T Minus 21 Days

We're back. I've been so swept up with LiR2017 that I left this in the dust for a while. Enjoy!

Smash spectators had started playing the drinking game to Luigi's down throw combos.

It had been going on for quite a while now. Master Hand was a little lax when it came to bringing alcoholic beverages to the stands. He had lots of Miis around to prevent things from getting too out of hand. But he was strict when it came to designating a driver for the ride home. That, however, is a different story.

For this drinking game, there were a variety of spirits to choose from. The most popular was draft beer. There was also whisky, Scotch, brandy, rum, champagne, red wine, blush wine, white wine, tequila, vodka and schnapps. The wine was poured into glasses, while the rest of the alcohol was poured into tumblers.

The rules of this game were simple. Whichever spirit you picked, you had to stay with it. This was mainly for safety reasons. Each time Luigi pulled off a down throw combo, you took a drink. If the opponent escaped the combo, you took half a drink. If the plumber re-grabbed, you took two drinks. And if it was a kill combo, you drank until the opponent was KO'd.

It was a surprise that none of the spectators passed out by the end of the match.

This drinking game caused Mario and Peach to raise eyebrows, just like with the flashing and mooning. And again, they decided that they were in no position to judge them. They took the energy and rolled with it, even participating in the drinking games after a while. Their spirits of choice were champagne or merlot, but every so often, Peach would take rum, vodka or tequila as her drink, and Mario would go for the draft beer or a neat Scotch. Everyone would be stunned speechless when they saw how well the dignified Mushroom Princess could hold her liquor.

Those rooting against Luigi would partake, as well, but they'd drink out of sympathy for the opponent. From the beginning of the match to the end, they'd take swig after swig from their bottles while watching Luigi own the opponent. But no amount of alcohol could numb their searing hatred toward that plumber. They just wanted an excuse to get completely wasted and wreak havoc.

In recent days, Falco Lombardi had become one of them.

It had been almost a full day since Luigi finally worked past the last of his anger and gave Falco another shot. The avian tried to appreciate this, but seeing those combos made it hard! He was reminded of his humiliating defeat on Smashville, the event which set him off in the first place! If it hadn't been for those combos, Falco wouldn't have blown up at Luigi, and their friendship wouldn't have taken that hit! But he did his best to be cool. After sending that email to the Bennigan Brothers, he'd sidled over to Luigi's room with a big tub of ice cream. The plumber had let him in, and they'd shared the ice cream while watching hilariously funny movies. When the tub was empty, the duo had a talk about the heated exchange which had nearly crippled their relationship. Now that Luigi had calmed down, he was able to make his case to Falco without fear of losing it. He'd talked about how hurt he'd been when the avian tried to blame him for his loss. He'd talked about the doubts and worries circulating in the days and night following the confrontation. He'd talked about how Falco barely achieved anything by buying him petty gifts. He'd talked about how he'd secretly hoped that Mario would thrash him after telling him about the incident. He'd remained relatively controlled, despite some fist-clenching, voice-raising, voice-cracking and tears. At least he didn't physically lash out like he'd felt the urge to do. And when he'd asked Falco why he'd reacted like that, the avian couldn't squeeze out an answer. All he could do was admit that he was wrong, apologize and promise never to do it again. Luigi smiled in acceptance of the apology, but then he showed Falco out. The talk was starting to work him back up, so he put on his music and danced as the avian secretly watched from a crack in the door. Eventually, Falco's lids grew heavy, so he headed back to his own room and fell asleep to the sounds of intense electronica and Latin.

That was a fortnight ago, and things were still quite shaky with Mario. So, Falco was seated off to one side, holding a stein of beer, watching Luigi go at one of his opponents. This was his most intense bout of the day, yet he still had plenty of energy. Carefully, Falco studied Luigi's snapping blue eyes, his tongue flicking across his lips, his fluid dashes and dodges, his long, light leaps and the crisp way his punches and kicks came out. He'd try to set up for dash grabs and pivot grabs when tricks such as the jab-lock began losing their charm. He'd throw out his Combo Breaking Golden Leg of a n-air to extend combos or escape from an opponent. He'd look hard at his opponent, warning them that he wasn't screwing around. His current foe was a tough one, heavyweight and muscular enough to withstand even a Misfire. He had to pull out all the stops with this one, using his agility first, and then his strength when the opponent was in his grasp, and finally his attitude to jank and disrespect to his heart's content. The opponent had puffed out their chest and told Luigi about how they were gonna mess him up (and I'm paraphrasing) before displaying their assets to the crowd. Luigi's fans weren't amused. But those rooting for the opponent were.

