After the little stunt Mario pulled, the rest of the early afternoon was a blur to Luigi.
He only remembered that he'd left the Peach Dome as quickly as possible, so he wouldn't do something he'd regret later.
When he got home, he'd planned to proudly display his trophy in his living room, a reminder of a hard-earned victory and of how the populace had cheered for and admired him for one sweet moment. Then, he'd planned to celebrate by dining at his favorite restaurant. But, Mario wouldn't have any of that, now would he?
The golden trophy, in Luigi's eyes, had lost its luster. The proud blaze of victory had been snuffed out. He was now holding a heavy piece of metal, that was all. So, after arriving home, the man in green unceremoniously chucked it into his closet.
SLAM!
Abruptly, Luigi pounded both fists onto his dining room table, his breath coming fast. Hurt and disbelief still coursed through his veins, and with it came blazing anger and betrayal. How could he do that? How could Mario trample on his moment?! He must've known how it would make him feel! Splaying his hands flat on the table, Luigi sought to compose himself and regain control of his breathing. He was hot all over, and the rage threatened to explode. So, he did what he'd normally do in this situation.
He retreated to his room, retrieved his secret diary and spilled everything onto its pages. By the time he was finished, blood was beating in his ears, in time with his hammering heart. The waves of hurt and anger began to crest, and he needed to do something to get it out of his system. Otherwise, he'd march right over to Mario's place and—
While he was furious with his big bro, he didn't really want to hurt him.
Luckily, Luigi had many outlets for his anger and frustration.
Breathing deeply, Luigi slid off his shoes, stripped off his overalls and shirt and changed into a pair of navy blue workout pants and nothing else. He threw open his curtains, crossed the room to his stereo and inserted a CD he chose at random. Then, he turned up the volume to as loud as he could bear and pressed "play".
Eurodance and 90s party music began pounding into the room, and Luigi began to dance. Oh, how he danced! He danced angrily and frenetically, letting loose the explosive feelings he'd kept bottled up inside. Frustration, resentment, ire—it all started blasting out of him as he danced, keeping up with the music's fast tempo. His body began to writhe and whirl and undulate as he rolled his shoulders and wound his hips, his torso shimmying and swishing. His eyes were closed, and he enjoyed the sensation. It didn't take long for the heat to blossom across his skin, nor did it take long for him to break a sweat, starting as a thin film across his face and upper body. For the rest of the afternoon, he just danced and danced and danced—he danced until the sweat was flying off his body in all directions and splattering onto the walls, until his throat was nearly parched, until his breath was nearly gone—at which point he danced some more until he could no longer ignore his lungs and his muscles pleading with him to take a break.
By then, it was sunset. Breathlessly, Luigi went to his kitchen and helped himself to some ICE Sparkling Water. He felt a little better, but the anger still burned, and his heart ached with betrayal. Questions spun in his mind. Why did Mario act up like that? Why was he such a bad sport earlier that afternoon? Why did he step on Luigi's foot? Why did he spoil everything? Why, why, why, why, why?!
His fists clenched, the urge to whale the snot out of Mario welling back up. Quickly, he steamrolled back to his room, put in another CD of Eurodance hits and resumed his dancing. The setting sun poured in through the window, casting deep orange rays on his sweat-slick skin, making it come aglow. He closed his eyes and let everything shoot back to the surface, his body overtaken by the driving rhythm. The man in green danced throughout the evening and far into the night—danced until his emotions finally allayed, or at least simmered back down to a manageable level.
Luigi turned off his music and jumped into a cool shower before fixing himself some dinner and pouring himself a glass of sweet wine. He ate his meal while listening to some downtempo music, finding some semblance of calm returning to him with every bite. Getting upset wouldn't help anything—on the contrary, it would only make things worse. If Mario called him or visited him later tonight or tomorrow, then the least he could do was hear him out, rather than lashing out and throwing punches.
It hurts so bad—why would he do that? I thought he cared about me…
He breathed, softly, deeply and slowly, before finishing his dinner. Then, he pulled on his pajama bottoms and climbed into bed.
He'd sleep on it.
Maybe he'd be in a calmer mood tomorrow.
…
Luigi hadn't calmed down one bit when he woke up.
His sleep had been fitful, the incident yesterday afternoon playing on loop in his dreams. Those raw feelings had knotted themselves in his chest and belly, and the back of his throat ached. Another cool shower temporarily tamed the fire inside him, and a hearty breakfast of cheesy scrambled eggs and chocolate chip pancakes tapered off the pain—but not for long.
