Chapter Text
Mario wakes within a dream. He’s in his childhood bed, in his childhood bedroom, and the room seems darker than normal. Its corners are so pitch black they seem to go on forever, static-y darkness that seems to move the longer one stares into it. The room is also blanketed in an eerie thick fog that glows a luminescent green. The fog, like the shifting darkness, also seems to have a mind of its own, moving in eddies and flows. It parts for Mario as he stands from bed, dressed in the pajamas he remembers going to bed in. A few steps forward reveals that Luigi’s old bed is empty and made, as if it’s never been occupied. So Mario moves to the closed door instead, finding the doorknob with almost twenty years of muscle memory.
His gasp of shock and fear, along with his stumbling feet, as he jolts back, bumping his back to the doorjamb, is disruptively loud in the absolute silence of the dream world. There, hovering just outside the door, fist extended as if to knock, mouth open as if to call for him, is a ghostlike version of his mother, glowing pink from within and translucent, her legs fading into a wisp-like tail.
"Mama?” Mario breathes into the darkness, and it’s only then that he realizes he’s seven all over again, his voice tiny and trembling, his mother seeming so tall.
Considering her frozen posture, Mario is unsurprised when she doesn’t respond. He timidly steps around her, scooting along, weirdly scared to come into contact with her. Hoping again that this is all a dream, Mario worries what would happen if the spectral copy of his mother were to wake.
Little Mario wanders this dark and desolate version of his childhood home with small, echoing steps, his heart pounding so loudly, the seven-year-old is sure it’s audible. The borders of each room are almost nonexistent, yawning into endless darkness instead, the glowing fog barely illuminating anything. Mario finds the similar spectral form of his father in the kitchen, sitting entirely still and unaware at their kitchen table, glowing navy blue. Sitting with him are grandma, Uncle Tony, and Aunt Maria, all similarly ghost-like, colored colors Mario’s little mind can’t unpack at the moment. He finds Grandpa in the living room, sitting in an armchair in front of a static-ridden TV, its glow the brightest source of light Mario has encountered so far.
Mario has yet to find Luigi. So he keeps looking. He checks bedrooms, bathrooms, even the garage. As he searches, Mario’s nausea grows, his tiny, fisted hands shaking terribly. There is one place left to look. His stomach seems to descend all the way there on its own, his fear almost mind-numbing.
The basement is forbidden.
When he opens the door to the basement, his eyes widen as he spies the lone bare bulb growing brightly at the foot of the stairs. They creak loudly underneath him.
“Weegee?” He calls into the darkness of the room, and there is no answer.
Each step further into the basement seems to stretch for miles, Mario’s fear is so loud. He’s started to cry, but is unsure why. The fog down here seems to glow brighter, and move faster.
A low, muted groan echoes through the basement, and Mario breaks into a run.
“Weegee?!” He screams, and he thinks he hears an answering laugh, low and cruel.
And suddenly, the fog shifts red, casting the room in a bloody glow. At the fog's epicenter is a ghost, sitting in a chair. Even sitting, he seems so massively huge, towering over Mario, who is frozen with fear.
Uncle Arthur smiles, his blank eyes like glowing coals, his form consisting of swirling blackness. His massive hands rest on his broad thighs, his knees spread. This ghost has legs, and between them, between his shoe-clad feet, is a cage. A dog’s kennel. And inside, entirely whole and seeming alive, all limbs and pale, bruised flesh, is Luigi.
Tiny, seven year-old-Luigi, his humongous aquamarine eyes dull and distant, unfocused. As if empty inside. He sits naked, knees to his chest, his matchstick arms wrapped around himself protectively. Mario, speechless, forces his hand and wrist between the thin bars, straining to reach his twin—
“You tryna take his place, coraggioso piccolo Mario? What a good fratellone you are!”
Mario wakes again with a half-choked cry, sitting bolt-upright in bed, his heart beating out of his chest. He pants hard, great heaving gasps, as his eyes wildly scan the familiar, sunlit features of his room. The room he had picked when he and Luigi first moved into this apartment almost five years ago, on their nineteenth birthday.
He listens to the sounds of the bustling city outside his bedroom window and starts counting to ten, over and over, willing himself to calm down, willing his hands to quit shaking.
“What the fuck?” He eventually mutters, scrubbing his face with his hands, pressing his clammy palms to his eyes.
Behind his eyelids, the image of his seven-year-old baby brother lingers, silent and staring at the feet of Uncle Arthur.