Luigi had proved them all wrong from the beginning. Starting with fireballs, kicks and karate chops, tricking their opponent into lowering their guard, and then bam. The combos started. Each breath was a long, steady, soft whoosh. His lungs could recover later. He needed to get as much damage as he could on his beefier opponent before thinking about taking a stock. If he stopped, then he was a sitting target for hammy fists. His face, his belly, his ribcage, his hips and his shoulders had taken a capital beating—not that it stopped him, but it still hurt. He'd struggled through soreness and swelling to stay in the fight, taking even and careful breaths, hearing Mario's voice riding the wind from the stands. Reminding himself that his big bro was counting on him. Fixing the beefcake with a gaze like thunder, fists up and ready to go. The crowd roaring for him and waving signs and flags and scarves and towels and banners and the like—and imbibing.

Today, Mario had the sweet, crisp sangria in his wine glass. At the start of the match, it was filled to the brim. Every time his baby bro polished off a combo, he took a sip. For each combo extension, he took a slightly larger sip. If a combo attempt was unsuccessful, he'd refill the glass. If Luigi re-grabbed, then he'd take a swallow. Empty half of the glass if it was a kill combo. Drain the glass completely if it was a zero-to-K.O. Spectators crowded around him, spurring him on, hooting and cheering whenever he threw back his head and slugged that glass of sangria back. They loved seeing a different side of Nintendo's mascot.

Mario refilled his glass after a kill combo caused him to drain it off, studying the way the lights played across the wine. With a big smile on his face, he stood and then raised his glass to his baby bro in a silent toast. He'd always tried to abstain to set a positive example for the kids, but he'd drink to his lil' bro proving himself and kicking—butt—out there. Luigi, catching his breath, noticed him, made a determined fist and slammed it into his open palm. His fans went crazy, but as the Bros exchanged an intense, held gaze, the cheers seemed miles away. Their lips didn't move, but they were talking to each other. Mario visibly winced—Luigi looked awful! Large bruises all over his body, blood pouring from his mouth and nose and from the cuts left from the opponent's rings. The beginnings of exhaustion in those blue eyes. His chest heaving. But still so vibrant and so focused. With one blink, the look of exhaustion was gone, done in by an elder brother's encouragement. The opponent respawned, looking madder than Hell. In one fluid motion, Luigi turned, hardened his gaze and put up his dukes.

The opponent was on their last stock, while Luigi had only lost one. As the sweat-washed form of the man in green once again began to dance and flit about, his foe let the frustration take them over and started making crucial mistakes. The spectators took double shots each time this happened, laughing softly as the unfortunate soul fell right into an attack. Again, Mario raised his glass to Luigi before taking a hearty sip of his wine.

Meanwhile, Falco was on his third stein of beer, trying to keep his cool. He tried to remember what he'd put Luigi through. Tried to remember the talk last night, especially the slight hitch in Luigi's voice when he politely asked him to leave. He reminded himself that although they'd made up, they were still a long way from where they once were. He told himself that it was the opponent's impatience putting them at a disadvantage, not Luigi's combos. But it was no use. He started seeing red as the stronger, heavier and more muscular fighter was owned a thousand times over by a string bean who was a bit soggy round the midsection. Look at those combos. Those stupid combos. They're the bane of this tournament's existence! We're better off without them! He took a swig of beer and licked his beak. He'd better jump onto that secret website later today and fume, rather than ruin the second shot Luigi had offered him. That had some good stuff, really. Having that down throw nerfed would be the perfect medicine. Let's see how many adversaries he'd easily down then.

Enjoy it while you still can, buddy, Falco groused internally, lifting his stein to his lips and taking a good swig.

The beer somewhat dulled the bitterness of seeing Luigi's combos, but it was a pitiful defense against Mario's penetrating gazes. He could still feel those blue eyes, cutting him, piercing him, hating him. They burned through his feathers more than the alcohol burned his throat. Falco took another swallow, easing himself to ignore those eyes. A lot of good that did. The man in red probably didn't get the memo.

A gasp sounded as the opponent broke free of Luigi's combo and kicked him hard in the midsection. Falco snickered softly and re-immersed himself in the battle. Between Mario's scathing eyes and Luigi's combo game, the latter was better in comparison.

