliance with Giygas, tries to thwart Ness as a secondary antagonist, but evades capture by time machine when Paula defeats Giygas with the strength of her prayer. Just what becomes of the escaped Pokey...?
- Mother 3 is a fucking tragedy in which Lucas leaves on a quest three years after the death of his mother and supposed death of his twin brother Claus to save humanity in a slowly-deteriorating dystopia. With the power of his signature move, PK Love, Lucas aims to pull 7 Magic Needles, which - when pulled from the ground - awakens the powerful Dark Dragon, the magical guardian of the Nowhere Islands. It is said that only those with the power of PK Love can pull these needles and persuade the Dark Dragon to do their bidding, which produces conflict when a mysterious Masked Man sharing the same signature move appears on scene. Who is this Masked Man? And what role does Pokey play...?
Ness is from the past and Lucas is from the future. In short, these characters were not able to meet in canon (aka outside of Brawl). This is crucial to understanding the time paradox.
BEFORE YOU READ ON:
- Ness is gay(?)
- There is crude language
- Tis a slowburn coming-of-age romance
- Dark elements and real world problems
- Ness and Lucas are aged up to their late teens (Ness: 17, Lucas: 16)
- There will be a consistent POV switch (i.e. Ness in Chapter 1, Lucas in chapter 2, etc.)
- This is a Work In Progress. I like to re-tailor inconsistencies until I'm satisfied with my own quality.
- Viewer discretion is advised. Might raise to M if deemed necessary, but tis T for now.
Have fun. :^)
~Prologue~
I first met Lucas in Twinkle Elementary.
Back then Lucas was the kid who sat in the corner. He always came to class late. He wore the same faded shirt and jeans. He never carried any lunch money on him to school. The rest of the class shied away from him. Even the teacher seemed to hate him.
Troublemaker, she called him.
He was a strange kid. Then again, so was I. Except circumstances had been favorable for me. I stood out, but in a good way - a chatty, boisterous way that somehow helped me blend into the crowd of my peers.
Lucas, not so much. He didn't socialize. He didn't make friends. He didn't fit in. What was more puzzling, he simply didn't try. Almost as if he gave no shits about school or anyone in it. That singled him out to bullies who might have overlooked him.
They made fun of his freckled face. They made fun of his second-hand clothes.
Lucas never seemed to mind the rude name-calling, but I remember wondering if he felt lonely.
My query was answered when some bullies had gone out of their way to rough him up. I entered the school bathroom one day to see him crying over the sink with a split lip and bruised eye. His crying didn't sound like a normal kid crying. It sounded like an awful, quiet hiccuping that wouldn't stop, the kind that sounded like he was coughing his heart up and tearing his lungs to shreds.
I couldn't unsee that image.
Each time I saw him afterwards threw me into a guilt trip, one of those terrible, stomach-twisting guilt trips, and I'd like to have thought that deep down, my younger self felt bad for him. But because I was an idiot and a coward who was afraid of losing my popular class reputation, I did nothing. I was happy with the way things were, and I wanted it to stay that way.
One rainy day, my mom was picking me up from school, and I happened to catch sight of him by the flower garden. He was breathing into a sunflower, and for the first time I had seen him, he was smiling.
It was then I made a resolve.
I wanted to make this boy happy.
I began to sit next to him in class. I begged my mom to pick him up on our way to Twinkle Elementary, because he'd make the trip by foot. I'd share with him the tuna sandwiches that my mom packed me for lunch, because I never saw him eat. At first, Lucas ignored me and tried to avoid me whenever he could, but after countless persistence, little by little, he began to lower his guard.
He was curious, I could tell. Curious that someone else had spoken to him, and even more curious about what my words entailed. He never interrupted me, never spoke up, never said a peep, but I quickly realized that he never talked because he liked to listen. He was a good listener, and he liked to listen to me speak.
But I wanted to hear him talk. I wanted to listen to what he had to say.
And after about a month, the quiet boy spoke back to me.
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~Chapter One~
The Boy with the Quiet Voice
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Let's be real.
Chances are, you stumbled into this story because you like brawl. Or because you like shipping. Or hell, because you are an extremely unlucky soul who ended up on the wrong page at the wrong time. Whatever the reason, I won't hold it against you. Emergency exit's on the left. So turn back. Backclick now before things get gay!
Haha, I kid. Just a little.
My name is Ness. Or so you've heard, the kid who summons lightning by screaming Pecan butter. I forever sound like a prepubescent teen suffering from a bad case of sinus infection, but I swear it's just my mike acting up on stage. For those of you who don't know me, I'll keep it simple: I'm the face near the left hand corner of the Sm4sh roster. The one who looks like he's perpetually stuck in pre-K - yeah, that's me. Master Hand seriously needs to update our photos.
Anyways, warm greetings and platitude aside, welcome to Smash City. I live here. Currently. Brawling is my life. It's what I do best as a video game celebrity.
Am I famous?
That's one way to put it.
Earthbound isn't quite as cracked up as some of the other video game bigshots, but it does a solid job of summing up the traumatic adventure of my eleven-year-old self. It's been over five years since I last fought an alien creepypasta, but memories tend to stick pretty well when you have to fend off zombies or run the bajeezus away from exploding trees.
But I'd rather take on a thousand exploding trees if it meant possible escape from the horrible predicament I'm stuck in. A horrible predicament called Feelings and Other Squeamish Stuff.
Trust me, it's a long story.
I guess I'll start from the beginning.
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~oO0Oo~
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My nerves stop jittering.