With sudden, intense urgency triggered by the roiling in his stomach, Mario leaps from bed, sprinting down the hall to the bathroom, where his knees meet the cool tile floor, his hands finding the toilet’s rim. He barely has time to reconcile it’s happening as the vomit forces its way up his throat and out his mouth, coming out his nose. He thinks of the man-sized, hand-shaped bruises wrapped around little Luigi’s upper arms and thighs and vomits harder.
“Mar? You okay?” A quiet, timid voice floats from the doorway, and Mario wills himself to stop crying.
He’s always been the strong one, after all.
He hears Luigi’s sock-clad feet pad across tile. He startles, and then relaxes, as Luigi’s achingly familiar hand slips into his hair, rubbing his scalp comfortingly.
“What huh-happened, big bro? Did you have a nuh-nuh-nightmare?”
Mario can only nod before another heave begins. Luigi hums in sympathy, his hand slipping down Mario’s back to rub in firm, comforting circles.
“Oh, Mar, andrà tutto bene. It’s over now. I’m here, and everything will be—”
“Okay, as long as we’re together.” Mario finishes, his voice thick and rough.
Luigi helps him to his feet, moves him with gentle hands to the sink. Mario swishes his mouth clean as Luigi wets a washcloth, pressing the cold, damp fabric to Mario’s temples, his forehead, cooling his burning cheeks. Mario does his best not to meet his little brother’s eyes during this whole process, worried that Luigi’s tender, gentle ministrations may bring him to tears all over again.
“C’mon, let’s go get you cozy again. You can watch me fuh-finish this level if you like, and then I’ll make us lunch, okay? Your tuh-tummy should be settled by then, I huh-hope.”
Luigi leads his upset older brother to his room, Mario’s hand rough and warm in his. He settles once again in his pillow-nest and pats the cushions beside himself, smiling and humming as Mario obediently sits beside him. Mario sighs, as he tucks himself against his brother’s side, safe and warm. His eyes follow Luigi as he settles back into his game, his hands once again finding the NES controller, as well as the now-unlit joint resting in an ashtray on the floor between Luigi’s mound of pillows and his small, slightly grainy old box TV.
“Decided to wake-and-bake, Weeg? Isn’t it a bit early?”
“It’s almost nuh-noon, Mar. I’ve been up for hours. I’m kinda stuh-stuh-stuck on this dungeon. Maybe you can help me.”
Mario watches Luigi bring the joint to his mouth, filter between lips, his cheeks hollowing out as he lights it and takes a drag. Thick, heady-smelling smoke wisps from his little brother’s nose, the corners of his mouth. Mario smiles, his mouth and throat feeling strangely tight and dry, as he watches Luigi’s pretty blue eyes glaze over, the whites turning pinker with each drag he takes. He watches that familiar, slightly-vacant smile bloom across Luigi’s face and ignores the painful ache in his chest.
In the back of his mind, Mario wonders how much Luigi remembers.
When Luigi offers him the joint with a wordless little gesture of the joint between his slender fingers, Mario doesn’t hesitate to take it. He breathes in, coughing roughly on his exhale, Luigi patting his back. It’s good though, perfect even, as Mario’s mind almost instantly softens at the edges, quieting, a spacy haze slowly but surely blanketing his thoughts..
“Good?”
“Yeah. Better already, Lu. What would I do without you?”
Luigi’s smile captures whatever air is left in Mario’s lungs. But Mario can’t bring himself to mind.
The twins spend the next hour or so like this, stoned and snuggled side by side in the gigantic pile of pillows that takes up most of the floor of Luigi’s bedroom. Their twin blue-eyed gazes, soft and glassy, are enraptured by the bright colors of the game. Luigi sways gently to the 8-bit music, occasionally humming along.
“So much effort in saving the princess.” He mumbles.
“I’d imagine there always is, Lu. I doubt saving a princess is easy.”
Luigi finally enters the boss room, and for the next ten or so minutes, Mario is silent and slightly breathless watching his little brother beat the hulking, tusked blue-toned pig with detached precision. The only sound in the room is the practiced little clicks and taps of Luigi’s fingers on buttons and the impassioned, tense boss music ringing tinny from the TV’s speakers.
“That’s-a my fratellino! Awesome and strong!” Mario exclaims, lightly punching Luigi’s shoulder as the pig boss finally falls dead in a roiling cloud of purple smoke.
Luigi just smiles shyly, his eyes flitting away to avoid Mario’s proud stare. He pauses the game and stands, stumbling slightly, stretching his arms above his head, his head tilting back with a groan. Mario looks away from the long, slender line of his little brother’s body, purposely ignores the pale sliver of skin that winks at him as Luigi’s shirt rides up, the soft dark curls descending from his twin’s navel to travel underneath the waistband of his white-and-green-striped boxers.