Luigi's long gasp lingered in the arena well after he'd rolled back to his feet. He ignored his screaming midsection while spot-dodging his foe's strikes, aimed fireballs at their face, and then weaved in close and kicked them right back, powerfully. The opponent bent in two with a groan, but then recovered. Luigi blocked the incoming hook but wasn't ready for the cross-punch—his head snapped to one side, and he would've fallen backwards if a beefy hand hadn't snagged him by the back of his shirt. His opponent punched his face over and over before viciously turning on his already-aching midsection. He was then slammed into the stage and peppered with kicks. Even after all of that, Luigi managed a sweep attack which knocked the other fighter off their feet. The man in green was back up in an instant, violently grabbing the opponent by the shirt collar and jerking them up to eye level.

Nothing needed to be said. Luigi slammed his foe back down, butt-slammed them, and then let them have it. He wouldn't be beaten down for long. He couldn't be beaten down for long. Heck, he could've just used his neutral aerial to escape. But for a split-second during that beatdown, he'd passed out, allowing himself to be further savaged. No sense dwelling on that any longer—it would be distracting. He heard select spectators grumbling in disbelief as the opponent's hope was snatched away and his fans hooting and shouting as he got the advantage back. He responded to both in the same fashion—throwing greater gusto into his offensive strategy. That should give the haters something to chew on.

Especially Falco.

Luigi licked his lips as he thought about the ace pilot. At the time, reconciling with him seemed like a good idea, but now—not so much. Not with the way he continued to mope in the stands over his down throw. Not with the way he continued to evade Mario. He saw him in the front row, nursing a stein of beer, practically hugging it to him as if they were good friends. He saw Mario, still shooting looks at him. The situation left him so confused. They'd talked last night, Luigi presenting the honest truth in a level, steady voice, and he seemed to feel better—until Falco started flapping his beak about how he was sorry and that he'd never lose his temper again, like the others did. Not even answering the question Luigi had posed—why Falco had gone off on him. He remembered the saccharine tone in the avian's voice and how it had curdled his stomach. He'd wanted to scream at him then. But instead, he gave Falco an equally saccharine smile, told him that he accepted the apology and showed him to the door. After he left, Luigi had put on his Latin and electronica playlists, dancing away the rest of the night. Dancing away the second thoughts and the bad taste in his mouth from Falco's non-answer to his question. Dancing away the worry that his friends were secretly fuming over his combos. Dancing away the extreme concern that Mario was resentful over losing to his younger brother but trying not to s how it. Like in that Power Tennis tournament years ago when he "accidentally" stepped on his foot after the younger overcame the elder in the finals. He was always thinking about his brother, day and night, awake and asleep. How he loved him, adored him, admired him, looked up to him, made him tick—envied him. There were these videos trying to portray Mario as a bully, funny parody videos in which Mario and the crew had fun at Luigi's expense. And in one video about Mario owning a restaurant, he and Luigi had gotten into an argument, and Luigi had told him to go to Hell. Or something like that. Holy ravioli—sometimes, Luigi wanted to say that in real life. After thirty-plus years in his shadow. After Mario had lied to him by omission about his placement on the first tier-list. After feeling the weight of his tennis trophy in his hands, and then feeling pressure on his toes and looking down to see the heel of Mario's boot against the sole of his own, almost grinding into it. He remembered everything about that day, how hard he'd gripped his tennis racket, how his sweat had gotten in his eyes, how both bros had rallied as they gave it their all. How, at long glorious last, the masses cheered and appreciated him as he was presented with the trophy. How he'd spun and twirled with it while confetti rained down. It had been arguably the best day of his life—until Mario had turned up. Clapping and giving lukewarm, half-hearted cheers, patting him on the back—and then—that was when it happened. Mario stepping on his foot, looking at the act in bemusement—and then laughing. And this was after Luigi had saved his life, too! Since then, he'd pleaded his innocence—but he sure wasn't laughing when the two returned for Melee! It took a few matches between them, but Luigi cooled off and got over it. At the end of the day, the Mario Bros were a team. They argued, but they eventually made up.

And now this—the nagging feeling that Mario wasn't taking the losses to Luigi as well as it appeared. But aside from the incident in Power Tennis, Mario was generally a good sportsman. He smiled, shook hands, and gave Luigi a great big brotherly hug, regardless of who won. Whenever they found time, they sparred together, however heated it became. But one of the reasons Luigi had joined this tournament was to finally make a name for himself. Outside forces, including that tier list, tried to keep him trapped in Mario's shadow. He'd made it a point to try to score more victories than his big bro, something which bled over into later sporting events, especially the Olympic Games against Team Sonic. And then there was Mario's status as Nintendo's mascot, Smash's unofficial spokesperson and the unofficial third-in-command. At times, he had to remind folks—Luigi included—that he was still number one, something which didn't sit well with the plumber in green.