Why, Mario, why? I thought you were better than that…
He tended to his toilette, pulled on a pair of leggings and a muscle shirt and loaded a duffel bag with some towels, a change of clothes and a few bottles of Gatorade. Then, he headed off to the gym to work off his aggression.
Nobody acknowledged him when he entered the gym. There were no mentions of his victory yesterday, no queries about his well-being after what Mario did. Not even a single "Congratulations". Even the employees greeting him flubbed his name. It was as if his awesome crowning moment as the new Power Tennis Champion never even took place.
It was back to the status quo. Back to being in Mario's shadow.
Luigi wanted to scream at them. He wanted to break something. He wanted to start a fight.
But he didn't. He knew it would only exacerbate the situation.
After checking in at the front desk, Luigi headed to the men's locker room and got his stuff situated. A bottle of Gatorade in each hand and his iPod tucked into the pocket of his leggings, Luigi walked into the cardio area, one of his favorite areas in the gym. Lined up in front of the gym's floor-to-ceiling windows was a row of spin bikes, one of his go-to cardio machines. He randomly picked a spin bike, disinfected it with a wet wipe and carefully slid on. After selecting a pre-programmed workout, he discarded his muscle shirt, picked a workout-appropriate playlist on his iPod, plugged in his earbuds, grabbed the bike's handlebars and began to pedal.
His eyes stared out the window and saw nothing. The resistance under his feet gradually increased, as did his pedaling pace. This was why he loved the spin bike. After a stressful day, he could just hop on the bike, play his music and engage all of his muscles without having to think. And that's what he did now, focusing those raw feelings inward and translating them into power. Hot sweat slid slowly down him, leaving thin trails on his shoulders, arms, upper body and back. It threaded along his brows and eyelashes and hovered near his upper lip. He closed his eyes, more sweat droplets spilling down his eyelids. His hands gripped the handlebars tightly, and he pedaled faster and faster and faster still, his body oscillating to and fro from the motions. Breaths whistled sharply from his mouth, breaths which settled into a cadence. He was hot and sweaty and wired and letting out as many of those raw feelings as he could before they drove him to destruction.
For forty-five minutes, he didn't have to think. Then, after a brief rest, Luigi cranked up the resistance level to the highest he could tolerate and started again. He kept going and going and going, the sweat showering off of him, until one employee lightly tapped him on the shoulder and insisted that he take a break.
After wiping down the bike, Luigi plunked himself onto a bench, finished one bottle of Gatorade and then started on the other.
"Hey," said the gym employee. "You okay?"
Still quite winded, Luigi nodded.
"I, uh—I gave Mario a call," the employee said softly. "Let him know you were okay."
Luigi nodded again. As upset as he was with Mario, he didn't want the guy to worry about him.
The man in green rested for a full hour before hopping onto one of the treadmills. For at least two hours, his arms and legs pumped as he relentlessly increased the treadmill's speed and incline in increments. He only stopped when the latter reached the highest setting, and after that, he continued for another hour or so, a fierce expression on his face as his breaths whooshed from his mouth. Once again, his thoughts settled into a comfortable white noise, the urge to do something violent finally dwindling.
When he was ready, Luigi gradually slowed the treadmill's speed and reduced the incline, bringing his heart rate back down to normal. Ten minutes later, he stopped the machine entirely and hopped off. His leggings were neatly soaked with perspiration, and more sweat seeped into his mouth and leaked from his body in rivulets. He used his muscle shirt to wipe off his face and neck before sliding the garment back over his head and emptying his remaining bottle of Gatorade.
Back in the locker room, he peeled off his sweaty clothes, took a quick but refreshing shower and changed into his normal getup. The worst of his anger and hurt had been flushed from his system, but he was still pretty wound up. He needed to get some more food in his stomach, and pronto. Only then would he be able to think more clearly, examine the situation with fresh eyes and contemplate his next move.
…
After dropping off his duffel bag at home, Luigi took the light-rail to one of his favorite restaurants, where a host greeted him upon arrival.
"Table for one, please," said the man in green.
The host smiled. "Right this way, Luigi," he said, leading the plumber to a table by the window.
"This spot is perfect," said Luigi. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," said the host, "and congratulations on your win yesterday. God knows you've earned it."