That voice that’s always in Mario’s head says something, but Mario doesn’t catch it, its words addled and quiet under the stoned haze.
“Gonna go make lunch.” Luigi mumbles, stepping over Mario’s lap and billy-goating his way over several pillows before reaching the door.
Mario piddles around with the game for a few distracted minutes before standing, stretching himself before padding out into the hallway. Luigi’s distant, cheery humming grows louder the further Mario goes down the hallway. He eventually catches sight of his little brother at the island-counter in their kitchen, the sleeves of his forest-green hoodie pushed up his arms, elbow deep in a big glass bowl of dough.
“Whatcha makin’, Lu?”
“Calzone.” Luigi replies quietly, smiling gently as he kneads the dough into a big, smooth ball. “I started the dough when I got up this morning.”
“Looks and sounds perfetto, fratellino!”
“It is. Perfect, I mean. The duh-dough.” Luigi stammers just slightly, but he’s smiling contentedly, a blush riding high on his face.
“Everrrything my little brother cooks is perfect! It’s-ah his talento, I think.” Mario praises in a sing-song-y voice, grinning, resting his hip on the counter to watch as Luigi turns the dough out onto his floured work surface.
Luigi’s blush deepens, but so does his smile. He buries slender hands in a massive porcelain jar of flour. They come out dusty and white-cast, sure and steady as they coat the round, perfect surface of the not-quite-yet bread. Luigi uses the side of his hand to expertly split the dough from a full moon to two halves.
“Could you make cuh-coffee?” He murmurs, and Mario complies in an instant.
The sound of the coffee grinder is homey, and its smell even better. Mario tamps the espresso down expertly into their well-loved Moka pot, gleaming in the low light of the kitchen. He imagines Lu scrubbing it, pink-padded fingers and steel wool, and mindfully puts just as much care into starting the espresso brewing. While by the stove, he stirs the pot of rich tomato sauce simmering away, a wooden spoon resting on a little porcelain plate.
The brothers work side by side then, ladling sauce onto dough, sprinkling cheese, precisely-placed toppings. Mario asks Luigi to fold and seal his calzone, trusting his brother’s skill far more than his own. They drink espresso—Mario’s black in a tiny white cup, Luigi’s with cream and a hopeless amount of sugar in a checkered coffee mug—as the calzones bake. Mario reads aloud from the paper, as Luigi stares, always just slightly vacant, out of their big bay window, absentmindedly petting the cat curled up in his lap. Capone, with his tuxedo fur and catfish-long whiskers, stares up at Luigi lovingly.
Mario’s nightmare, the shadow of what “home” used to mean for them, is forgotten in the gentle domesticity of their new life together.
Later, after the sun has long set, Luigi finds Mario reading at the bay window, Capone snuggled similarly in his older brother’s lap.
“Hey, Lu.” Mario acknowledges, and waits patiently for his brother, shyly staring at the floor, to communicate with him.
“I, uh…there’s a huh-house show tonight. At Destiny’s? Low Shoulder is playing, it’s their luh-last show before they go on tuh-tour.”
“You wanna go?” Mario asks, already scooping up Capone in big tan hands, pouring the disgruntled feline to the floor.
“Well yuh-yeah,” Luigi stammers, both of his hands out in front of him, as if in surrender, “buh-but you don’t have to go—”
“Of course I want to, Weeg! As if I’d rather be here alone than wherever you are.”
Luigi's answering smile is small and shy and painfully sweet. Mario stands, gently clasping the taller man’s shoulder as he passes.
The water is cold after Luigi gets out of the shower, but Mario doesn’t mind. After, Mario stands in the privacy of his room, toweling his hair dry, the radio playing quietly. He dresses slowly, taking his time as the smell of weed wafts from down the hallway. Leave it to Luigi to pregame before the function. He finds Luigi sitting on his bed in his room, cartoons on the TV as Luigi pulls on his tan work boots, lacing them slowly with clumsy fingers.
“Here, Lu.” Mario goes to his knees and takes over, his lacing neater and tighter, perfect little double-knot bows with Luigi’s green socks peeking from underneath.
Luigi thanks him shyly and continues packing the tiny black bag resting in his lap, a small canvas shoulder bag shaped like a fanny pack, but with a shorter strap, a keychain of a plush little ghost wearing a crown dangling from it. Inside goes Luigi’s supplies—a jar of bud, his mushroom-shaped grinder, his green hemp rolling papers. His lighter, bright pink and patterned with kittens chasing butterflies.
