Create what makes you happy

this game means the world to me it was my very first rpg (I was a toddler at the time lmao) and it influenced my desire to learn to draw. so here I am, 25 years later, honoring it through fanart :')

as a bonus this is the initial sketch + mid-process

and! for those who have a bigger phone (longer?? taller????) I have a slightly extended version of this piece for lock screen use:

She’d worried at first that this was all a bit excessive. Why dedicate an entire night to training Mario in the art of taking it easy? Surely no one needed training for such a thing. However, Luigi insisted, and Peach was quickly understanding why.

Taking it easy wasn’t just difficult for Mario. It was agony. Deep, immeasurable agony.

He played the part of a martyr well, but Peach knew he wasn’t truly upset. The pouting, the indignation, the rebellion, it was nothing more than a game to him, confirmed by way of a furtive smirk.

“Now!” Luigi leaned against Mario’s shoulder, using his brother’s body as a makeshift kickstand. “You say you’re thirsty?”

“Yes. I’m thirsty.” Mario rolled his eyes and shrugged his twin off of him, but already his pout was failing, unveiling the smile beneath. “Will you please get me something to drink, bro?”

“There we go! Coffee? Black?”

“So hot it burns you just by looking at it.”

“Comin’ right up!”

Once Luigi was off the couch and in the kitchen, Mario sagged against the cushions, sending a good-natured (if weary) look Peach’s way. “How am I gonna survive this?”

"Surely the anesthesia will linger long enough for you to sleep through the boredom?" Peach steepled her fingers as she slouched in suit, albeit with a bit more poise.

"For two days, maybe. Max," he huffed, the gruffness betrayed by the gentle lilt of his accent. “I can’t even bathe the whole first week. My brain’s gonna go cuckoo!”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance." She twirled her finger in Mario's direction, invoking her magic by way of her heart and hands. "There's a number of trance-inducing spells we could try."

The soft blue glow was proving entrancing enough, bringing out flecks of turquoise and periwinkle from the well-worn denim tint of his irises.

“Mamma mia, you really are my hero, Princess!” His praise was theatrical, intentionally overblown, but the gratitude in his features was sincere.

As he waited for the coffee to finish brewing, Luigi joined them, and just as quickly, the bickering resumed.

“Ap ap ap! If we want the TV on or the channel changed, we ask, yeah?”

“The remote weighs nothing! I can do it myself!”

“Mah, sì.” The sarcasm dripping from Luigi's words was thick enough to be jarred and sold at the farmer's market. “I give you the remote. N-Next you say the fridge door and the coffee pot weigh nothing; you can do it yourself! Th-th-then you pour grease down the pipes just to give yourself something to do because you've been a plumber for ten years, it's been three whole days since you were cut open— you can do this yourself, too!"

“What kind of—” Mario looked to Peach with wide, mock-hurt eyes. “You’re gonna let him talk to me like this, Princess? You know I wouldn’t do that!”

In lieu of a response, Peach let her silence to speak for her. That was absolutely something she could see Mario trying.

“I’m so mistreated,” Mario sighed, raising his hands as though to petition the Stars before dragging them over his face. "My two favorite people, treating me like this? Ugh, ma dai, vi, non è giusto!”

Peach wanted to laugh at his theatrics. She wanted to blush and press her palms to her cheeks even more. She hadn't expected to hear such a declaration, not so bluntly, even from Mario.

His two favorite people.

Mario wasn’t what she would call shy, per se, but he wasn’t good at expressing his own feelings with any sort of sincerity. He was the sort who saw beauty and color everywhere he looked, found worthiness and goodness in everyone he met, and he had no trouble waxing lyrical about those things. But him? He was just a silly little plumber trying to live an honest life. Anything deeper than that, he buried. It felt so good to hear him confirm just how much she meant to him.

But her delight faded as he sat back up, grumbling in good humor and adjusting his sweatshirt a bit too meticulously.