A small smile tweaked at Luigi's mouth. "Thanks."
"Your welcome. The servers, a few of the cooks and I watched the whole thing on TV," said the host. "You played a good game out there. A good game."
Luigi's heart swelled as the host gave him a menu to peruse over. They didn't forget after all, he thought.
"Attention everyone—we have a very special guest here this afternoon," said the host, addressing the entire restaurant. "Here's our 2004 Power Tennis Singles Champion!"
"Oh, my God—is that Luigi?!" someone asked.
"You'd better believe it," the host said genially.
Patrons and employees alike stood up and applauded the man in green.
"Congrats on your win!"
"Way to go, L!"
"All right, Luigi! You're the man!"
A feeling of vindication washed over Luigi as his eyes swept over the scene.
Shortly after the restaurant settled back down, a server walked over to Luigi's table with a tall glass of Fanta Orange, no ice. "Here you go, sir," she said.
Luigi frowned lightly. "How did you know…?"
"We got a call earlier this morning," the server explained. "He said that he'd figured you'd swing by."
Luigi quirked an eyebrow. "Mario?" he asked.
The server nodded. "Rumor has it that he contacted every last one of your favorite restaurants," she went on. "Told them to put an order in for your usual the second they saw you arrive, and to charge it to his card. Speaking of which—we'll have the Super Stuffed 3-Cheese Quesadilla out for you in a moment."
"Wow. Thanks," said Luigi.
Mario, Mario, Mario, he thought as the server left. He really knows how to soften me up.
Sure enough, the server returned hardly ten minutes later with his food, nice and piping hot.
"Looks good," said Luigi.
"Mario's holding a press conference soon," said the server. "Would you like us to change the channel?"
"Leave it," Luigi replied. "I'm willing to listen to what he has to say."
The server smiled. "Enjoy," she said before leaving.
As Luigi chowed down, another server approached him.
"Hey," she said quietly. "Some of us also saw what happened afterward. Are you—are you doing okay?"
"I'm—I'm holding up," Luigi replied. "Thank you."
"If he's calling up your favorite restaurants and offering to pay for your meal, then he must really want to make things right," offered the server.
"I know," said Luigi. "It's not enough, but it's a good start."
"For what it's worth, we really hope you work this out," the server said quietly.
"Me, too."
The server left, and Luigi continued enjoying his meal.
Shortly thereafter, the door opened, and Skye walked in, her three kids close by. Opal was right behind her.
"Oh, my God! Luigi!" Opal exclaimed, walking fairly fast to his table.
"Hey, Opal," said Luigi.
Skye and her brood joined Opal. "Mind if we sit here for a bit?" she asked.
"Sure."
Opal sat next to Luigi, and Skye and her kids sat across from him.
"We're really sorry about what happened, L," Carolyn said softly. "You deserved better than that."
"You don't have to apologize," said Luigi. "You're not the one who stepped on my foot."
"What's your plan of action?" asked Skye. "I mean—where do you and Mario go from here?"
"I haven't decided yet," said Luigi. "I'm still steamed over it, and I need some time to calm down before making a decision."
Cami nodded. "That's exactly what Mom would tell me, Phil and Carolyn to do," she said. "Set the situation aside, calm down and then come back to it."
"Exactly," said Skye.
However, Opal's face was set and hard. When she spoke, there was quiet anger in her voice.
"I know what I saw yesterday afternoon, Luigi," said Opal. To Skye and her brood, she said, "You know what you saw, too. We all know what we saw. And frankly, I thought I could expect better from your brother."
"Opal, please," sighed Skye.
"It's fine," said Luigi.
"I—I can't believe he'd do something like that to you," Opal went on. "But what gets me the most is that young children saw him acting like that—along with his Princess."
"I see what you're saying," said Skye. "My kids here are a bit shaken up, but they're okay. They're just confused, is all."
"Yeah," said Phillip. "Mario's usually a good sport. What made him do that?"
"I wish I knew," said Luigi.
"By the way, I talked to Daisy earlier," said Opal. "She's p—ed. To tell you the truth, we're all a bit p—ed, too."
"Opal," admonished Skye. "Not in front of the kids."
"Sorry. I'm sorry. It's just…"
"I get it," Skye said in a softer tone. "Everyone's worked up about it. Hopefully, Mario's press conference will give us some answers."