Nobody wanted to talk about it, but it had to be acknowledged. It was something which had spiced up the brothers' relationship ever since they crawled through that pipe into that mushroomy fantasyland. Mario cast as the hero, with Luigi cast as the right-hand guy. Being the hero had its benefits, and the former couldn't help but flaunt it a little. He, too, had been mildly upset when he was considered mid-tier in the first tournament. But Luigi had also spotted him silently fuming whenever he lost to him. People had tried to get under his skin over it. He never got salty or lost his temper, thank goodness, but he'd huff a little and look quite—flustered. Luigi considered it no big deal, as they were back on speaking terms in no time flat, and pushed it into the back of his mind. But thanks to Falco's hissy-fit, those concerns and suspicions were forced back into the open. He needed to confront Mario about this someday, no questions asked.

Falco and Mario. Falco and the words. Mario and the shoe-grinding. Falco and the words and the saltiness. Mario and the shoe-grinding and the passive-aggressive competition between them when playing sports. Falco and Mario and the angry tirade and the shoe-grinding and the saltiness and the resurrected worries and the passive-aggressive contention which colored a brotherly relationship. He couldn't get these two figures in his life out of his mind. He loved them both, and sometimes he hated them and wondered why he put up with them. He felt himself growing agitated as his mind flashed back and forth between Falco's tongue-lashing and Mario's behavior at that tournament. Both had apologized, but did it change the fact that they did those things? No.

Rather than letting it distract him, Luigi focused his thoughts inward, turning the agitation and frustration into energy in battling his opponent. His eyes twinkled and glittered, and his face became steely and set. He remembered to breathe. He remembered to focus. He remembered to read what the opponent was doing and condition them to anticipate something before pulling off something else. He remembered how the fight could change direction at any moment. The opponent's obvious rage wasn't doing any favors, either.

Breaths were now in that crisp cadence. His strikes were unyielding. He threw out aerials to make sure his opponent didn't escape. When they did, he sucked them right back in with a Cyclone or two. He ducked those imposing fists and launched himself right into their torso, setting up combos with sharp kicks. The opponent kept raging at the plumber and making senseless mistakes, and Luigi made sure they regretted it. He punished almost as hard as he comboed. He styled and disrespected and dished out jank. He wanted to humiliate this big lug. There was still a lot of fire he had to let out.

Mario caught Luigi's facial expression as he mercilessly lit into an opponent. And he could feel his torrent of emotions, knowing that some of it was directed towards him as well as Falco. He cherished Luigi—more than the Princess. But sometimes, having his overall-clad derriere handed to him by his younger brother really wore on him. He'd be raw for a few hours, and he'd have to go to his room to clear his head before doing something he'd regret. His room nowadays had a balcony, a place where he loved to relax and study the scenery. It was just the thing to calm him down after a defeat at Luigi's hands—following a few rounds with a Sandbag, of course. Leaning on his balcony, Mario would drink in the view and try not to let the loss get to him. But he'd sense Luigi's presence, lurking outside the room, watching him quietly vent, and he'd know what he was thinking. He wasn't mad at his bro—he knew that the only one to blame for the loss was himself. Still it squeezed its way in as he stood there—that his younger brother, the second player, had thrashed him in front of God and everyone. He was the face of Nintendo—he was the hero here, and Luigi needed to remember that. Though he forced those thoughts away, he could never hide them from the L. He'd feel him glare at his back for a bit before heading to his own room and putting on his music. Once he'd simmered down, Mario would whip up some spaghetti and head to Luigi's room to reassure him. It always worked.

A fierce competitive spirit existed between them when stuff like this came up, from the Smash tournaments to the sporting events to the Olympic Games. They expressed it passive-aggressively, but it was there. Never would Mario forget that Power Tennis tournament in 2001, hot on the heels of his rescue from that mansion. The doubles portion went fine, but in the singles, both had advanced to the finals. The tension was palpable as the bros squared off. There was this determination on Luigi's face as they volleyed the ball back and forth. They injected the energy they had left into that game, both of them winding up hot and sweaty and exhausted and cross but still soldiering on. It ended with Luigi winning the match point—and the singles tournament. Mario had watched as a Toad presented Luigi with his trophy—the pride in his eyes and everyone in the stands clapping and shouting for him. That day had been his time to shine. Mario was a tad perplexed, and who could blame him? He was the big brother, the superstar! But he tried to take it in stride, approaching his lil' bro, intending to congratulate him. He saw him twirling around with his hard-earned trophy. He reached him and patted him on his sweat-dampened back. But as he showered Luigi with praise, he felt something—fleshy—beneath his shoe. So, he looked, and—there was his foot, on top of Luigi's. To this day, he'd never figure out why he'd found it funny. Luigi certainly wasn't laughing about it. The look of confusion, disbelief, anguish and betrayal on his angular face was forever seared into Jumpman's psyche. Later, Mario had apologized, explaining that it was an accident, that he didn't mean to step on Luigi's foot, but the damage was done. Luigi's victory had been soured. Between that fateful day and the beginning of Melee, Luigi kept his interactions with his elder brother curt, clipped and matter-of-fact, ranging from lukewarm to cool. Mario had lost count on how many matches and spars between them it took for him to finally get it out of his system. Luigi forgave Mario, and life went on. But there were still times when he'd think about it. Including now.