To anyone else, his fidgets and tugs looked unsuspecting. Peach herself was too familiar not to recognize it. He wore a checkered flannel over a baggy hoodie, and that, she’d hoped, was all he’d found necessary for a casual night in.

But the pinching and pulling at an unseen third layer gave it away, despite how casual his actions were. He was still wearing his binder. Even here, in the comfort of his own home, he felt he had no choice but to hide himself.

“Right, Princess?”

Both Mario and Luigi looked to her in expectation; the younger of the twins had been the last to speak. Peach quickly agreed, so as not to betray her inattention, and prayed she made the right choice. Given Mario's sigh of exasperation and Luigi's litany of "Told you! Told you so!", she supposed she'd made a good call.

Thankfully, Mario’s entire morning and afternoon were unaccounted for, and he seemed perfectly comfortable as he bickered with his twin. Peach could easily convince herself he’d only put his binder on before she arrived. “It’s perfectly safe as long as I don’t overdo it!”, he’d assured her months earlier, when she’d first learned about that secret layer, months before The Incident. “The trick is just… not overdoing it.”

Peach could infer that pressing excess breast tissue down into something resembling a flatter chest was painful, or at least uncomfortable. She’d tried it herself, in secret, using a shirt meant for the much smaller and flatter body of a Toad, and she didn’t last five minutes before ripping it off. (Quite literally. She’d repaid Toadette with a replacement plus an entire matching wardrobe.) Even so, she hadn’t been sure what exactly “overdoing it” entailed.

Nine weeks ago, she’d found out.

The signs were subtle at first. She'd invited Mario to share lunch with her as thanks for his services that morning, which he happily accepted. As their lunch segued into a leisurely stroll, he began to fidget. He was restless by nature. She hadn’t been too worried. But the lower the sun sank, the more tense he became; his walk began to slow, his normally ruddy complexion began to blanch, his thoughts took longer to voice, and that voice became increasingly feeble. He was alright though, he assured her, hooking his fingers into his shirt collar and pulling it away from his neck for the hundredth time. He just hadn’t slept much the night before, he’d hit the sack early tonight, he’d be fine. Peach, though concerned, took him at his word.

That was when he started gasping for breath— deeply, quietly, every sixth inhale, all the while telling her he was okay. Then his steps started to land heavily and clumsily, staggering into her while slurring his reassurances. All was good, he managed to choke out. Just a bit too warm, just needed to get out of the sun for a bit.

By that point, she'd had enough of the act. They were going straight to the medical bay, whether he wanted to or not.

They never made it that far. Three steps beyond the entryway, Mario’s knees buckled, and he collapsed to the marble floor with a heavy thud!.

They’d entered through a quiet back hallway, and for that Peach was grateful, otherwise he would have immediately been crowded by hoards of raucous and panicked Toads. One panicked princess was hopefully a bit less overstimulating.

All things considered, he recovered quickly, though he was still disoriented. He muttered a half-intelligible question about the time as Peach helped him back to his feet. Five or six in the evening, she estimated.

“My…” Mario took as deep a breath as he could manage to gulp down. “B-binder. My binder! It's been on since… since…" He wasn’t able to calculate the exact time frame at that moment (thirteen hours, he would tell her the following day. He’d worn his binder for thirteen hours straight), but Peach understood.

He'd shown her one of the three binders in his rotation months ago, allowing her to feel the stiff fabric as he explained its purpose, its drawbacks, and why he happily suffered through the discomfort anyway. It didn't take a genius to guess that a restrictive garment, worn far longer than it was made to wear, no longer allowed the lungs to expand as they should.

In short, he was suffocating.

“Stars’ sakes, take it off, then!”

It was so simple, so straightforward a solution. She would turn to let him undress in privacy, and once he was freed and redressed, he could rest here in the safety of the castle for as long as he needed. So why did his pallor only deepen, all of a sudden? His pupils shrunk to pinpoints and his hands trembled in front of him as he stuttered an objection, the words sticking in his throat like gobs of honey.