"Maybe," said Luigi.
"All I'm thinking right now is—you braved your worst fears to save him, and this is how he thanks you?" Opal hotly explained.
"I'm kinda thinking that, too," Luigi quietly admitted, "but most of all, I just feel—betrayed. Because I love him and look up to him and have his back, and…" He paused, and there was a slight choke in his voice which he promptly shoved away. "Let's just—let's not talk about it anymore, okay? I need some fuel, and I need some time to think."
His companions understood instantly.
"Well—whenever you're ready," said Opal. "We're all ears."
"I appreciate that," said Luigi.
Opal patted Luigi's hand before she, Skye and the kids went to find tables of their own.
Luigi had eaten half of his quesadilla when the host approached him again.
"The press conference is about to start," he said. "Would you like to move to the bar area so you can watch it?"
"Please," said Luigi.
The host helped him carry his food and drink to the bar area, where he sat before one of the TVs. When the bartender saw Luigi, he quickly turned up the volume.
"You know—you don't have to watch this if you don't want to," said the bartender.
"This isn't about what I want," said Luigi.
"Frankly, I don't know how he's gonna explain all of this," the bartender went on.
"Just—please, don't change the channel," Luigi told him. "Am I angry at him? Yes. But hearing him out will be best for both of us."
The bartender sighed in resignation. "All right," he said.
The host returned with a refill of Fanta Orange and a plate of loaded fries with Puerco pibil. "On the house," he said.
"Thanks," said Luigi.
As he resumed eating his quesadilla and started in on the plate of loaded fries, the TV in front of him showed the Main Hall of Peach's Castle, where a podium lined with microphones was set up. The restaurant quieted as Mario emerged and stood at the podium, a solemn expression on his face.
Setting down a piece of the quesadilla he was eating, Luigi stared intently at his big bro's image on the TV. He could swear that Mario was meeting his gaze as he looked into the cameras. And then the man in red took a deep breath and began to speak.
"Thank you all for coming," he said. "I called this press conference because I know I have some explanations to give and a lot of apologies to make—especially to someone who I love even more than the Princess." Mario cleared his throat. "I can't bear to imagine how I must've looked yesterday. I offer no excuses for what I did, nor do I offer any justifications. The way I acted yesterday was wrong, and I know I hurt a lot of people. But most of all—most of all—I hurt the one person who's always had my back, no matter what." There were tears welling in his eyes. "I've never taken the time to acknowledge how blessed I am, even after what happened close to three years ago. How does the saying go? 'You never know what you have until it's gone'.
"Luigi, I know you're taking some time away from me, and I'll respect and accept that. You're probably having lunch at one of your favorite restaurants and watching this on one of their TVs. And if you can hear me, I—I just want you to know…" A sob choked in his throat. "Bro—my Lil' Bro—I'm so sorry! What I did to you yesterday was mean, cruel and stupid! It was your moment, a moment you wholly deserved, and I—I completely and utterly wrecked it! I was egotistical and narcissistic, and I had no reason or no right—to treat you—like that…"
Mario spoke through sobs, his diminutive frame shuddering and heaving as tears rolled down his face. "You played your best, and so did I. I should've accepted the fact that I can't win all the time. But for some reason, I couldn't! I guess—I let my status as a hero and the fame get to my head! Now—now—you're suffering because of it! Oh, God—I'm getting ill just thinking about the immature way I acted! I'll never forget the hurt on your face as long as I live! I—I don't deserve you, Luigi! You're gentle and kind and smart and resourceful and strong! You put the people you love before yourself, even if it almost gets you killed! You're always willing to help, although you barely get acknowledged in the end! And I—I'm just an insensitive, stupid, selfish and naïve little man who doesn't appreciate you!"
Luigi's own vision clouded over with tears, and he gripped the edges of the bar.
"I'll never know why you saved me that night," Mario tearfully went on. "I wouldn't have saved me. I deserved everything that psycho did to me—it served me right for thinking I was invincible!"
Luigi pounded a fist on the bar. "That's not true!" he cried, despite knowing Mario couldn't hear him. "You're flawed, but you didn't deserve anything that happened to you that night! And no matter what comes between us—you know I'll always come for you!"