“Pretty gay of you,” Mario had said when Luigi had bought it at the gas station, and his little brother had just laughed.
Luigi also packs two Stellas— just in case —and his GameBoy (just in case), along with his phone, a beat up black screen with a slide-out keyboard, ringed in neon green.
The walk to Destiny Del Vecchio’s house is chillier than Mario had anticipated, and he wishes he’d thought to wear a sweater like Luigi had, the soft green knit belling out baggily over his little brother’s black jean cutoff shorts. The long sleeves are folded over Luigi’s hands, his little bag on his shoulder. Tiny silver hoops flash in his baby brother’s ears as they pass under a streetlight, a simple silver chain around Luigi’s neck, and Mario’s stomach flips.
He’s dressed up. Why?
“You look wuh-wuh-weird wearing your wuh-work hat, Mar.”
Mario self-consciously touches the brim of his red, M-emblazoned cap. He’s wearing his work overalls too, but his usual shirt is replaced with a red tank top, his muscles proudly on display.
Damn, it is chilly out tonight.
“It would’na been weird if you’d worn yours, Lu.”
Luigi just shrugs.
The party is in full swing when they get there, people spilling out the front doors of the Del Vecchio mansion and all the way down the wide marble steps, gathered in groups and pairs in the lawn, a bonfire glowing brightly off to the side, surrounded by people holding beers. Several people greet the Mario Brothers as they pass, the older, shorter one waving and smiling brightly, greeting them in reply. His taller younger brother trails behind him, his head tilted down, his face flushed. As the crowd gets denser, the further up the stairs they go, Mario feels one of Luigi’s hands wrap around one of his overall straps, his little brother very close at his back, hovering just behind and slightly over Mario’s shoulder.
Mario is fully aware that Luigi would not have gone without him.
The brothers weasel their way inside of the party, making an almost immediate left once inside into the Del Vecchio’s massive, marble-and-granite kitchen. The counters are a feast of empty liquor bottles, red Solo cups, and half-empty boxes of Brooklyn-style pizza. Luigi quietly makes himself and his brother rum-and-Cokes while Mario mingles, waving and smiling.
“How’s the plumbing trade going for the Super Mario Brothers?”
“Lucrative!” Mario hollers, puffing up proudly as laughter scatters through their immediate vicinity.
Drinks secured, the brothers pick their way through the crowd and into the main room. Everything vibrates just slightly, the floor shaking as bass booms from the massive speakers in the corner of the room. The crowd is denser near the stage, all of them jumping, yelling with closed eyes and open mouths, heads banging in time.
“Love the Sleigh Bells.” Luigi sighs dreamily.
“You’ve always loved riot girl shit. Wanna move closer?”
Mario speaks into Luigi’s ear directly, so his little brother can hear him. He feels rather than sees Luigi’s head shake, his soft skin and hair on Mario’s face. The older brother steps back and scans the room before grabbing Luigi’s arm and dragging him gently over to where he spies Destiny, looking gorgeous and haunting as always in her trad goth makeup and Victorian mourning apparel. Mario tells her as much in a low-pitched yell as soon as they’re in earshot, and Destiny just beams, giving the brothers a slow twirl to show off her billowing skirt, her heeled boots and fishnets. There’s a reason Luigi had initially thought he had a crush on Destiny in high school, and there’s a reason why that crush built itself into a solid friendship over the last few years. Destiny is radiantly herself, radically kind and unquestionably cool, and Luigi (and Mario, if he’s honest) has always admired her for this.
“Bangin’ party as always, Des.”
“Thanks Mario! Luigi, how you doin’ babe?”
Luigi just beams back at her and offers two thumbs up.
The three of them stand close together, sipping their drinks and head-bobbing, as the Sleigh Bells pound through the room. As the band begins their top-rated song, Luigi’s favorite, Mario suddenly finds Luigi’s now-empty cup in his hand as his buzzed brother begins to firmly head bang along to the music. Destiny’s laugh is like bells, ringing through the crowd as she joins in, and suddenly the crowd—Luigi included, Mario’s chest squeezes, his face warm—is screaming along.
“Wasted all day killing all the Capulets!”
Destiny and Luigi dance and scream along to the entire track, Mario standing to the side, slightly awkward, two empty cups stacked in one hand. Someone passes him a joint, and Mario shrugs and takes a drag. Ironically, this isn’t his scene. It’s loud, and crowded—it wouldn’t usually be Luigi’s cup of tea either, except the music absolves all discomfort. Luigi has always found absolute peace and joy in booming bass, in the high energy of all these moving people having a great time, in the ecstatic roar of their combined voices, not-quite drowned out by the music.