This is the sudden moment of clarity that calms the terror-induced twitching in my fingers and the weakness in my knees halfway through a brawl. It's a moment not born from a surge of adrenaline or relief, but rather, a moment born from calm acceptance. That I can fool myself into thinking that everything is going to be okay. That this I can do. That this I know I could do. That even if I majorly fuck shit up, it'll still be all right, because by the end of the day, I can still fix it, or fix whatever is left of it. In my mind, the battle is never over until it's over. Perhaps it's something most people would call stupidity, but I prefer to think of it as willpower.
Emitting a battle cry, I swing my bat in an overhanded strike.
Nothing can beat the thrill of a good brawl. The sweat glancing off my skin. The weightlessness of my body twisting in midair. Fox blurs to my right, but I close my eyes with an easy grin. Doesn't matter if he's good. We're better.
A plume of hot fire blasts an inch away from my nose.
Uttering a curse, Fox weaves underneath the flames in an air dodge, but a few seconds is all I need to buy myself a nice recovery. My back arches forward into a crouch, and dust puffs around my fingers when my tennis shoes sink into the stage.
Safe!
The crowd roars our names in canned applause, but that isn't important. Nothing is, except for the lanky, too-tall blond at my side.
Spitting out dust, I push myself back onto my feet. "Well hey, if it isn't You-barbecued-my-face."
Lucas wipes the sweat off his forehead. "Almost. Not quite."
I want to point out, close enough, but now isn't the time to bitch and complain. Almost is indeed not quite, and Lucas is the perfect shield mate. I can't imagine anyone else who can look out for me better than he does.
I drop the 'tude. "You have no idea how much I missed your stupid face," I say, fondly socking him in the arm. "Falco...?"
"History."
"I knew it! Saw you spike him down like-" I throw a swift punch. "-wham and wallawallabing-"
"Watch out," Lucas suddenly says, swiping his hand in front of me. A humming ball the size of a surfboard absorbs the hit, and I catch a glimpse of Lucas's eyes blazing blue with psychic power. PSI Magnet. He's saved my hide yet again.
I acknowledge the save by going on the offense. "Looks like we've got a rogue Fox. You wanna return the favor, or should I?"
As Lucas's PK Magnet shatters into a flurry of blue sparks, a telepathic voice prods my mind. Go for it, he says.
Green light. Drawing back my bat, I kick off the ground to deliver a few blows in rapid succession. Fox blocks each one, then retaliates with a combo. He misses the third strike just as I spiral away.
"You're too floaty," Fox snaps.
"Not my fault you're a fast-faller," I cheerfully toss back before nailing him right on his sweet spot.
Crack!
Too late Fox realizes the set up. Below him, Lucas raises his arms, releasing all of his pent-up energy. The powerful Upsmash blows Fox out of the water.
Knock out. The crowd goes ballistic.
I stagger back onto my feet. A last glowing wave of hexagons lights up Lucas's face, and catching my eye, he breaks into a satisfied grin.
The warm jittery feeling returns. Giddy and lightheaded, I stammer out a few words, then feeling a hot flush in my cheeks, cover my face with the brim of my cap.
Game.
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~oO0Oo~
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"Master Hand's doing a random room inspection!"
"Shit, outta my way-"
"Hide the crack!"
"Cloud, ya fucka, where are my boxing gloves?"
This is Smash Mansion. It's nice and noisy.
Just the way I like it.
Hiding a grin, I duck inside my apartment for a shower.
It's been two days after our epic team battle against Fox, and practice season's coming to an end. It's the same old shit every time. Practice like hell for five months. Ace the Championships on the sixth.
SMASH hosts two major tournaments a year. They bring up as much international hype as the Olympics: The Summer Championships solidify the solo ranks for the upcoming year, while the Winter Championships challenge team match-ups. Doing well in either promises special benefits and monetary awards.
As of now, it's PREVIEW week. The month before the Winter Championships.
It's utter chaos. Smashers are scrambling to squeeze in a brawl or two before the start of the season. Anybody I speak to is in a mad dash. Tension is high, temper is short, and everyone wants to win.
So it's pretty much like any other day aside from the fact that
(a) I may or may not have a crush on someone.
(b) this someone may or may not be my best friend.
and
(c) I have been crushing on him since forever.
Okay, you got me. A year isn't exactly forever, but I'm not used to taking my time with, well, anything. This newfound patience-is-key Ness isn't the real me. I'm restless. I do things on the go.
So it's a little sad that my life has degraded into a chick-flick.
I towel-dry my hair in the bathroom. Aaand Lucas is still sleeping. Usually, I'd leave him be, but now is not the time to indulge him. I decide to play alarm clock and rouse him awake. "Hey, buddy. Wake up."
The blond lump stirs. "Nod now, Bess."
"Dude, you have a practice match soon-"
"Agghdfibe."
"Huh?"
"At five. I set an alarm on my phone," Lucas mumbles, flumping over onto his side. "Leabee adone, Bess."
"But you sleep like the fucking dead," I whine. When this doesn't deign a response, I flop onto his back. He still smells like the cologne from his makeover yesterday. Sunflowers. A goofy smile spreads across my face before I shake it off, because I am perfectly content to lie down next to him and take a nap, but no, I can't do that because I'm supposed to be waking this idiot up in time for his brawl.
"Get up, Lucas," I groan, rolling off his back. "You're gonna miss your match. Seriously, it's like two in the afternoon. Your stylists need to practice dying your hair-"
"I can biss it-"
"Nuh-uh! Oh no, you told me you didn't want to miss this match and to wake you up with whatever means necessa- Lucas! Wakey wakey-" I lightly slap the side of his face. "Oi. Git up. Git- Look, I know practice matches aren't aired on TV, but it's Mewtwo, damn it! Mewtwo. You know, giant psychic floating cat that'll disembowel anyone who skimps out of his matches?"