She’d never seen him look so afraid.

"You have nothing to hide from me," she reassured him, hoping her words would settle his nerves. She’d always guaranteed him both privacy and safety when in her presence. What could there be to fear?

Somehow, this only made things worse. Mario looked down to the floor, muttering something that sounded vaguely like an apology, before shoving past her for the door. By the time she was able to process what had happened, he was already gone.

It was the first time he’d ever left without telling her goodbye.

Confusion and hurt followed Peach like a looming storm through the night, with its warm and cold fronts colliding and spinning twisters of unease through the night. When she met up with Mario the following morning, it became clear she hadn't been the only one swept up by such feelings. He wiped the crusty remnants of sleep from his eyes as he apologized, his words meek, his voice meeker still. She was right to be angry with him, he said. In her shoes, he would be upset as well. But anger was now the farthest thing from her mind.

Within the hour, they were sharing scones and tea in her favorite gazebo. The picnic revitalized Mario's spirit, to her relief. With good food in his belly and the promise that his dearest friend wasn’t mad at him, he was able to shed his meekness and tell her the truth.

He couldn't take off his binder. Not because it was literally fused to his body, but because he couldn't stand what that body looked like, what it felt like, without it. Never mind how many layers he wore, or how thick his clothes were. Never mind if it was her or even his own brother, who he knew didn't give two flips whether he bound or not. When he looked down, all he could see were curves, curves, curves, bloated and misshapen, a body so radically different from what it was supposed to be that his skin crawled and his throat tightened and he wanted— no, needed to escape.

“It’s like… like when you’re washing dishes and you touch wet food,” he told her. “You know, that skin-crawly-feeling? It’s like that, except…” He gestured to himself with broad circling motions. “All over.” And the binder didn’t even eliminate those feelings of repulsion, he continued. It only made them easier to live with. Even then, how much easier it made things varied from day to day.

Peach was ashamed. All this time, she’d assumed it was nothing more than a personal preference, something he preferred but could just as easily go without, just as makeup was for her or a brightly-embroidered vest was for the average Toad. Mario was so outgoing, so confident, that she never would have suspected his self-image brought him so much grief.

“Why not have them removed, then?” Peach knew from yesterday’s debacle that the answer likely wasn’t that simple, so rather than offer it as an obvious solution, she asked him in earnest. “I imagine the procedure wouldn’t be too much fun, but it might offer you relief in the long-term.”

She half-expected a sigh of defeat, maybe an abrupt change of the subject. She did not expect him to laugh. His chuckles were clearly forced, not nearly as boisterous as usual. Of course it would be a relief, he explained. But it was also expensive. Where he was from, even the most basic of necessities had a price, making saving more than a few hundred coins (er, dollars) at a time a pipe dream. It appalled Peach at times, hearing what he and Luigi had had to do to make sure they had somewhere to live and something to eat every month.

But the endeavor wasn’t as hopeless as he’d once assumed it to be, he said… thanks to her.

“I-I know I’ve said thanks a thousand times, but— Princess, you’ve done so much for us.” The corners of his lips twitched a bit further upward, and suddenly those brilliant blue eyes were filled with the same light she was accustomed to. “Giving us work, food, a home… life isn’t all that hard anymore. We're finally able to start saving money! And I didn’t wanna hoard all those savings, but Weegee, he insisted.”

“Insisted on…?”

“Surgery. That’s what we’re saving up for. After all this time!” He balled his hands into fists now, a determined expression concealing the last of his sadness. “Just a few more years now! A few years, we stow away some extra coins, then bam! Before you know it, it’s my turn.”

A few more years. Peach didn’t like that thought at all. Could he really endure a few more years of pain just to reach a point where he could live his life like anyone else? Just thinking about it was unbearable. How much more unbearable must it be to live? His salary as a royal plumber could get him to that relief. He was right in that it would get him there eventually, to a point of paid-off medical bills and perfect financial stability, but it would still take two or three years.