It was something neither brother would ever forget, even after fourteen years. Mario frequently kicked himself over the affair, wishing he could take it back. Wishing that Luigi could understand that it wasn't a malicious act. Wishing that people would stop trying to twist the incident around.

He saw Luigi's mouth round slightly and his chest move in and out as he drew several preparatory breaths. Almost instantly, he knew that he was going for a kill combo. Time for him to quiet his thoughts so he could enjoy it.

His baby bro was so—ethereal—as he dashed in, grabbed his opponent for the down throw and then rained holy heck on them. Sea-blue eyes followed the action, drinking in the minutest detail. He, too, had to remind himself to breathe. One hand was on the edge of his seat, the other clasped in Peach's hand. His heart sounded like it would beat right out of his chest, and his stomach was inhabited by jumping beans. He licked his lips, locked his gaze and let his silent encouragement flow, like invisible waves behind his eye sockets.

Back on the stage, Luigi felt that silent encouragement encircle him. He was reminded of his deep, spiritual love for Mario and of Mario's similar type of love for him. The burst of anger stemming from that tournament abated slightly. It probably was an accident; Mario was never the bullying type. The silent encouragement soothed the rawness and made him feel secure and loved. It gave him the final thrust of strength and power he needed to best the fiend standing before him, with muscles almost as big as his face and his beefy, hammy fists. Now, the big lug was starting to weaken. They were breathing heavily, and their eyes were glazed over in pain and exhaustion. All they could do know was to feebly swipe at the man in green, who easily slid out of the way and gave back with crisp, calculated punches before grabbing again. He threw all he had left into this last combo, the combo that would take him home, finding the rhythm. Listening to his breath. Listening to the cheers and jeers. Listening to the wind and the music from the stage's loudspeakers. Briefly numbing himself to the memories of his exchange with Falco and of the Power Tennis tournament.

And finally—finally—came the coup de grace. Tightly clenching his fist, a great, big inhale, planning and timing the trajectory, gathering up his adrenaline and his strongest emotions, and then—

PIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

The Fire Jump Punch slammed into the opponent's torso, sending them straight up into the sky and the upper blast zone. Luigi watched with a growing smile as his foe tumbled off into the distance, screaming piteously, before vanishing as a star.

GAME!

Mario led the spectators rooting for Luigi in a massive, wild cheer, while those rooting against him fulminated and cursed those combos. Falco simply drank the last of his beer and disappeared into the crowd.

"This game's winner is—Luigi!"

1.1.1

Since Luigi had briefly lost consciousness during the fight, he had to be checked out at the medical wing of the Smash Mansion. After Dr. Mario gave him a clean bill of health, he took a five-minute shower, changed clothes and skipped down the hallway toward Master Hand's office.

The opponent was already there.

Luigi knelt at his favorite spot and listened as yet another vanquished foe screamed at Master Hand for "letting" the plumber defeat them, or something like that. Then, they started doing a "woe is me" speech in which they talked about growing up in an affluent family and how they were taught different styles of fencing, martial arts, boxing and archery. How they went to some top-ranked college on some sports scholarship and became an expert bodybuilder and personal trainer, and how they'd joined Smash to fight with the best of the best. And now they couldn't look their family in the eye again, having destroyed their honor after being outsmarted by a shadow, of all people. Then, they went right back to singling out Luigi and delivering a laundry list of reasons why he shouldn't have won over them. The target of the rant bit his lip until he tasted blood, inadvertently opening a wound from the match. Stupid f—ing combos, his mind began to sing using Falco's voice, but he blocked it and continued to drink up the rant like a milkshake. You have a milkshake, and I also have a milkshake. But my straw reaches through this door, acro-o-o-o-o-o-o-osssss Master Hand's office, and into your milkshake. I—drink—your—milkshake! Sssshhhllorp! I drink it up! Now, what do you think of that, Mr. Beefcakes? He was reminded of that film about the oil baron who was cold and ruthless and who taunted one of his rivals, who was at a low point, toward the end. Well—Luigi wasn't cold or ruthless or boastful, but he was starting to get fed up with people trying to blame him or Master Hand when they lost to him.