"Mmrrg... five more minutes."
He isn't going to get out of bed. And no, I don't just think so.
I know so.
"Lucas," I whine.
With an incoherent groan, Lucas pulls the covers over his head. I catch the irritable tone in his voice and laugh. Lucas isn't a morning person. I race across the room, only stopping to swipe whatever's left of my leftover bagel on the dinner table, "Practice-match-in-five-no-time-to-change-I'm-taking-your-shirt-bye!"
Groggy with his tousled bed-head, Lucas stretches his arms with a yawn. "Good luck, bye."
Now I really have no time to waste. Grinning like a moron, I shut the apartment door and fly down the stairs.
When I slow to a halt, I pat down Lucas's shirt and fondly trace the familiar red-and-yellow stripes on the fabric. The old shirt's long, slightly snug around my shoulders, but that's only because Lucas is taller and skinnier than me.
Rooming together means that I'm free to mooch off of Lucas's closet. Well, to an extent. While Lucas won't mind sharing, I know not to push it... though I probably abuse the privilege.
Nah. I definitely do.
We've borrowed each other's clothes since third grade. Partly because Lucas wore around the same size as me back then, and partly because I'd forced him to take some of my older clothes. He'd cooked up some cock-and-bull story about not taking charity, but I wasn't going to hear any of it. Winter was chilly. Lucas would've frozen into a living Popsicle if he only wore his t-shirt and shorts to school. At first, Lucas refused to wear the extra clothes, but when he caught mild hypothermia during PE, his face blue and teeth chattering outside in the soccer field, I started stuffing extra shirts into my bag in case the idiot decided to ignore me again.
Wisely, he quelled all protests.
The first time I saw him quietly bundled up in a woolen scarf and one of my second-hand coats, I'd thrown a happy fit. I'd slung an arm around Lucas's shoulders and proudly proclaimed him as my long-lost twin brother.
Lucas had broken down and hiccuped quiet tears into his scarf.
...I need to think of happier memories.
A crackle of static. Sounds like Master Hand's on the speakers. "Rehearsal Match... for Ganondorf, Ike, Ness, Wolf. Players, head over to the prep stations. Your match will begin in three hours. This is not a drill. I repeat, this is NOT a drill."
Rehearsal? Practice match? Ha, same thing. Unaired. Totally no pressure.
Oh fuck, this is a lot of pressure.
Bending over to catch my breath in the first floor lobby, I grip the edge of my borrowed shirt. It calms me down, almost as if Lucas was there beside me, and while it's only a brief comfort at best, it's still much-needed.
Suddenly, I wish that Lucas didn't have his stupid brawl scheduled right around mine.
"Hey, buddy," I plead under my breath as if he can hear me. Making my way to the waiting lobby of glass elevators, I grip his shirt tighter like a lucky charm. "Please lend me some of your chill. I could really use it."
All three of my challengers are already here. Not that I would've missed them. They tower over me in a stacked impersonation of the Great Wall of China, and shit, the nerves are back. They're threatening to reappear on the floor with the rest of my half-digested bagel.
Picking his teeth with his claws, Wolf tosses a leer in my direction. "Hey, kid. You're looking a bit green today."
"Never been better," I manage to say before my stomach lurches again in protest.
Wolf's leer intensifies. "Maybe you should sit this one out. You don't look too okay." Howling with laughter at his own joke, Wolf slaps a high-five with a cackling Ganondorf and saunters past me into the glass elevator. Assholes. The whole bunch of them are.
To my surprise, Ike passes me a glass of water. The action's more so out of fear than pity, I think, because of the time I accidentally puked on his precious Ragnell last May.
"Better out than in," he states.
"Thanks," I croak.
With a curt nod, he hoists Ragnell over his bulging bicep and squeezes himself into an empty glass elevator. The platform drops in a sweee of air, and Ike vanishes as quickly as he'd arrived. Taking two generous gulps of water, I wipe my lips on my sleeve, set the glass aside, and take the remaining elevator.
All practice matches are unaired - thank Palutena - but as a member of the Original Twelve, a huge deal hinges on my performance. Master Hand personally keeps track of my winning streak. Unfortunately, this is a problem, because I'm exactly what people call a gut-wrecker. The excitement I hold before any match combined with the rising anxiety doesn't do wonders for my stomach, and for the love of everything sacred, it can attest. Hell, Lucas can attest. I like brawling, I really do, but the anticipation and the wait and the worry manifest into one giant, twisted knot of nerves that stresses me out and forces me to feel all restless and jittery inside. A good and bad kind of jittery. The same kind of jittery I feel whenever Lucas is nearby-
Nope. Not starting that now.
Trying to shake off the jittery feeling, I march into the prep room for my makeover.
Luckily, my brawl - I mean, demolition - doesn't last long. On one hand, it's a solid victory.
On the other hand, it doesn't feel like one. I can still feel my whole body tingle all over from phantom bruises.
I don't complain. The brawls could easily be a lot worse. As head honcho, Master Hand makes sure that none of us get seriously injured. His quick-and-easy solution? No pain. No pain, no gain, period, during a brawl. Think of a sport... like fencing and wrestling on the moon. Yeah. That means that Ganondorf can warlock punch me to oblivion as many times as he likes, and I wouldn't feel a damn thing except for a wounded ego and a terrible sense of loss.