Peach could get him there faster.

Mario, as expected, rejected the notion at first. "You've already done so, so much," he stammered. "I don't need a raise, o-or a loan, or anything like that! We’ve got it all figured out!"

But he misunderstood, Peach informed him. She wasn’t offering to simply raise his pay (though she happily would and ultimately did). She refused to see him suffer any longer.

“I intend to cover your operation. In full.”

When Mario recovered his voice many minutes later, his face was flushed, and his voice was trembling, as though she would change her mind and rescind the offer should he be so bold as to accept. Just if she was sure she could afford it, he said, as if he really thought that might be an issue. “The Royal Treasury has spent larger sums on lesser matters,” Peach assured him.

And so he accepted.

From there, it was all just a matter of research, contact, and planning. He would want a human doctor, Peach presumed. By the following week, she had a full list of doctors from the Metro Kingdom and surrounding areas who performed the procedure; a week after that, she'd narrowed their options down to the very best of the lot. The print-outs were presented to Mario, who took the plain manila folder as though it were woven with gold. She watched him pore over every image, his eyes sparkling with hope, his fingers hovering over each leaf of paper as though the whole folder would dissipate into mist should he dare touch them.

He had his Top Three by the following day. Consults were scheduled and all travel fares and accommodations were paid by the end of Week Three. He made his final decision in Week Five, and a date was set shortly after. Yesterday marked the beginning of Week Nine. In eight days, he would go under the blade.

Ten weeks, two days. Yes, Peach found that timeline much preferable to “a few more years”.

The smell of coffee made its way through the cottage. As Luigi stood up to go fetch the carafe, Peach took note of the time. 6:34, according to the grandfather clock by the door. Mario would want to walk her back to the castle. If she excused herself around 7:00, he’d be back home by 7:45, and then he could take that damned binder off and relax for the night.

"You think he's being difficult now?" Luigi had returned with two steaming mugs: one red, one white. "Just you wait, Princess. He's gonna be ten times worse when he actually can't do a thing for himself."

“Boh,” Mario scoffed, straightening up where he sat and turning back to Peach, “I’m gonna be on my bestest behavior for you, Princess! It’s Luigi who’s gonna get hell.”

“It’s true.” Luigi sat both mugs on the coffee table before returning to the kitchen, speaking over his shoulder. “When you come over a-a-and he’s all sweet with the big puppy eyes, don’t fall for it. You don't hafta see me convincing him to put on clothes for an hour beforehand.”

“No no,” Mario called back, “pantses are okie-dokie! It’s just the shirts we said no on, yeah?”

“No.”

“I told him I’m never wearing a shirt again,” Mario explained to Peach, pointedly ignoring his brother’s rejection. He scooted to the edge of the couch and puffed out his chest, flexing his biceps with great aplomb. “This big, beautiful bod won’t be contained any longer! I might even become a wrestler, or one of those models who run around in nothing but their undies!”

Peach snorted as he continued his bodybuilder act, flexing what she presumed were his pectorals. She descended into full peals of laughter when Luigi returned, his face filling with horror at this shameless display. Though he had no words to show how scandalized he felt, the white-knuckled, double-handed grip he had around his green coffee cup spoke volumes.

“Mario!” he snapped at his brother, “N-non pui dire questo davanti alla principessa! Non ti vergogni?”

Mario shrugged. “No, non proprio.” Though Peach couldn’t tell what was being said, the flippant response made Luigi groan in embarrassment, and that just made her laugh even harder.

She knew he was joking, but some small, disproportionally loud voice within her wished he wasn’t. She wouldn’t mind seeing a bit more of him. She wouldn’t mind one bit.

Scandalized though he was, Luigi plucked the white mug from the table and offered it to Peach. The liquid inside was a much lighter shade than either brother’s coffee, she noted, its scent much softer and sweeter: vanilla creamer with four cubes of sugar and a drop of melted caramel. Mario had stayed true to his word. “We’re gonna stock up for you, yeah?” he’d told her just last week, looking up from his shopping list to wag a well-worn pencil eraser in her direction. “Even if you get too busy to hang out with us, we’ll at least make sure you have all your snacks whenever you do find the time!”