"You all should be ashamed of yourselves, inviting someone like him here! If you're gonna run this place like Weenie Hut Junior's, then you shouldn't have bothered inviting me and wasting my time! I thought this was a gathering of fighters and warriors, not happy-fun-time for a bunch of p—ies! How can I go back to my folks and my friends with this?! Those god—n combos should be illegal! Illegal! Now I'm gonna be a laughingstock because of him! What a joke this turned out to be! Super Smash Brothers is just a gathering of incompetent, pitiful cartoons! I'd invite Mickey Mouse, if I weren't afraid he'd surrender, just to be that plumber's [bleep]!"

Luigi bit his lip harder.

"Look, I cannot allow you to insult my Smashers," Master Hand said evenly.

"Luigi is a coward, a loser and a failure! He calls himself a workman—years and years of vocational training, just to learn how to use a plunger and a monkey wrench! I almost broke my back to get where I am now! What does he do? He rides Mario's coattails to fame and fortune and then has conniptions over not being recognized! You wanna be recognized? Then grow some backbone, for [bleep]'s sake!"

The opponent continued air their grievances over Luigi, which barely made any sense to begin with. The plumber himself was now slumped against the wall by the door, the impact of the tirade meeting him like a subway train. The pain he'd suppressed during the bout sank in. He was reminded of the awesome bruises painting his body. A gloved hand cradled his side, and he began taking measured breaths through his nostrils. The agony shot under his skin, across his nerves and through his bloodstream, into his lungs and his heart. Kettledrums pounded in his ears. Tears oozed from his eyes. And all he wanted was to make this stop. It was all he could do not to charge in there and throttle the living daylights out of this whiny saltlord.

"Hey."

Luigi turned—and smiled.

Mario had some clue as to his baby bro's whereabouts. He knew he sometimes hung around the doorway of MH's office to listen to his opponents' heated conversations. But this was the first time he'd seen how these conversations affected him.

"Mario…" Luigi uttered in a soft, shaky voice.

The red-clad brother knelt beside his sibling because he knew he needed him right now. He saw the blood smearing Luigi's lower lip and dripping down his chin, wiping it clean with a handkerchief. Then, he observed the bluish-black blotches marring his face, the gashes crusted with dried blood—and the tears. He felt his jaw beginning to grind with rage, his breath coming a little fast. But he closed his eyes and counted to ten, allowing the emotions to subside.

"Luigi…" Mario felt his love spurting forth like a water spring and gathered his brother into a comforting hug. Luigi sobbed quietly, his own arms rounding Mario's body and pulling himself closer to him. It felt good, being in Mario's arms, his quiet baritone whispering comforting words in Italian, his shoulder pillowing his head, their hearts beating together. And it felt good to hold Luigi, to thread his fingers through his hair, to trace the bones in his spine, to whisper in his ear and feel his words relax his muscles and dwindle his sobs, to hear his breathing steady into a peaceful rhythm, to know that he was soothing his pain.

"Bro—you don't have to torture yourself with this," Mario said quietly, rubbing circles into Luigi's back. "Why do you listen to this, anyway?"

"I don't know," murmured Luigi. "I guess—there was once a time when I found this amusing. But then…"

"Falco," realized Mario, the name burning his lungs like sulfur.

Luigi nodded. "It was the first time a good friend of mine blew up at me over it. That was when something clicked. If he could get salty, then who else?"

Mario cleared his throat.

"He also said that 'a lot of Smashers were getting tired' of my combos, and I keep asking myself if that's true. That deep down, the friends I've made are…" He trailed off and raised his head, fixing Mario with a pointed look. "Well—we both know how you tend to get sometimes when your status as the superstar is called into question."

"L—if you're talking about—no, no," Mario reassured him, combing his fingers through Luigi's bangs. "I don't feel that way at all if you beat me. I think your combos are amazing. And the fact that you've won more—it's a sign of your improving skills. You're my bro, Luigi. I'd never act that way toward you."

"Are you jealous of me, Mario? Secretly?"

"I just said…"

"I know what you said, big bro, but there's the tiny matter of your shoe grinding into my foot after I won that tournament." Luigi studied Mario with a carefully neutral face.