But two other things do stay on stage: (1) Pressure Control and (2) Recoil. This means that the heavier you punch, the greater the damage points you rack. And while I'm on neither end of the lightweight-heavyweight scale, I still suffer from my fair share of recoil. A huge knocker from someone as massive as Ganondorf can send me flying to Jupiter.
So you can imagine that my brawl was brutal.
Stumbling out of my free-for-all feeling like an eighteen wheeler consistently rammed itself into my body (courtesy of Ganondork), I give into the demands of my noisy stomach, because holy shit I'm so hungry that I could inhale five burritos and still have space for a triple-decker cake.
When it comes to food, I have one simple rule. Eat it. Eat all of it.
It's a force of habit. My mom taught me to clear everything on my plate. There's nothing more she hates than throwing away perfectly good food.
"You aren't going anywhere until you finish your plate," she'd say.
So naturally, I eat everything on my plate.
I miserably glance down at the too-tight shirt stretching over my waist. It's not that I'm fat - Master Hand would have my hide if I went out of shape during the tourney - but working out has only made me grow taller... sideways. I knew it. I shouldn't have finished that tub of ice cream last night.
Then the double doors to the meal hall open, and out fly all of my fucking regrets. Food is food. Food is good. This is all I need to know.
I catch a delicious whiff of sweet corn and beef. Today's leftovers from Taco Tuesday, but the term leftovers doesn't do this feast justice. A perfect tureen of tomato bisque simmers in the center of the soup aisle. Basil leaves - one of my mom's favorite herbs - float on its rippling surface. In the salad bar, fresh corn glistens under a warm light, and by the meat-lovers table, roasted beef sizzles over a hot stone plate. My first instinct is to scarf down everything in sight, but somehow, I manage to withhold enough self-control to pile everything onto a plate. When I stuff my plate up like the Eiffel Tower, my eyes wander around for a familiar face because a meal buddy would be nice, and - FALCON YES! - I spot a telltale cowlick by one of the lone tables in the corner.
Believe me, Lucas and easy-to-find are never in the same sentence. Seriously, you'd think with all that ridiculous hair, Lucas would stand out like a sore thumb, but he has a scary talent of disappearing underneath my nose.
So I do what I normally do when I see a friend.
I wave.
Lucas relaxes. I know he's just as happy to see me, because his eyes lift up ever-so-slightly.
I slam down into a free seat with more force than is called for. "Did you get to your match on time?!"
"Yeah. Thanks to you."
"Dun mangcho eet," I say, already cramming my mouth with food.
Lucas takes one look at my sweat-dripping face, then groans. "I can't believe you stole my favorite shirt," he says, and I grin because hey, all's fair in love and war. If I have to guess, he's in a meh mood because today is emo day, meaning that his usual blond swirl has been dyed into a stylish gray.
Lucas isn't too fond of the color gray. It's a simple truth, but it holds a shit ton of weight. Aside from books (nerd), puppies (I approve), and videogames (fuck yeah), Lucas doesn't seem fond of much else. It's simply the kind of person he is. He neither loves nor hates things. He's your classic neutral guy. Like and dislike are strong verbs in Lucas's vocabulary.
But good god, can we take one fucking moment to admire his gray highlights and dope shirt? Seriously. Instant like. Fave. Ten out of ten. Whatever people say on Facebook or Instagram these days.
He looks good. Really good.
"You're pretty badass," I blurt out instead.
And - sweet Jesus - my heart skips right over London Bridge because the corner of Lucas's lips have twitched into a ghost of a smile. "Says you. You were pretty badass yourself."
I almost topple over in stunned shock. "You saw my match?"
"The replay in the lobby."
"Oh g-geez, fuck," I stammer, even though hell yeah, we'd sit in to watch practice matches and give each other constructive feedback, but to hear him actually confirm it makes me feel all the more self-conscious about my own performance. Knowing my rep for bad pre-game nerves, Lucas sits in for some of my games. I'm too relieved to be embarrassed, but at the same time, I can't imagine Lucas ever needing something as lame as moral support. I swallow down the lump in my throat. "The punish was real. Ganondorf wrecked my first two stocks when I screwed up my grab-"
"It was a good match."
Forget skip. My heart does one of those goddamn loop-the-loops in my chest, and I forget to how to breathe. Lucas doesn't sugarcoat shit, so him saying good match basically translates to you were fucking awesome.
"Your match was good too," I say faintly.
"Thanks." Lucas hunches himself back over the cafeteria table, and I bite my lip. Lucas always deflects my compliments in one way or another. No shit he doesn't believe me.
Hot damn really, you are so badass, I want to say, I want him to fucking believe, but my jaw stays shut, because my heart's thudding a million miles an hour that I'm afraid it'll jump out of my mouth and get a speeding ticket.
Lucas is impartial to fashion trends, and I'm no fashionista, but it's hard to miss how easily his new clothes now compliment his tall, lanky figure. Like how his super goth black-and-gray striped shirt fits him just right. Or how his skinny jeans don't ride up his hips and instead hug his lean, slender legs.
I've never given much thought about my own looks, but I like to think that I'm average at best. Maybe a five or six on the attractive scale. Black hair's as common as weeds, and my violet eyes are as freaky as hell. No explanation needed. Dammit, I'm ugly and proud of it.
But Lucas looks so good that it hurts. And I'm glad. Lucas needed a wardrobe change after his growth spurt, and his new Sm4sh outfits this year are cool.
And his shoes?
Fucking hell, they're sweet.
"You should wear gray more," I say, shamelessly ogling his new pair of Air Jordans.
