#angst asks

Traveling might not have been wise, but it was the right thing to do—especially when your closest allies succumbed to the passage of time.

The Mushroom Queen's funeral had been splendid for a sordid celebration, with a procession through town and peach blossoms scattered through the streets. It was certainly far more pomp and circumstance than when Mario had gone out—not that it was a competition, he chided himself. He certainly wasn't immortal; nobody was, except the gods.

Still, the usual crowd he saw for these occasions had dwindled greatly over the years. Daisy was still hanging in there for a human, but her time would come far before his or the likes of Bowser.

Then again, if this damned disease had its way, he might very well be the next to go.

His illness was a chronic one—his body had turned against him, using its faculties to produce blooms that ultimately made their exit in a mess of blood and bile. The Beanish had many a name for this affliction, but the underlying cause was always the same: an unrequited love that was best to get to the root of, lest one expire from the expulsion of the many flowers that came with it.

Therein lay the rub—Peasley hadn't sought out another love since Luigi had passed; in the sixty-plus years that had flown by since, there had been no one else that could quite capture his heart like his little emerald could. If something had fallen out of favor between the two of them, why had he only contracted this illness within the past decade?

The only possibility was that Luigi was still here—perhaps not in the castle, but somewhere in the realm, oblivious to the fact that he'd spurned a prince's affections. That had to be it. The question was, how was Peasley going to reach him?

The answer, like many, came in the form of a surprise visitor.

"Oh my stars, it can't be. Polty?"

The ghostly canine didn't look a day over…well, he looked more or less the same. Bright as a light and as energetic as a lightning bolt, the creature had brushed up alongside him on a stroll out to the edge of town. Who was Peasley to deny the dog a follower, a bit of company?

"Just where are we going, boy?"

His only answer was a cheerful bark as Polterpup bounded along in the air. Peasley wondered, for a second, whether anyone would notice his absence. Such pondering wasn't meant to last, however, as prince and pup came to a stop in front of a place Peasley hadn't seen in years.

"Oh, dear," Peasley murmured, laying a hand on top of the peeling paint of the picket fence as the gate swung open. "Nobody's come by in a while, have they?"

Just what would his advisors say, seeing him stroll up to a cottage that had begun its descent into decay? Most likely, they'd be at his side as he took a knee, the better to rid his throat of a round of blossoms. Out they spilled onto the ground, a cheery yellow against bracken earth, drifting off in the breeze as Polterpup sniffed at the errant current sweeping them off.

He ought to turn back. Instead, he got to his feet and kept going, letting himself through the door instead of waiting around for a host that wouldn't.

The interior was much as he remembered it—modestly decorated with sturdy wood furniture and green trim. What was different was the disarray—knickknacks knocked from the shelves, papers scattered across the floor. Peasley drew in a breath when he caught sight of the den, with its comfy armchair knocked aside and the old television smashed in.

He had to know what happened here—who could've dared to desecrate his lover's abode long after his death. Before he could, he was seized by another coughing fit, hacking up rosebuds and petals as he sank to his knees.

"Polterpup, it's okay," Peasley managed between coughs. "Just…been under the weather, that's all. No need to be my crutch, boy. Just let me…"

He wheezed as he struggled to clear out the last of it. A single yellow rose, all in bloom, landed on the dusty carpet before him, its ichor glowing especially bright as he caught his breath.

Except it wasn't only his blood glowing. The space before him had taken on a greenish tinge, alight with an energy that beckoned his gaze upward, to fidgeting hands and wide eyes that he knew all too well, even now.

"Luigi?"

The specter before him was missing his cap, and his legs had fused together into a ghost's telltale trailing tail, but Peasley knew that there could be no other before him. The fact that Luigi had persisted beyond his death, to this very day, explained part of why Peasley had been coughing up flowers for nearly ten years.

There was, of course, another question that had to be answered—one that Peasley wasn't sure he wanted to hear, and one that, naively, he hoped he could turn around.

"Peasley." There was no rush to sweep him up in his arms, no gushing or tears or anything of the sort. Instead, Luigi remained rather still, clasping his hands together like he was encountering an acquaintance at most. "I wasn't expecting you to visit."

"I wasn't sure what to expect," Peasley answered. The room was getting chillier the longer he sat on the floor. "If you don't mind me asking, how long have you—"

"Stuck around?" Luigi cocked his head. "Ever since I fell off that balcony."

"All this time?" Peasley got up to took a step closer. "Oh, my darling, if I had known—"

"It's fine." Luigi was now across the room, the result of an abrupt phase away from Peasley. "I-I really didn't want anyone to find out. Can't really have a-a funeral with the dead looking over it, can you?"

"I suppose that makes sense," Peasley admitted. "Might've been harder to accept what happened had you been there—no offense!"

"None taken."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is—"

He couldn't get much out before he doubled over, his airways overridden with another series of painful coughs.