Finding time wouldn’t be an issue. Peach had gone through her schedule and systematically scheduled time to visit, at least four days a week, for at least two hours at a time. She would nab more if and as she was able. Not that she had the nerve to tell him this.

Luigi sat down with his own mug. Mario’s still sat on the table before them.

“Ah, I see how it is, fratellino.” Mario glared at his brother without any real malice. “Gotta make it hard on me too while ya still can, yeah? Gonna make poor, poor Mario get his coffee all on his own?”

He leaned forward to grab his cup, only for Luigi to yank him back.

“Ap ap!” He paused for a sip of coffee, and only then did he release Mario. “When we’re ready for a drink, what are we s’posed to do?”

“…You can’t be serious.”

“You won’t be able to drink on your own for at least a week or two.”

“Then get me a straw!” Mario shot back.

"How's a straw gonna pick up a cup?"

"I won't hafta pick it up if I get a long enough straw!"

Luigi pressed his fingers between his brow. "Where are we gonna get a long straw?"

"We just tape a buncha smaller straws together. Easy-peasy!"

As the brothers bickered about this dilemma, Peach glanced to the clock standing beside the door. 6:40. She would need to leave soon.

…Then again, what kind of friend would she be if she left Luigi to wrangle his stubborn brother all on his own? He’d said it himself. Mario would behave for her. At the rate their training session was going, they’d need at least a few more hours to drill the lesson into his head, and that was assuming he cooperated.