Sighing, Mario smoothed Luigi's hair. "Truth is—I don't know why I did that," he confessed. "Maybe I was a little hot over losing to you. Maybe I did have an innate desire to—remind you of your—status—with respect to mine—in the wonderful world of video games. Maybe I do feel a little usurped sometimes when you best me. But never would I ever go to the extreme Falco went. Never would I ever let it get the better of me. Never would I ever read you the riot act over what your playstyle has that mine doesn't. I love you, Luigi, very much, and nothing will change that. Not even your down throw combos."

Luigi's facial expression slightly thawed, though his guard was still up. "I really appreciate your honesty, Bro."

"I—I know you feel left out when I go on adventures without you. I see it in your eyes when I come back. Heck, I even read your diary on a few occasions. I know that you're still angry over the way I acted in that tennis tournament. I know that despite your year and everything—I'm still the better-known brother. And I want you to know—I'm sorry."

"I'm more hurt than angry," Luigi corrected him. "I felt—I felt that you betrayed me—that—you didn't care about me…"

"But I do. I do. I look out for you. I leave you out of my adventures because I can never forgive myself if you get hurt. And what if something happens when I'm gone. Someone needs to defend the home front. When you need a kindly ear, a shoulder to lean on or moral support, I'm there. I really care about you, lil' bro, and I love you, and I'm sorry for hurting you…"

Luigi hugged Mario tenderly.

"You have every right to be upset…" Mario went on.

"Hey…" said Luigi.

"Yeah?"

"We're brothers first. Whatever happens between us, we'll get over in time. We're a team, a dream team, and we face our problems together. You look out for me, and I look out for you. We're brothers first. Always."

Mario sighed in relief. "Thanks, L. I feel a lot better now."

Luigi smiled broadly. "So do I."

They hugged again, the salty opponent's rant all but forgotten.

1.1.1

"This is ridiculous! It's been days, but no real progress has been made!" snapped the voice over the phone.

"Well, what do you expect?" hissed Marth. "Master Hand is breathing down our necks, and don't get me started on Mario! He loves Luigi to death! If he finds out…"

"He won't. Trust me," cooed Vince. "Now, is there any news on our bird friend?"

"He's in. He's interacting more with the chat room. And he emailed Manny, did you know?"

"Huh. Manny said something about an email, but I must've been too distracted."

"Look, Vince—we're doing the best we can. Until we can get some time away from that glove—our hands are tied."

"I understand. Sorry for flipping out."

"You're forgiven," Marth assured him.

"But seriously, don't stress so much over Master Hand. Soon, we'll have him wrapped around our little fingers. And—we have a powerful cash cow."

"Cash cow?"

"Did you know? We have a pretty—destructive—force on our side. He's agreed to use his wealth and power to shield us. And—he's related to MH."

"No," gasped Marth. "You don't mean…"

"Uh-huh. The one and only," said a familiar, sing-song voice.

"Crazy Hand? But how…?"

"Long story short—I'm jealous over the fact that he withstands my power."

"You think—you can manipulate your twin to advance our goals?"

A giggle. "Marthy-Marth—I manipulated my dear twin brother to rant about that plumber after some argument they had four months ago! I've got this in the bag!"

Vince took the phone back. "You see, Marth—we've got your back," he chuckled.

"So—we're going to manipulate our dear master of ceremonies via his brother."

"Better. He's gonna cover our financial expenses, put us up in swanky hotels and use our website to communicate with us."

"I can't believe we have Crazy Hand as an ally. Thanks, Vince."

"Thank Lady Luck, not me. But don't ever doubt me, okay?"

"Okay. Nice talking to you."

Grinning like a fool, Marth hung up. He couldn't wait to tell Falco!

1.1.1

Nursing a glass of wine, Falco booted up his computer and signed onto the anti-Luigi website. The vanquished opponent's angry rant rang in his ears. He couldn't help but feel badly for them—Luigi had tarnished their reputation. They could never look their family members in the eye again—thanks to those stupid combos! The avian hoped he could catch the guy in the chat room and help them get that anger off their chest. Otherwise, they'd do something they'd regret, like he did.

He saw with delight that Manny had replied to his email, welcoming him into the circle like they were already friends. Explaining the steps that had been taken so far, the secret meetings, the plans to sway Master Hand onto their side, the search for someone with enough clout to hook them up with the higher-ups. It was something Falco found attractive.

The avian sipped some more wine and entered the chat room.

SpaceAce: Anyone home?