"Peasley?"

Of all the times, why here and now? Peasley's hacking nearly became retching as he forced the flowers up and out of him, spilling out ichor-stained roses before Luigi as Polterpup whined and nudged him.

"Peasley? What's wrong?"

There was the concern Peasley was familiar with, manifesting in a bit of panic and the placement of ice-cold hands on his shoulders. He would've been stunned had he not been battling for breath.

"Just a condition, my dear," Peasley finally said. "It flares up from time to time."

"H-How long have you been—"

"Managing it? A few years or so now." Peasley let the damp petals drop from his palm as he stood back up, assisted by the specter. "A funny thing, really."

"Hm?"

"Though it's a physical ailment, it manifests out of a psychological reason—a one-sided love, as silly as it sounds. There's never been a case where one has died and their surviving partner's body began to destroy itself."

Golden roses, golden heart, surrounded in green. Why hadn't he seen it before?

"Either my case was an unforeseen variant," Peasley said, "or you were somehow still here. Now that I know which is which, I must ask you why."

"Why what?"

"Why have you fallen out of love with me?"

It was then that the temperature fell by at least seven degrees. The chill that could've easily been his age catching up to him was now a steely drop in the local atmosphere.

"You know why," Luigi said slowly. "You know fully well why."

"I don't believe I do."

"Don't play dumb, Peasley. It really doesn't work for you."

"I can easily say the same when it comes to you and denial."

"Can't you just leave?"

The air between them was practically icy; Peasley could see vapors of his breath exit his mouth. Luigi's expression had gone stormy, his entire being pulsing with inner flashes of angry light.

"I've had to watch everyone I love grow up without me!" Luigi screamed. "I didn't get to leave like they did! Something's kept me around, and I could never figure out what it was. Can you really blame me for thinking it might've been you?"

Somewhere in the house, a door slammed. Polterpup was keening beside Peasley, whimpering as his master seethed.

"You didn't think about that, did you? That what we had could've been what kept me from moving on?" Luigi loomed over him, his eyes narrowed as his voice took on a supernatural depth. "Just admit you didn't!"

"My dear, please—"

"SHUT UP!" Luigi had his hands clasped to his ears. "Just shut up! I've spent years trying to forget what we had! Why'd you have to keep holding on?"

His lover's words cut like a knife, but Peasley could see past the anger. He saw his darling Luigi scared, frightened of what he'd become, fretting as a maelstrom formed at his feet.

"Oh no. Oh, nonononono."

It was heartbreaking to watch his green bean fall apart like this.

"What are you doing?" Luigi shrieked, with a glare that pierced Peasley like a flurry of daggers. "Get out of here!"

"I'm not going to leave you like this!"

"You have to!"

"Just let me help you! Please!"

The room was alight with Luigi's energy, manic and erratic in its intensity.

"I won't LET YOU!"

There was no time to brace himself from what came next. With a ferocity and force that rivaled the sort of foes Peasley had fought in his heyday, he found himself shoved to the wayside in his own body.

"If you won't show yourself out, I will."

There was nothing warm or familiar about the ghost taking the wheel. Peasley found himself in the dark as everything around him shook, sending him careening from wall to mental wall as he tried to get his bearings.

"Luigi?" It would be a lie to deny that this turn of events had been jarring. "Luigi, what's going on?"

If his love could hear him, he didn't respond. Instead, Peasley continued to brace himself against the sudden, jerking motions of his mortal vessel acting on someone else's accord.

"Luigi, please! I just want to talk. I just want to know why—"

"I already told you!"

"Darling, if I can barely stand to let you go—"

"Stop it! Just stop it!"

"Then I know you can't stand the idea, either. If we could just talk—"

"Don't you get it? You're in love with the ghost of me!"

Peasley found himself falling through his subconscious, tripped up by a sudden shove forward.

"You're in love with the idea of me."

An invisible force kept him pinned down.

"You had no idea if I was actually still here."

Peasley found his face being pressed into the floor, the dark nothingness that somehow still hurt.

"Why are you trying to tell yourself otherwise?"

In a rush, Peasley found himself back in his own shoes, the sensation of touch returning as he found himself kneeling in the grass of the royal garden. A glow at the upper edge of his vision implored him to look up, but not before a particularly severe spat of coughs made him curl back in on himself.

In the distance, Peasley could hear the clamor of a crowd deep into a search.

"I don't need your help."

He could hear Luigi loud and clear, despite the tremors racking his body as he desperately tried to purge the flowers from his throat. A cold hand lifted his chin upward, to a glare that could turn someone to stone.

"I never want to see you again. Got it? Whatever we had…it can't happen. It never could happen. You shouldn't be hanging on to me."

Without warning, Peasley was dropped back to the dirt, to the pile of roses brought about by the one spurning him.