Noticing the object of my mental pining, Lucas eats a messy spoonful of corn. "You have better shoes," he says, covering his mouth while chewing. "My Masked Man outfit's a little tight."
Like I haven't noticed.
Still, he's got a point. "Skinny jeans are the worst. I can barely fit in them, but they fit you okay-"
"They're all right."
My grin widens. "All right? Don't trash talk. I don't think I could EVER pull them off-"
Lucas waves my words away. "Take them whenever. The pants won't be missed."
I perk up. "Really?"
"Yeah."
"God, Lucas, you're a lifesaver. I'm almost out of fresh clothes," I say fervently, though I doubt I can shake his pants on, especially when he wears size SLIMMEST on Theory. Trying on Lucas's pants would be like squeezing my junk into a Chinese finger trap.
Lucas slides his tray to the side to give me space. "You should do your laundry."
"God, I fucking hate laundry-"
"You are not taking another one of my shirts."
"Just one more day?" I whine. "Please? I promise I'll do my laundry, I've just been really busy this week-"
"Hard no. The next time you pull that stunt, Master Hand's going to chew us out again," he points out, and remembering what happened last time, I roll my eyes.
"We only confused the crowd cuz we were in the same match-"
"Still, better safe than sorry," Lucas says, and I take that as my cue to mess up his hair. He swats my hand aside, and as terrible as it sounds, I cackle, getting a kick out of his flustered expression. Few things test Lucas's patience, and sloppiness is one of them. Neatfreak.
But that's one thing I like about him.
One of many.
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~oO0Oo~
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I won't lie. Liking Lucas keeps me busy.
But liking Lucas also keeps me awake.
When we started BRAWL, sharing a single sounded like an ingenious plan. It saved us money, and we knew each other well enough to be comfortable with the arrangement. So I was like, the heck, why not?
Well, past me, you're officially a dumbass. And I hate you.
Yet as hard as I try to tell myself otherwise, I'm convinced that Lucas rooming with me isn't necessarily a bad thing. No, it's good. Very good.
Shut up, self.
Miserably, I roll over on my side. I'm having trouble falling asleep again. Half the time, my brain forces me to undergo mental shut down and collapse into bed snoring like a foghorn. The other half of the time, I lie awake, tracing the ceiling with my eyes and desperately trying to ignore the soft breathing that would escape from the other bed.
Lucas isn't a bad roommate. He's the best, actually, and I know for certain. Living with Popo during Melee sucked, but that's a story for another time.
Lucas is diligent to the last T. He's the levelheaded voice-of-reason whenever I'm about to do something stupid like piss Samus off, yet he knows when to loosen up and have fun. You'd think that fifty fighters beating the living shit out of each other for entertainment would get old pretty quick, but really, in the midst of all, I've gotten fond of this crazy life.
But nothing can ever be that easy in SMASH Mansion.
I start to sweat. It's getting stuffy in here, so I kick my baseball-emblazoned covers off the bed. The rush of vindictive satisfaction I feel at the poofy fwump that follows is all too real.
In the corner of my eyes, Lucas stirs.
"Sorry," I whisper.
With barely a sigh of breath, he turns over on his side.
I blink and squint into the darkness. As far as I can tell, I haven't woken him up. Lucas is still sleeping. Probably. I can never tell. Fucking hell, everything about Lucas is quiet. There's something mesmerizing about the sincere way he talks, the way his eyes light up whenever he's happy, the way the corners of his lips curve upwards in a rare smile-
I stuff my face into my pillow. For the past year, I realized that I wanted to do more things with Lucas. I wanted to talk to him longer. I... wanted to hold his hand. Little things. Things that best friends didn't do. I wanted to make him smile, I wanted to make him laugh, I wanted to pull him down and kiss him until he's flushed and breathless all over-
God. Fucking. Dammit.
Frustrated, I punch my pillow. The mortification starts sinking in soon after, and I feel so dirty and disgusted at myself for thinking about Lucas in that way. Like, what the hell. It's bad enough that I have this hugeass crush on him, and now my mind wanted to violate his privacy with my nasty perv thoughts. My face burning like a flame, I try to blank out any thought of Lucas from my head.
Of course, trying not to think about Lucas is pretty much the same thing as thinking about him.
When I wake up the next morning, groggy and disoriented from a nightmare, Lucas isn't there. His bed's already made - the only trace of his absence. Strange and stranger. Lucas rises later than me. He's a guy who likes his beauty sleep. And by likes, I meant needs. Sacrificing sleep is like committing one of the Seven Sins in Lucas's book.
With a groan of complaint, I turn over to check my watch.
It's noon. On a Sunday.
Breakfast's about to end in an hour.
Goddammit, why did I sleep in today? Swiping the last T-shirt off my rack (mental note: do laundry this week), I scramble for the washroom, and after a whirlwind of clothes and doors, I'm diving to the cafeteria. Just as I waltz in, a quick glance of the meal hall tells me that my friends are all present and accounted for. They've all gotten up before me. On a weekend too, no less. Overachievers.
A familiar voice wafts from one of the tables. "-told Link that I could take him on in my sleep, but he laughed in my face."
"Well, I would too."
"I'll get him next time," Toon says stubbornly, stabbing his pancakes. "My sneak attack will prevail."
Behold Toon: hugeass fanboy of his older counterpart, avid photographer, and full-time perfectionist wrapped up in one tiny fourteen-year-old kid. I crack a smile at his uptight behavior. Despite my late morning start, I can rely on Toon's predictability to set my ass straight in the darkest of days.