Watching from afar, he'd seen Luigi sag limply against the wall, tears in his eyes, as he listened to the rant. The hate was really starting to get to him. Then, Mario arrived on the scene, and the sight of the two bros hugging in front of Master Hand's office had touched Falco's heart. Then, cold dread plunged into his belly as he remembered the feeling of angry blue eyes boring into him. He'd managed to slip away unnoticed. Was Mario aware that fences had been mended? Did he care that fences had been mended? It usually took the man in red longer to sweep things under the rug. He really needed to lighten up and cut people some slack when it came to Luigi. It's not like they wanted to hurt the poor guy—did they? Falco surely didn't want to.

HeroKing has joined the conversation.

But ooh, that down throw—it was getting on everyone's nerves. It was like everything they did to try and counteract those combos served to make them better. Luigi always found a way around them. He was becoming overpowered, and everyone knew it. Falco, Marth and the others were doing this for the plumber's own good.

KoopaWantsAPeach has joined the conversation.

Red_Lion_Boi has joined the conversation.

EdgyPittoo has joined the conversation.

KoopaWantsAPeach: Hey, Falco! Nice to see you again.

SpaceAce: Same here. Any news?

KoopaWantsAPeach: My allies in the Dark Lands have agreed to help. King Bob-omb, Petey Piranha, Mega Monty Mole and my other generals have drawn up petitions to do away with that plumber's down throw.

SpaceAce: Awesome. I take it that your latest attempt to woo Peach didn't go very well?

KoopaWantsAPeach: Nope.

EdgyPittoo: Hey! I'm here, too!

SpaceAce: Dark Pit?

EdgyPittoo: What brings u to the Dark Side?

SpaceAce: U don't wanna know.

EdgyPittoo: Yeah, I do!

SpaceAce: KK. I got fed up with L beating me, so I decided to do something about it.

EdgyPittoo: What in the Underworld took you so long?

SpaceAce: Idk.

EdgyPittoo: Anyhow, welcome in!

SpaceAce: Thanks, man.

HeroKing: I have the raddest news ever!

SpaceAce: Spill.

HeroKing: Vince called me not too long ago and told me that we've gained a very powerful ally!

EdgyPittoo: C'mon, man! Spit it out!

SpaceAce: Yeah, who is it?

HeroKing: It's someone unexpected. ;)

KoopaWantsAPeach: Can you just tell us?

HeroKing: Okay, fine. It's Crazy Hand.

SpaceAce: No way!

KoopaWantsAPeach: Say whaaaat?

EdgyPittoo: How did they sway him?

HeroKing: He didn't need swaying. He's been jealous of L since he first arrived in Melee.

SpaceAce: How's he gonna help us without Master finding out?

HeroKing: He's gonna send us some literature via this site. He's also gonna help pay for our food, lodging and other expenses, plus a hefty sum for allowance money. If you need a place to stay for the night after our meetings, then he's our man.

SpaceAce: That's great news!

Red_Lion_Boi: I hear you're still in the contemplative phase.

SpaceAce: Yeah. L and I are friends, and we just made up.

Red_Lion_Boi: But you've had it up to here with his combos, right?

SpaceAce: Yeah. It's just…I hurt him badly. And Mario still isn't over it.

EdgyPittoo: Bah, who cares about what he thinks? This is your life! Those combos are ruining it!

HeroKing: But Mario's also Nintendo's mascot. And he's a darn good brother, too. We need to tread carefully around him.

KoopaWantsAPeach: Hear, hear!

Red_Lion_Boi: Don't worry. He won't ever have to know. Right, Falco?

SpaceAce: Right.

HeroKing: What if you came to one of our meetings, Falco? You know, to try it out, see how it fits?

SpaceAce: I'd like that.

HeroKing: There's one happening tomorrow. I'll pick you up at around eight and drive you there. Sounds good?

SpaceAce: U bet.

HeroKing: Everything's gonna be okay. I promise.

SpaceAce: Thanks, Marth. You've been so helpful to me during this mess.

HeroKing: You may not realize this yet, but you're helping Luigi by doing this. We all are.

SpaceAce: Guess so.

HeroKing: So—I'll see you tomorrow night?

SpaceAce: It's a date.

HeroKing: Gr8.

SpaceAce: K, cya.

HeroKing: Cya.

Red_Lion_Boi: Cya.

EdgyPittoo: Cya.

KoopaWantsAPeach: Cya.

SpaceAce has left the conversation.

Falco finished his wine, refilled his glass, and raised it high. "Cheers, Luigi," he said sardonically before taking another sip. He had a feeling that things were starting to get better for him…

You can try the drinking game for yourself if you want.

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