"You must really hate me now, but please—hear me out," said Mario. "I'm sorry for all the times I took you for granted, but that won't ever happen again. I'm sorry for all the times I wasn't there for you, but I will be here for you from now on. I'm sorry for all the times I cast you aside or treated you like [bleep]! I'm sorry for all the times I forgot to say 'thank you' or 'I love you'! I'm sorry for putting you through all of that trauma almost three years ago! I'm sorry, Luigi! God help me—I'm so sorry!" He broke into a fresh round of sobbing.
"M—Mario…" Luigi said shakily. "I don't hate you, okay? I don't hate you. I could never hate you. I just hate that you did that to me…" He choked up, as well. "Oh, Mario—my Bro. Please, don't cry…"
"I'm…" Mario managed through his sobs. "I'm sorry I stepped on your foot! I'm sorry I laughed about it! Never in a million years would I dream of doing something like that! Years ago, the two of us made a vow to always support each other, and I broke it! Some brother I turned out to be! Look at what happened because I couldn't keep my jealousy under control! God—I'm a horrible—horrible—brother…"
"N—no—M—Mario, you're—you're a good brother," said Luigi. "I love you so much—so much—and nothing will ever change that!"
Mario gasped for breath. "I don't know if you can ever forgive me," he said. "I don't think you should forgive me. But all I can say is this—I will find a way to make this right. Whatever it takes—I will make this up to you. I swear it."
"I know," Luigi whispered. "I know you will, Bro."
"Uh—as you all know, we still have to finish the doubles portion of the tournament," said Mario, "and Luigi and I are scheduled to play against Yoshi and DK. But after what happened—I don't think Luigi will want to be my doubles partner anymore. And I don't think anyone else will want to play alongside a bad sport like me. I guess—that leaves me no choice but to forfeit the match and have Yoshi and DK declared the winners by default. A bit of penance, if you will."
Luigi's eyes blazed as he leaped to his feet. "My bro never forfeits at anything!" he exclaimed. "And there's no way in Hell that I'm abandoning him now! You hear me, Mario?! I will not abandon you!"
"You're—you're still willing to be his doubles partner?" the bartender incredulously asked. "After what he did to you?"
"I don't care what comes between us," said Luigi. "We were opponents for a day, but we're brothers for life. Brothers—for better or worse. I'm playing that doubles match with him, and nobody here is gonna talk me out of it!"
"What about after?" queried the bartender.
"After—we'll just have to see," Luigi responded truthfully. "I'm gonna continue doing what I usually do to get this completely out of my system, and then the two of us are gonna sit down and talk it over. If I hold this against him for the rest of my life, then I could put the MK's future at risk. We're the only two people standing between the Toads and that turtle, so we can't let any petty arguments tear us apart. On the whole, I'm positive that Mario and I will get this sorted out. For now, though—he needs to think about what he's done, and I need to think about what should be done next."
The bartender pursed his lips. "Good man," he said finally.
On the TV, they all heard a reporter speak up.
"A source has told me that the final doubles match won't be held until a few days from now," said the reporter. "Maybe—that'll be time enough for you both to calm down."
The storm began scattering from Mario's face, and he dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. "Yeah—maybe," he said, hope creeping into his voice. "We'll just—we'll just have to see what happens. But still—my little outburst yesterday is something I'll have to live with for the rest of my days. I showed terrible judgement, and—if Luigi decides in his heart of hearts to give me a second chance, I promise that I'll never hurt him like that again!" He heaved a deep sigh. "Thank you. I will not be taking any questions at this time."
He turned and walked off the podium, followed by flashing cameras and chattering reporters.
The bartender turned the TV back down as a server placed a brownie sundae, oozing with chocolate and caramel sauces, in front of Luigi. As the man in green indulged in the dessert, he turned the press conference over and over in his mind. Mario's genuine remorse had radiated through the TV screen, and there had been so much pain and regret in his voice as he delivered his mea culpa. However, there was still a lot of emotion to sift through, and while Luigi was optimistic that he'd forgive his bro, there was no way he could forget his actions yesterday.
Even so, he felt infinitesimally better than when he first walked into the restaurant. The lunch had done its job, and Luigi was ready to re-examine the incident. Maybe Mario didn't mean to step on his foot like that. Maybe Luigi let his imagination spin out of control. Maybe—
Luigi shook his head. He wanted to think about the incident, not make excuses for his brother. After finishing his dessert, he thanked the staff for their courteous service, waved goodbye to Opal, Skye and her family and departed the restaurant.