So long as Mario wasn’t in any pain, she was more than happy to oblige. One more week, and her worries would disappear alongside his pain, freeing up all the time in the world to spend with each other.

~~~

"I can't believe it, Princess. How do you think of this stuff?"

They'd left for the castle just after 9:00, taking a well-worn backroad to avoid whatever bustle still remained in the middle of Toad Town. The lack of buildings granted the October wind full access to chill them to the bone. The lack of streetlights, however, allowed a better view of the stars on a cold, clear night such as tonight.

"I'm surprised neither of you thought of a tube first," Peach giggled into her coat collar. "I thought pipes and hoses were your specialty."

"Well yeah, it's just…" Mario scratched the back off his neck. "Usually, hoses are for plumbing, not drinking."

"Well, now I've opened your eyes to new possibilities."

Most of their walk passed in this way, with jokes and small talk like many a time before. Tomorrow, though, was his last day of work until after recovery— both for him and for Luigi. The castle would be quieter without them, and it could very well be weeks before she and Mario got another moment to themselves, so she intended to cherish every last moment.

Even if it meant taking a longer route just to have a little more time with him.

“Princess?”

They were in the shadow of the darkened castle when Mario stopped. A spark of excitement flickered before the thought of something wrong snuffed it out. “Is everything alright, Mario?”

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Mario removed his cap, as was his custom when addressing her without first being addressed (oh, he was such a gentleman, it always made Peach a bit woozy), and wrung it in his hands as he spoke. "I…" His eyes darted back and forth. "I just… I wanted to say thank you. Again. For… all of this."

He had no idea how adorable he was, speaking off the cuff as he did. “Of course.”

"Thank you," he repeated, "for everything. Getting this set up, helping get us ready, making the time to, well…" He cleared his throat. "I—I really don't how to repay you." Mario turned his gaze to the sky, still gathering his words. The stars sparkled brilliantly in his eyes, and they seemed to shine brighter with each passing second. "If there's anything, and I mean anything, I can do, just—"

“You have nothing to repay. You know that.” Peach was tempted to reach out, rest her hand over his, but she tamped the urge down— much like she had her wishes to see more of him earlier, when he'd made a show of flexing his muscles, of entertaining a future where he wouldn't have to hide himself.

"No, Princess, I can't just—" Mario stuttered the more he tried to put a voice to his objections. "I-I need you to understand, I can't let…you…"

Peach’s delight turned to dread as he struggled to finish. He was faltering much like he had the day of The Incident. His voice wavered and cracked exactly; he was bowing to a pain she couldn’t even see. Oh, she knew she should have left earlier! He’d pushed himself too far, and she hadn’t just let him, she’d enabled it—

Mario squeezed his eyes shut. Oddly, however, the light reflecting off of them remained; that light sat on his eyelids for a moment, and then it spilled, trickling down his cheeks in thin lines.

The dread flowing through Peach froze just as quickly, like ice in her veins.

“Oh— Mario!” Her hands were as shaky as her voice as she dug through her pockets, praying for a handkerchief or a napkin or any sort of scrap to materialize between her fingertips. Mario was crying. She’d never seen Mario cry. How long had he hidden his pain from her? “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurting? Had I known, I would have—”

But Mario silenced her, waving his hands and cap frantically in front of him. “No, no, I’m okay! Not hurting! I just… ah, merda, giurai non l'avrei fatto...!”

He swiped at his face again and again, but a fresh set of tears replaced what he'd dried each time. “D-do you know how long I…? I mean, all my life,” he stammered, “this is just the way it’s been, yeah? You learn to live with it, a-a-and you learn not to get your hopes up, and now…”

He stared down at his frayed cap, clenched tightly in his hands. He sounded so shaken, and yet…he was smiling.

“I’m sorry…!” He hiccuped, and he quickly pulled his cap back on before burying his face into his hands. “Agh, mamma mia, I’m so sorry—!”

For a moment, Peach could only watch. Mario was trying to make himself smaller, shrinking in on himself as he wept, as if he might be able to disappear if only he tried hard enough. And he was still trying to stop, sniffing and cursing under his breath in both his native tongue and the tongue they shared, even as tears dripped through his fingers and soaked into the dirt beneath his feet.

"I'm not hurting," he wheezed. "Not right now."

How long, then? How long had he carried this pain, endured it every single day, for the promise of reprieve to wreck him so completely?

Perhaps she should have laid a hand on his arm, or offered words of comfort, to soothe his tears. The sight of her dearest friend crying his heart out ultimately pushed her to do something unexpected, something she had wanted to do for a long, long time.

She hugged him. Taking him into her embrace, Peach shielded him from the autumn breeze, adding her warmth to his.

Mario stiffened in her arms, then another sob wracked his body, pushing him to return her embrace. He clung to her, his fingers digging into her clothes, as they rocked back and forth on their feet, his tears finding other places to fall when the thick wool of her coat could no longer keep up. Hands still shaking, Peach cradled the back of his head, and he followed her touch easily, resting his head against her chest as breath returned to his lungs and his sobs petered out into shaky gasps.

She could feel his heartbeat when they were like this. It thumped between them, steady and strong, layers between their hearts be damned. Soon, there would be far fewer layers separating them. They could hold each other, feel their hearts beat strong for each other, should he so allow it, should he ever return this silly little torch she held for him.

Their hearts would be much closer the next time they embraced. Blinking back tears of her own, Peach realized that this statement was true twice over.

How much of this premonition was her own wishful thinking, and how much of it was rooted in reality? Did she truly stand a chance? When there was nothing left to hide, would Mario let her come closer, let himself draw closer to her in turn?

She could certainly hope.

Once he was ready, Peach let him go, allowed him to laugh it all off as he dried his face. Yes, growing closer to him felt more possible now than it ever did. He’d already entrusted her with far more of himself than most. It would happen in its own time, as he left behind that which weighed him down, as he grew into a more authentic version of himself.

As he learned to see himself the way she saw him: beautiful. Handsome. Wonderful.

That Mario wouldn’t emerge overnight, but that was okay. Peach would stay by his side for as long as it took. And once he was ready to unveil to himself to her?