Catching my eye from the table, Popo breaks into a wide grin. BRO CODE activate. The two of us raise our hands up into the air like a pair of morons.
"Ayy, wassup, BRO?" Popo crows.
"BRO," I say, sitting down and giving him my best bro-worthy fist-bump.
Popo pretends to wipe away a tear from his eye. "Manly love."
"You two literally saw each other yesterday," Toon points out.
"Don't be such a killjoy, Toon-"
"I'm not a killjoy!"
Right. This kid's so uptight that a vacuum seal would be jealous. For crying out loud, Toon desperately needs some fun in his life.
So like the fuckass I am, I tug his hat off.
"Hey!" Toon scrambles over the table for his hat, but I dart out of his way with a laugh. Messing with Toon is too easy. I mean, give this guy a medal - he fluffs himself up if I ever did anything as much as poke him.
But I guess I dragged out the game for too long, because Toon's pointed ears have flattened themselves against the sides of his head like an agitated cat. I take pity on his upset state and return the hat. "Here."
Toon snatches his hat away. "For once, can you act your age?" he hisses.
"Only if you loosen up," I say cheerfully.
Chewing on my response like a sour lemon, Toon draws himself up, trying to look dignified before patting down the wrinkles in his ruffled hat. From across the table, Red gives me a deadpan stare.
It's hard to believe that this kid is the same age as the green dork beside him.
"Morning," I try.
Red ignores me.
With a frown, I wave my hand in greeting. "Hey."
Red looks up. "Hi," he finally speaks up.
Red and I had a... falling out of sorts. Things had been all right between us until last year. I think. Maybe? It's difficult to say. Lucas and Red are both quiet people, but they're quiet in different ways. If Lucas turns invisible in a crowd, then Red's the opposite. He carries this heavy silence around with him wherever he goes. Everyone can feel it. It sticks to Red like the Grim Reaper.
I don't know what to make of Red. He gets along with Lucas pretty well - correction: really, really well - but for a guy who barely speaks ten words a sentence, Red's difficult for me to approach. Something about his sharp perception makes me feel uncomfortable about talking to him. It's almost as if he can see right through me. Almost as if he's judging me for what I don't say.
Almost as if he knows how I feel about my best friend.
As if reading my mind, Red gives me an innocent blink. We only bump into each other often because we share a mutual best friend. That aside, something about those unforgiving dark eyes tells me that Red isn't a nice foe to cross.
I shudder and turn back around. "Where's-"
"Hey."
I can recognize that striped shirt anywhere.
Balancing a full stack of omelets on his plate, Lucas slides into a seat across from me - vaguely, I remember that it's his favorite food. Mustering up my courage, I look into his face. A strand of golden hair has escaped from the edge of his fringe, almost begging me to tuck it behind his ear, but I resist the urge. Lucas likes his space. And something about Red's curious eyes boring into my skull tells me that I shouldn't give any more away than I have.
Lucas drowns his omelet in ketchup. "I didn't wake you, sorry. You looked pretty tired so I let you sleep in."
"Good call," I mumble, averting my eyes.
When Lucas gives me a strange look, I know that I've dun fucked up. Please, please, please don't ask-
"Did something happen."
There he goes again with his classic deadpan. It's interesting how Lucas makes every question sound like a statement without trying. Interesting... but not at all helpful for my situation right now.
I give a nervous laugh and duck my head under his scrutiny. "Aha... About that-"
The cafeteria doors burst open with a deafening roar. "NESS!"
Everyone in my table jolts away in alarm. Because precisely a second later, I feel a blast of hot air down my neck.
"Good morning to you too," I say, irritated.
All decked out in his spiky, five-hundred pound glory, a furious King of the Koopas is no laughing matter. Bowser looks ready to tear me limb from limb, and I wonder why - oh, right. I pushed his son out of the way because he was blocking the cafeteria. Stupid git shouldn't have tried to trip me.
Bowser hoists me up by the collar of my shirt. "Apologize!" he snarls.
Ness. Lucas sounds just as tense. Ah right. Telepathy. You should apologize.
But-
Now.
As much as I want to argue, I know that Lucas is right. Bowser's no joke. He holds a nasty grudge and isn't afraid of pulverizing anyone in his way. Apologizing's the easy way out. The smart way out.
It doesn't mean that I have to feel good about it though.
...but I'll take one for the team.
I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry I pushed Bowser Junior over."
Smoke stings my eyes. Bowser's eyebrows scrunch together in a thick, bushy scowl. "Not to me. Apologize to my son."
Again?! Like hell I'm apologizing again!
Sparks fly out of my fingers. "You want a fight? Bring it, loser!"
Lucas face-palms himself.
Another deafening roar blasts the hair out of my face. Fire shoots out of Bowser's nostrils, and purple-faced in anger, he raises a gnarly fist. "Why, you squeaky little punk-!"
"That's enough. Put him down," Zelda says sharply, standing in between us with her delicate gloved hands extended. Her fingers burn with Dins fire, and Link has stepped by her side, both hands on his sword in case things go dirty.
Bowser glowers down at her. "Stay out of this, princess. This is none of your business-"
"You're disrupting the peace, Bowser." With a scrape of metal, Link unsheathes his sword a slight fraction in warning. "There'll be no fighting outside of matches."
Bowser eyes the sword in contemplation. I can almost see the wheels turning in his head. Bowser's a tank, but Link's experienced. Taking Link down is possible, but in a matter of seconds? Not ideal. As if sensing this, Link's hand tenses on his sword.
Then Bowser snorts out smoke and reluctantly lowers me down. "This isn't over," he promises, slamming me back into my seat.