The song finishes, and Luigi turns to Mario immediately. His aqua eyes practically glow with excitement, his chest heaving, his face red and beaming with a wide grin.
Mario offers the still-lit joint to his brother, watching how Luigi’s eyes gleam even brighter. Destiny and Lu share it, taking big deep drags, shotgunning smoke into each other’s faces, mouths open, and Mario tamps down the angry swell of jealousy in his gut. He’s just about to excuse himself to get more booze when Destiny’s brother Joe walks up to them, hollering an arrogant hey bros! as he loops a loose arm over his sister’s shoulders.
Destiny and Joe are as different from each other as Mario and Luigi are similar. While Destiny has always been an edgy, arts-minded girl, her brother is the definition of masculinity—big and muscled and top player on every sports team their highschool had to offer. Even now, Joe is a coach for the local college football team. And even now, Joe is clad in gym shorts, a muscle tee, and smells quite strongly of sweat and body smell.
Joe plucks the joint out of Luigi’s hands, taking a drag, blowing smoke in Mario’s little brother’s face.
“Enjoying the show, little Lou-ee-gay?”
Mario snarls at the mean pronunciation of his brother’s name, but Luigi doesn’t seem to notice, soft and stoned and nodding earnestly up at Joe. Anger rising, Mario forces himself to leave so he doesn’t start something Luigi wouldn’t want him to finish. He goes back to the kitchen to fix two more drinks. But when he comes back, he finds Destiny alone, gently swaying to filler music as the next band begins setting up their equipment.
“Where’d Luigi go?”
“Not sure! Bathroom I think? Anyway, Rio, I wanted to introduce you—”
Destiny proceeds to introduce Mario to some girl—she is pretty, with her blonde hair and her kitten-pink dress and matching heels—but Mario can only offer the occasional oh wow, that's-ah great, as he scans the room, looking for Luigi.
“You party people ready to rock?! ” The lead singer of Low Shoulder shouts into the mic, some reedy elder-emo with raccoon eyeliner.
Mario realizes suddenly that Luigi is about to miss his favorite band’s set. He abandons their drinks on some random table and works his way through the gathering, growing crowd out of the main room and into the hallway. He glances quickly in all the downstairs rooms, his worry and annoyance growing as Luigi is nowhere to be found. He even goes upstairs, stumbling across several couples in various stages of undressed fumblings and third-or-fourth bases. He grimaces, his anger reaching boiling pitch at these thoughtless public displays of “affection”.
He claps his hand on his forehead when it dawns on him where he should have checked first—the stoner den, downstairs. He stands in the doorway, scanning the dim, smoke-hazed basement of the Del Vecchio’s, people lounging and talking quietly on couches and bean bags, several people playing a fighting game on their massive in-wall TV.
But Luigi isn’t there either.
“Just where the fuck is he?” Mario mutters to himself as he trudges upstairs, his anger settling deeper into concern.
He realizes his hands are shaking. With a sigh, he pats his front overall pocket, relieved to find his cigarettes and lighter there. With the foyer basically empty now, Mario gets outside easily, stepping into the cool summer night air. He begins to calm almost instantly, under the light of the moon, listening to the soft nighttime drone of bugs and the distant interstate.
Mario walks through the front lawn into the Del Vecchio’s gated back lawn, putting his back to some artfully-manicured hedge.
“Rich people.” He mutters, sighing as he lights himself a cigarette.
The nicotine does wonders to clear his anxious mind, settles the discontented unease roiling low in his stomach. It always feels like this, being away from his little brother for more than ten minutes. He’s never really learned how to stomach Luigi being out of his line of sight in any capacity. Mario focuses on minimizing this feeling as he takes mindful, deep drags of his cig, watching the smoke curl up to a velvety sky, the stars hidden in the orange-ish haze cast by the city. Mario and Luigi used to love counting the stars out at the lake, the cabin in the country shared by the Mario family.
But Mario doesn’t want to think about that place.
He’s just pulling out his phone to text Luigi and ask where the fuck he is, and if they can leave—they are missing Low Shoulder, after all—when he hears it. A low, slick sort of sound, followed by a muffled groan.