…
Later that afternoon, Luigi was back in his room, wearing only a pair of royal blue leggings, socks, gloves and his signature green cap, his stereo blaring at max volume and playing his favorite Eurodance tunes, dancing energetically and seeking to dispel the myriad of emotions swirling inside of him. After the press conference, he was torn. He wanted to call Mario and reassure him that everything would be okay, but at the same time, the fact that Mario had laughed while stepping on his foot really got under his skin. Perhaps the hurt would never go away, just like Mario's guilt. But give it a few days, and everything would click back into place. That much was certain.
He danced and sweated away the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening. Just as the sun dipped into the horizon, Luigi's phone rang, and he paused his music to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hey, sweetie!" chirped Daisy. "Just checking up on you."
"Thanks, Daisy," said Luigi. "I'm feeling a bit better, though. Did you watch the press conference?"
"I sure did—and I'm not buying that BS for a second!"
"Daisy…"
"You need to ditch that ungrateful p—ck, and fast!" Daisy hotly went on. "Who's to say he won't do something like that again? A brother like that is only gonna bring you more heartache!"
"Daisy—I could feel his remorse from where I sat. He even paid for my lunch and showed humility by offering to forfeit the doubles match. And he didn't try to excuse what he did."
"And just like that—everything's okay again? What is this, a movie?" Daisy was beside herself. "I've got a mind to gather up some friends, get some torches and pitchforks, and…"
Ultimately, however, cooler heads prevailed.
"I can handle my bro," said Luigi. "The two of us will play that doubles match, and then we'll work things out. In the meantime, don't do anything I wouldn't do, okay?"
Daisy huffed. "Okay—I'll try."
"Don't try—do. I love you, Daisy."
"I love you, too, Luigi."
The call ended, and Luigi turned his music back up and resumed dancing.
It was well after midnight when exhaustion finally set in. Luigi broke down his body to one last song, and then he ejected the CD and put it away before turning off his stereo. After jumping into a relaxing shower, he fixed himself some eggplant parmigiana, poured himself some sweet wine and settled back on his bed to eat it.
The phone rang.
"Hello?" answered Luigi.
"Did I wake you?" asked Mario.
"No—I'm just having dinner," replied Luigi.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah—are you okay?"
"No—I—I feel horrible over what I've done. You probably don't want anything to do with me anymore, which is why I chose to forfeit the doubles match."
"Don't—do that," said Luigi.
"Wh—what do you mean?"
"We started the doubles round together, and we're gonna finish it together," said Luigi, his voice thick with resolve. "I won't abandon you, Bro. And I don't hate you."
"You—you don't?"
"No. I'll never hate you."
"Not even after what I've done and said?"
"No, Mario. I'm hurt, angry and upset right now, but I could never hate you."
Mario laughed in relief. "Luigi—oh, Luigi—my lil' bro…"
"Tomorrow, I want you call another press conference and tell them that the final doubles match is back on," said Luigi. "We'll face off against DK and Yoshi together, and then we'll go from there. Does that sound like a plan?"
"Yes. Yes, it does."
"And here's another thing. You didn't traumatize me that night nearly three years ago. It was my choice to get you out of there. My choice alone. I may have periodic nightmares, and I may require God-knows-how many years of therapy—but it was worth it. I'll do it again if I have to, just to hold you in my arms."
"I still feel guilty, you know. You took one Inferno of a beating to rescue me. You were battered and burned and bleeding and crying…"
"I was crying because I was happy. Happy that I'd gotten to you in time. And if anything—I should take some responsibility because I fell for that trick in the first place. I called you and told you to meet me there and…" He took several deep breaths.
"I can never stop telling you how sorry I am, Luigi," said Mario. "What's it gonna take for you to forgive me?"
"We'll worry about that after the doubles match," said Luigi. "But one thing's for certain—I love you, Mario. More than anything and anyone in the world. And no matter what comes between us, we're all here for you, Bro. Always…"
"Always," Mario softly repeated. "Okeydokey. I feel a bit better now."
"So do I."
"Night-night."
"Night-night."
Luigi hung up the phone, swiped at his eyes and ate the last of his dinner. Then, he spent ninety minutes relaxing with some soft rock tunes playing on his stereo and his lights dimmed. His eyelids drooped, and he gave a soft yawned. Finally, he turned his lights off completely, turned off his music and snuggled into bed.
He slept more pleasantly that night.
Please R&R.