"Great. I can't wait," I spit back, straightening my baseball cap.
A bloodcurdling growl crawls out of Bowser's throat before he turns around and heads out of the cafeteria. His huge, bulky stomping shakes the entire floor and rattles the silverware before the doors slam shut. Drama king.
"Ness, what was that?" Link says sharply.
I feign ignorance. "What was what?"
"This is your second offense this month," Zelda says, her cool blue eyes flickering to mine. The hard logic behind her gaze reminds me strikingly of Lucas's, and involuntarily chastised, I shrink back into my seat. "Provoking other smashers is a serious misdemeanor. After a third offense, we'll report you to Master Hand. Please refrain from causing future trouble."
Training her snobby nose up into the air, Zelda glides past the table. Her long perfect hair trails behind her in a dignified curtain.
Quieting down, Link places a hand on my shoulder. "You know we mean well. Take a break. Call your mom."
Shame prickles my face. The worst part is, I can't get mad at him. I've known Link since N64. He's like, everyone's cooler older brother. Of course he'd think that my temper's arisen from homesickness.
As Link sheathes his sword to follow his fiance, I stare down at the cafeteria table. As much of a jerk Bowser is, it wasn't his fault. His anger is justified.
I only have myself to blame.
.
.
.
~oO0Oo~
.
.
.
I take Link's advice. I go straight to the phone booth to call my mom.
Okay, that's a lie. I end up calling my summer fun buddy instead.
Paula's surprised by the sudden call, but luckily, she's willing to sit down and chat it out. I can't talk to my mom - for reasons I'll disclose later - so I chicken out and talk to Paula about something else on my mind.
"I'm sure it's not as bad as you make it-"
"I don't have time! I still don't know what to say, and Lucas is going to figure out... Eventually." I swallow. "Seriously, Paula, all it takes is one touch, one accidental slip-up, and he's gonna know that I-"
"Like him? Yeah, I hate to say it, but you're not exactly subtle-"
"I can too be subtle."
"Liar. I'm only hearing you over the phone, but I can tell you're pouting. You are, aren't you? You totally are."
"I am not!" I protest, even though I am too pouting and kicking myself in the shin for the dead giveaway.
"So what if he does? SO what if you're an Empath, and have trouble keeping things in? You wear your heart on your sleeve. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Ness. I'm one too," Paula says, and I squeeze my eyes shut. "What are you so afraid of?"
My mouth turns dry. "I-I dunno. Agh, I just don't want to ruin our friendship over something stupid-" The hypocrisy hits me before I notice it, and instantly, my cheeks heat up. "Oh fuck, I forgot-"
"Did WE stop being friends?"
"Nooo."
"Did you reject my friendship?"
Scandalized now. "No!"
"There you go, Ness." A hint of Paula's smirk finds its way into her voice. "Like I said, you're one of the most genuine people I know. Whatever happens, Lucas seems like the kind of person who'd at least understand. Just be honest."
She's right. Honesty's the best policy, even though I'm afraid and want to lie a little longer - lie to myself that I don't have these warm fuzzy feelings for my best friend, lie to myself that I don't want to kiss him and touch him and hope to make him mine-
But lying won't get me anywhere. It certainly got my dad somewhere, but I'm not my dad.
I refuse to be like my dad.
I wince when a tangled knot of hair gets caught between my fingers. "Oww-"
"Ness?"
"My bad, got distracted," I say, playing it cool and pretending that my hair's not strangling my fingers, but my throat's a traitor because it sounds so fucking raw. "Paula... I really don't know what to do. I'm stuck. SOS...?"
"At this point, I'd say you have two options," Paula says fiercely, and hell do I love this assertive side of her. She's a godsend. "One, break everything to him easy. Or two, accept your unrequited feelings for him and move on."
So I either chase Lucas away or continue pining after him like a miserable sap.
...Or I can confess to him.
I think about it. It doesn't seem like the type of thing to bring up in a nice fucking conversation. Like, Hey, Lucas, why don't you sit on my lap so we can talk about the first thing that comes up?
I decide that I'd rather jump off a cliff than admit that I have a fucking boner for my best friend to said best friend.
Obviously, Paula disagrees. "I can't believe that he's that oblivious. You're so obvious," she groans.
"I am?" Anxious now, I poke myself in the hands. "But... but that's not fair! You're not even holding my hand or touching me or anything. Can you really sense my emotions from that far awa-"
"Yes. I know your empathy link's been going crazy for a while, and I can feel it whenever you get upset. And you know it's not flaring up just because of your unrequited feelings," she says wearily. A sadness that isn't mine tingles through our empathy link. "Hey... I'm not pushing you to do anything, but maybe you should call home. It's been a while. Your mom misses you-"
I choke up. "I can't call my mom. You know why."
"You're avoiding her."
"No, I'm trying to-"
"You didn't even come home for Thanksgiving-"
"I'll only make things worse!"
Paula pauses. The sadness dissipates. "All I'm saying is that your mom misses you too. She's been calling me everyday asking if I've heard back from you," she says gently. "You can't keep calling me just to avoid her, Ness. There's only so much I can do."
"I know," I mumble, tugging down the brim of my hat in distress. "I'll call her later. Just not now."
"Have you tried talking to Lucas about your parents-"
"No." My heart sinks after recalling Lucas's disappointed expression at breakfast. Great, now I feel like an even bigger idiot for losing my temper over something so stupid.
But I can sort out my feelings on my own.
I exhale explosively into the receiver. "You're right. I think I'll call my mom-"
"That sounds like a plan-"
"-after I ask Master Hand for a room switch."