Ahh fuck. Shit. Mario mentally bemoans, as he peaks around the hedge, already cringing, knowing he’s gonna spy some couple literally fucking on the other side of—
Mario’s eyes go comically wide, his mouth falling open, his cellphone tumbling, silently forgotten, into the plush, striped lawn. That voice that’s always in the back of Mario’s mind is screaming now, impossible to ignore, but there are no words, as Mario’s gaze drinks up every single detail of what’s happening, even as he fails to comprehend it at all.
Joe Del Vecchio has his back up against the hedge, his head thrown back, blond curls tugging in twigs. He’s struggling to stay quiet, his mouth pinched, his face scrunched, as he thrusts into Luigi’s mouth. Mario can hear the sound of the suction from here, can unwillingly imagine how delicious it is—as he stares at his beloved fratellino on his knees in the grass, his mouth pink and wet and open wide, drool ribboning slowly from swollen lips. Mario winces as Luigi gags wetly, his gut dropping as Joe’s broad, tanned hand finds its way into Lu’s soft, glossy hair, forcing his cock—just as girthy and long as Joe is tall and thick—further into the twin’s glorious mouth.
Luigi whimpers in response, his aquamarine eyes fluttering shyly, glazed with hesitant lust, as he stares up from the ground into Joe’s face. One of Luigi’s hands is a firm ring around the base of Joe’s dick, stroking whatever he can’t fit into his mouth, his other hand pressed firmly, palm down, at the little bulge in his shorts, as if willing his own erection away.
Mario has just started moving to intervene—though he has no idea what he’s actually gonna do —when Joe speeds up, quite actively fucking Luigi’s face now. The lewd slapping sound of it, along with Lu’s muffled whimpers and gags, echo across the empty lawn.
Assolutamente no—mio Dio— Mario’s only coherent thought so far, a snarl, as he feels himself swelling in his overalls.
Joe groans loudly and suddenly, startling Mario enough to freeze him. He watches, his mind going blank with rage, fists clenched as Joe takes Luigi’s head in both of his massive hands, thrusting forward as deep as he can and going still, holding the twin in place as he cums. Lu seems to be struggling to breathe, his nostrils flaring, his eyes rolling back just slightly, tears rolling down his cheeks. His hands are wrapped around Joe’s wrists, pushing weakly, quite obviously needing Joe to stop, needing air—
Everything goes so quiet, and seems to move in slow motion, as Mario’s fist comes in direct, bone-jarring contact with the underside of Joe Del Vecchio’s jaw. He gets the much, much larger man on the ground in seconds, straddles his barrel chest, and starts punching as hard as he can with both fists. Joe’s head snaps from side to side, blood spattering into green grass. Distantly, Mario can hear his little brother crying.
Andrà tutto bene, Weegee, this’ll only take a second, just hold on for me—
But Luigi can’t wait, having taken both of his older brother’s overall straps in his hands, yanking as hard as he can, desperately trying to pull Mario off of Joe Del Vecchio, who has gone unconscious under Mario’s split knuckles.
“Mario!! Mario please! Please, please stop—mio Dio—Mar! Mar stop, you’ll kill him!”
Mario finally snaps back to reality, the rage-induced red haze obscuring his vision clearing suddenly. His body sags, his fists dropping to Joe’s chest, as he stares down at the man’s face. It resembles lasagna.
Sound returns to Mario in full blast, and he can hear now with perfect clarity Luigi’s sobbing, hitching cries and wails, the pained, wheezy sound of his little brother hyperventilating.
“Lu?” Mario asks, his tone rough and concerned.
He stands, staggering up to his feet unsteadily. He’s surprised to find that he’s shaking, hard. And his hands hurt…badly. He finds Luigi sitting in the grass only a foot or so away, his face hidden in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably, his body shaking as he struggles to breath through a panic attack. It seems after he wasn’t strong enough to pull Mario off, his legs had given out, and he’d sat in the grass and watched.
“Lu?” Mario repeats, crouching down next to his little brother.
He gathers Luigi into his arms, already rubbing his back and arms in firm, smooth motions, trying to calm down the attack and get Luigi to start breathing normally again. Lu seems to be shaking to pieces, his tears seemingly never-ending, his beet-red, fever-hot face pressed into the side of Mario’s neck, not calming down in the slightest. So Mario moves his brother with a gentle hand in his hair and a hand under his chin, pressing his forhead to Lu's firmly, their gazes meeting and holding. And it works like a charm, as it always does, Lu's breathing beginning to slow as a soft half-smile begins to blossom on his face.
They sit like this for several long moments before the back door of the Del Vecchio mansion opens, Destiny Del Vecchio herself stepping through, mere seconds away from discovering the unconscious, smashed up, barely-breathing body of her older brother.