"Don't come back," Luigi said, dispelling into a ball of light. Peasley watched as it zipped away, hanging his head as his advisors caught sight of him. They carried him back inside, tending to the ichor at the corners of his mouth, too fretful of his current condition to implore him for answers.

Tag list: @ramshacklerumble @elenauaurs @thehollowwriter @rainesol @starry-night-rose

@cyanide-latte @blithesharem @theleechyskrunkly @inmateofthemind @boopshoops

@the-trinket-witch

Valerian: He reaches the mouth of the cave, cold, and weary and wounded. Every breath was an ache, every step further was a walk into agony; but he walked.

He saw your face in the sunrise, saw your figure in the midst of the trees- he walked, trudged, carried your love with tears in his eyes into he was out far enough- until the cave to the mouth of hell was no more.

It was only when your hand reached out for his did he stop- did his knees buckle, and grow weak. Valerian stumbled, and fell, and sobbed, but you were there, as he knew you would be; had to be.

Peter: He talked endlessly, mindlessly, as if he was scared of the silence from permeating between your soul and his. You couldn't speak, he knew, and perhaps you couldn't hear him either, but that was alright. He didn't mind.

The sun was blinding, burning, as if Peter had coated his skin in oil and heat and fire. Who knew hell was so cold? So dark?

His broken rasps had morphed into tears, sighs, cries of relief. The silence would be gone, you'd be home; you'd be in his arms again. He was safe now, and so he turned his head to you.

Rosalie: It was not weakness that possessed her- it was not fear or anxiety that made her turn her head; love. It was love. Why wouldn't she turn back to see the face she missed so dearly? To see the soul of her love, following her through the dark?

Her feet had not made it past the threshold- Hades would call you back any moment now. It was horror and angry and screams, Rosalie ran to your ghost as if she could grasp whatever was left, her hand outstretched toward yours-

and then nothing.

Nothing but love. But sorrow. But agony.

Nothing but the wisps of your ghost.

Ophelia: She blinked and you were gone.

Like a lot of things did, after you died the first time. Who knew love could destroy things so completely? Who knew it could rend man from their heart and soul? It was as if the galaxy itself, in all of its ever-expanding, far-reaching splendor, had grown cold. Dark. Wilted until there was nothing left but the carcasses of stars and planets. Of life. Of beauty.

Ophelia wanted to see it again. Wanted to see you. How long had she waited? Was the mouth of the cave far enough? Was this love? Pre-dawn, trudging through the cold and wet and dark, looking for light?

Were you love? Looking at her with tears in your ghostly visage, the Underworld calling you back so soon?

Javier: He tried. And isn't that what we do, at the end of it all, is try?

How could he not look back and see you?

There was no doubt in his heart, there was no second-guess, he just wanted what he always wanted with you:

love.

And it was love he felt when he saw you.

And it was love he felt when he realized the horror.

And it was love he felt when he was alone, again.

And for that? He was sorry.

Sergio: He followed it all to the letter. He'd do it again if it meant to so much as have a reminder of you. Sergio was silent, contemplative as he carried your soul on his back. He was thinking, you knew, but you never realized that all he ever thought of was you.

The closeness. The warmth. The love that followed you.

He said nothing, for the actions meant every word of it. Every tear shed, every cry, every drop of sweat and blood.

For you. It was all for you.

Let that go unsaid.

Thane: He was careful.

Even though your ghost could bear no wounds, for your body had long since returned to the earth, he was careful with his journey throughout the cave, as if every wound he gained would in turn hurt you. You wanted to tell him to rest, but you couldn't, and you watched as the man stuck in delirium walk for you. His feet blood, his skin peeled and blistered, and he'd ask- to no response from you- if you were okay. He tried to nurture the phantom that took your form. He tried to care for you.

It was all Thane ever knew how to do- and he came out of the cave with your renewed form, and all he could ask was,

"How are you?"

Hope: It is hard to conceive an existence without you. It is as if someone plucked the sun from the sky, and shut all the lights off. Hope stumbled through the dark, desperate for the first sign of an exit out of the cave, but determined more than anything to keep going.

It is, to them, the only way; forward.

Hope hums. They hum poorly. The strange backdrop to such horrific agony. They march on.

They'll embrace you at the top of the hill. They'll see you in the sunlight. The world won't be so dark anymore. And they keep going- the only way Hope knows how. Hope continues on.

Never once ceasing their love for you.

Hawkeye: They were, in essence, fools. But even fools are capable of love, and being loved.

Hawkeye's grief became all encompassing- so much loss plagued their life, so many specters they were forced to leave behind. How is it they gained such lot in life? How is it fair to you?

Hawkeye cries. Their lips tremble. Their feet are aching and sore and his whole body broken. They trudge through the darkness slowly, achingly, their mind focused solely on your spirit, not far behind.

You were the one thing good in their life. What would it take to bring it back? What would it cost?