Paula's disbelief is evident. "Room switch?"
"It's gonna be so awkward if he finds out. I mean, Lucas is my roommate," I say, agonized. "Paula, you have to understand - I have feelings for him, and I don't want him to know, s-so-" I tug on my sweaty collar. "Maybe I should get some time apart to think things over-"
"So you're going to avoid him? Forever? I thought he was your best friend," Paula sounds scandalized, and I bury my face into the phone booth in shame. "Ness, I don't mind you moving out or taking time to think over things, but since when did you start running away from your problems? Even if you decide not to tell Lucas about your crush, at least give him a heads up before you move out-"
"I'm sorry, shit happened," I wail. "It all sounds really, really bad, but I can get over him this time, swear! Gimme more time and space. Time and space. Promise."
As if. It's not the first time she's heard that particular excuse. Paula sighs again. "You do that then. Lemme know how it goes, aight?"
"Thanks, Paula."
"Stay safe, sweetie."
The phone clicks off.
I can do this. I'm gonna demand Master Hand for a new room. A New year, a New Ness. Squashing down my nerves, I make a beeline for the office, but an unexpected voice stops me in my tracks.
"Ness, wait up!"
hOLY FUCK speak of the Devil, I think I almost lost a life back there.
My first instinct would've been to propel my ass away as fast as I can, but Lucas has already pulled up beside me with his stupidly long legs. He mustve run all the way from the cafeteria to find me, because he's short of breath, his face flushed crimson. Watching his shirt stick to his sweaty skin, I can't help but feel my own cheeks burn, and if you don't mind, I'm keeping those thoughts to myself, thanks.
Lucas's cool blue eyes flicker to mine. For someone so straightforward, I can never tell what's on his mind. "Morning announcement about PREVIEW week. Mario wants everyone to meet at the gym in ten minutes."
"Sure thing," I say quickly, trying not to openly gawk at his face and fervently wishing my stupid feelings would just die die die, because Palutena knows I've sinned and am still sinning for my sins.
A frown mars Lucas's features, as if finally taking me in after catching his breath. "You look... stressed out."
Understatement of the century. "Yeah, but nothing more than the usual."
Lucas studies my face. He's growing concerned, and my stomach twists into knots, because ironically, more attention from Lucas is the last thing I want right now. My feelings are starting to leak into all my empathy links. It's only a matter of time before I let the truth slip completely.
"I was..." Sweat dots my forehead. Why did I start talking if I didn't know what I was gonna say? "I was... homesick. Yeah, homesick. I'm good though! I called Paula, and we talked it out."
His voice sounds carefully blank. "...Not your mom."
I wince at the question. "The line was busy."
Lucas doesn't seem convinced, but as I expected, doesn't push me. Lucas errs on the side of caution, a part of his character most people mistake for cowardice, but I like to think that it adds more insight to his character.
I rub the back of my neck. Now is the time for a well-deserved apology. "Look, Lucas, about breakfast today... I'm sorry."
This time Lucas's eyes warm up. "Shit happens. Just be careful."
His stupid strand of hair is still dangling over his forehead. I long to reach for it and tuck it in, because it's seriously starting to distract me, but I curl my fingers into a fist so that I wouldn't give into the temptation.
I can't bring myself to tell Lucas that I want to switch rooms. Or explain why. Because I really, really don't want to move out. And because I suck at lying. And because any reason I'll make up on the spot's gonna end up half-assed.
While Lucas won't ever confront me, if I move out without saying anything, then he's gonna think that he drove me away. Lucas is already so hard on himself. I don't want him to get the wrong assumption. I don't want him to get hurt.
As a best friend, I owe him that much.
I smile, even though it's killing me in the inside, and tug him along. "Hey, let's get going before Mario chews me out. He's gonna be one angry pepperoni."
Author's Note:
*In Earthbound, Ness starts his quest at 13 years old. For the purpose of this fic, he starts at 11 years old.
After class today, I got a few Fanfic notifications on my phone, then freaked out like WTF I NEVER WROTE THIS STORY. Turns out, I had a little too much to drink last night, sat down in front of my laptop, and BAM gayness ensued.
But bAHAha oH JESUS christ, I had to show this crack!fic to my roommates and all four of us were cracking up over OoC!Ness. We're still laughing like morons over everything in this fic DEAR GOD HOW DO I NOT REMEMBER WRITING THIS
So thar we go. Through Thick and Thin began as a crack!pairingfic that held no purpose whatsoever in my life until I decided to change my mind and added in plot/characterization. ̶S̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ q̶u̶a̶l̶i̶t̶y̶ ̶m̶a̶y̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶i̶n̶c̶o̶n̶s̶i̶s̶t̶e̶n̶t̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶i̶r̶s̶t̶ ̶t̶e̶n̶ ̶c̶h̶a̶p̶t̶e̶r̶s̶ ̶u̶n̶t̶i̶l̶ ̶I̶ ̶f̶i̶x̶ ̶i̶t̶
Happy Reading :)
[Edit] Moved this timeline over here. Easier for me to reference.
*In Earthbound, Ness started his adventure as a 13 year old. In this fic, he sets out as a 11 year old (fifth grade). The mental timeline here is thus:
Third grade (9) - Meets Lucas
Fifth grade (11) - Goes on quest against Giygas
Seventh grade (12) - Attends 64
Eighth grade (13) - Melee
Ninth grade (14) - Brawl [Lucas joins Brawl, Tabuu strikes]
Tenth grade (15) - Sm4sh
Twelfth grade (17, turning 18) - Present day, still brawling