In a blink of an eye, the Mario Brothers are up and running, through the grass, out the gate, onto the sidewalk, and down the street. They’re a full block away and out of sight when they both hear Destiny’s scream of horror echo through the night.
“Mar, stop!” Luigi pleads, trying to plant his feet, trying to tug Mario’s vice-like grip off of his wrist.
But Mario doesn’t seem to register him at all, running as fast as he can, dragging his little brother behind him the whole time, covering several blocks in minutes.
“Mariooo!” Luigi cries loudly before dissolving into a coughing fit.
Mario once again comes back inside his own head and pulls Luigi into an alley where they can hide and rest, Luigi panting and half-crouched, his hands braced on his thighs as he takes great big struggling breaths. Mario catches his own breath, as he listens to the faint sound of yelling echo from down the street. Faintly, a siren starts up in the distance. Mario listens to the wail of the ambulance grow slowly but surely closer as he fumbles with his cigarettes, trying and failing to light one.
“Why did you do that, Mar?!” Luigi yells, and Mario grimaces.
“I dunno, Lu, I had to—”
“No, no you didn’t—”
“Well I did!” Mario shouts.
Both brothers flinch, his yell so much louder and angrier than Luigi’s. Mario’s face warps further into a snarl as his little brother backs away from him, his shoulders hunched, his outstretched hands trembling.
Cowering away from him, just like—
“I just couldn’t let him do that to you, Lu—”
“Do what, Mario?”
“Fucking— ugh, cazzo—” Mario pinches the bridge of his nose, his voice shaking with rage, unable to even put into words what Luigi had done.
“But I wanted him to, Mar!” Luigi cries, still holding his hands up in surrender, and Mario snaps.
He grabs his little brother up with both hands in the front of Lu’s soft green sweater, slamming him into the brick alley wall, holding Luigi up above his own head. Luigi stares down at his big brother in horror, tears dripping steadily from his chin, his lower lip quivering. He goes still, eerily still—it’s called a fawn reflex, Mario and Luigi had learned in joint therapy—both of his thin hands resting over Mario’s clenched fists, his bloody split knuckles.
“Shut up Lu, stai zitto, cazzo! I don’t—ugh, I don’t want to...to know— ”
Mario’s voice breaks, and Luigi’s face twists in sympathy.
“Buh-But I—”
“Ho detto stai zitto, cazzo, Luigi!”
Mario slams his little brother up against the wall one last time before letting go, stepping away, both of his hands pressed to his own head, as if trying to hold his skull together by force. He watches through narrowing tunnel vision as Luigi falls to the ground, grass-stained knees busting on asphalt. He can see Luigi looking up at him, his tear-filled blue eyes wide with timid concern.
“Muh-Muh-Mah-Mario?” Luigi stammers with great effort. “Are you oh-okay?”
Mario shakes his head with a grunt, his teeth grit. That voice in his head—the voice that has always sounded just like Uncle Arthur—has never been louder. The rage is a physical presence, the bitterness, that feeling of unease, of having been wronged—
“Are you...juh-juh-jealous, Mah-Mario?”
Luigi’s voice is so quiet that Mario is sure at first that he’d misheard him, even as his baby brother shuffles forward across the ground, on his knees between Mario’s feet, where Mario is slumped with his back to the wall. Confusion begins to edge out his anger, uncomprehending, his mental faculties painfully slow as Lu’s trembling fingers reach up to unclip Mario’s suspenders. Mario has no idea what’s even happening until he feels Lu’s fingers slipping under the waistband of his briefs.
“Merda! Lu? Lu, che cazzo—!”
“You were...are. Jealous.” Luigi mumbles, his gaze downcast, his eyes shadowed and unreadable under his thick lashes.
“I—what—uhh—”
Mario’s mind goes absolutely still and quiet for the first time he can ever remember. No thoughts, a great big roaring blank, absolutely frozen (fawning) at the feeling of his little brother’s soft, slender hand wrapped firmly around his erection. Luigi gives his brother’s cock a few gentle, experimental squeezes and tugs, and Mario pants, blood beading from his white knuckles, his fists are clenched so hard.
“I’m s-sorry, Mario.” Luigi mumbles, his gaze still hidden.
The younger sibling leans forward, hocks wetly, a slow ribbon of warm drool drizzling along the length of Mario’s dick.
“Weeg—! ”
Mario grunts loudly in shock as Luigi pumps his already-weeping cock, smoothing a gentle palm along the wet, cherry-red mushroom head.
“Cazzo!”
Mario pants harshly, his knees turning to jelly the second his little brother’s warm, wet mouth is on him. His mind reels, half-formed words and exclamations escaping him as Lu’s cheeks hollow out and he sucks, the lewd sound of his beloved twin brother sucking him off so similar to the ones echoing in the silence of the Del Vecchio’s backyard.
His gaze too-bright and blurred, Mario looks down, accidentally locking eyes with his baby brother, his adoring gaze. He listens to the soft, breathy little moans and whimpers Luigi makes, muffled around his older brother’s thick cock. He fists his hands into his twin’s hair, just as soft as he’d imagined, and tugs shakily, as hard as he can, trying to pull him off, unable to warn him—
Mario cums after several measly seconds of being in his little brother’s mouth, and it startles him. Startles Mario, hard, but also startles his sweet, timid little brother, who, not expecting the sudden velocity of spend down his throat, jerks backward, Mario’s tugging grip helping pull him off just in time.
Just in time for thick ropes of opaque, off-white seed to land in streaks across Luigi’s face, striping his blushing cheeks, his damp mustache, one of his pretty blue eyes closing, cum clinging to his lashes.
“Luigi.” Mario breathes, his voice and hands and knees shaking in shocked pleasure, reeling from the blinding force of the orgasm his baby brother had wrung out of him.
“That was fast.” Luigi mumbles, giggling quietly, wiping at his own face with the sleeve of his sweater.
Mario drops to his knees in an instant and takes over, cleaning Luigi’s face of his own cum with frantic swiping motions.
“Merde, Weegee, I’m sorry—I’m s-so sorry—”
“Sei dispiaciuto?” Lu breathes.
Mario freezes again, as the twins stare at each other. Luigi’s eyes are dark, and heady, and laced with some haunting, tear-filled emotion Mario can’t even comprehend. Several long moments pass like this, both brothers on their knees in a dark alley, red-and-white emergency lights flashing faintly from down the street.
Luigi goes to stand and staggers, but Mario catches him, standing with Luigi’s elbows in each of his hands. The twins are silent and shaky, hands fumbling and uncoordinated as they get each other looking presentable again. Mario thinks he might pass out, as Luigi tucks his softening dick back in his briefs, helping him pull up his overalls and rebutton them. Luigi gives his own face one last scrub before ducking out of the alley, Mario following close behind. They start down the street at a slightly hurried pace, Luigi two steps ahead of Mario, his strides longer. Mario struggles to keep up, and gives up trying, watching Luigi’s back protectively as he roots around in his overall pocket again, finally procuring and lighting the cigarette he’d meant to smoke before he lost his temper, roughed up his baby brother, and had the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life while pressed up against the tender cheek and soft mustache of said brother.
Lu comes to a sudden stop, so sudden that Mario almost runs bodily into him. Mario is mid apology when Luigi interrupts.
“Can I hit that?” He asks, his voice quiet and soft, his gaze once again cast down shyly, his face still flushed.
Mario simply gives him the cigarette and procures another. Lu waits as he lights it before beginning to walk again. But this time, the brothers walk side by side, smoking in silence together. They only clear about half a block before Lu’s hand shyly and sneakily slips into Mario’s. Mario laces their fingers together and holds his little brother’s hand tightly. Mario is suddenly, viciously grateful that the street is empty, as they walk hand in hand. Like they used to, when they were kids.
“I’m so sorry, Weegee—”
“No, fratellone, I’m sorry. Really I am.”
“For what? What can you possibly be sorry for, Weegee, I fucking—”
Almost hit you, Mario was about to say.
“Everything.” Luigi breathes, and suddenly they are standing still, still holding hands and smoking, Mario looking up into the hurt, guilt-ridden gaze of his little brother.
“I’m sorry…” Lu’s voice drops to a whisper, his eyes flitting painfully away from Mario’s, seemingly unable to look at him. “I’m sorry I...duh-did that, with Joe. It was..ruh-ruh-wrong—”
“No, Weeg, it was wrong that I—”
“It should have been with you.” Luigi whispers. He pulls away, and Mario’s hand outstretches, as if to pull him back.
“It’s ah-always been-ah you, for me, Mario. La mia metà.”
Luigi’s confession echoes in the roaring cacophony of Mario’s mind, taking several long seconds to settle in and make any kind of legible sense. Speechless, he yanks Luigi back to him, wrapping his arms very, very tightly around his slightly taller brother, as if he can keep Luigi from shaking apart like he is. As if, if he can squeeze his little brother tightly enough, he can stem the bitter, pained tears and sobs wracking Luigi’s skinny body like an earthquake.