#phew! nearly 3k words! longest I've written in a bit

[peaches2217]

Traduzione Non Necessarie

*Sequel of sorts to Traduzione, Per Favore?. Y'all are gonna want Google Translate/DeepL/your translation service of choice on hand for this one.

AO3 link!

~~~

Peach pulled in a deep, steady breath, slowing and finally stopping the transfer of her magic. Five seconds. That seemed like a good number, nice and round. Her heart fluttered nervously as she withdrew her hand from Mario’s brow, waiting for a response.

She knew exactly how much magic it took to send him into a deep slumber. Anything before that point was merely guesswork. She could only hope she had guessed correctly.

At present, she didn’t put too much stake into that hope. Mario’s eyes wouldn’t open all the way, it seemed, no matter how hard he tried, and his pupils were blown so wide she could hardly see the blues of his irises. Perhaps the five seconds had still been too much.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

It took him a few moments to respond, his head lolling back and forth as he thought. “Hmm… kinda like…” He exhaled sharply, the rest of his body going into an unsteady sway. “Feel kinda like a big ole’... wet spaghetti noodle, maybe… all dizzy ‘n’... phew…”

Peach rushed to steady him before he lost his balance, planting her feet firmly into the ground so he wouldn’t immediately knock her over if that came to pass.

Too much. She would know to reign it in even further next time.

Still, as she helped him to the ground, he seemed perfectly content. He sprawled out in the fresh summer grass with his arms spread, basking in the sunlight like a photosynthesizing plant.

“Mm.” He nuzzled his cheek into a patch of grass beneath him. “Soft.”

The sight drew a fond, amused smile from Peach, and she made herself comfortable beside him. 

This had become a ritual of sorts, one of their many excuses to extend their time in each other’s company. It began as a random suggestion as they chatted one day while awaiting a tardy diplomat, one that hadn’t been entirely serious: Peach’s magic could touch both the body and the mind. She had become skilled in healing, practicing on her own scrapes and bruises as far back as early childhood. Broken skin now mended instantly beneath her touch, and, with a greater deal of effort, she could even reverse infections and heal broken bones.

Her ability to manipulate the mind — or, rather, the sheer scale of that power, the tales of predecessors who had corrupted themselves beyond redemption through its abuse — terrified her. She had distanced herself from that power in response. But it still lay deep within her, whether she wanted it to or not, and the realization that she didn’t even know how to wield it scared her almost as much.

Having confided this in Mario, he had in turn offered himself as a test subject (a “geh-knee-pig,” specifically, some charming otherworldly colloquialism meaning roughly the same thing). Peach had laughed it off, at least until he brought it up again of his own volition the next time they were together.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” she had confessed.

“You could try shutting my brain off,” he had suggested back. “And hey! You wouldn’t even have to worry about putting me into a coma, because you could reverse that pretty easily, right?”

He had found his joke quite funny, so she never had the heart to admit she had spent his first slumbering spell obsessively checking his pulse in response. Just in case.

Mercifully it never came to that. She learned to bring him rest with increasing care, and she learned further that the sight of Mario sound asleep, all of his cares far from his mind, was among her favorite sights in the world.

Inducing sleep had become second nature to her. She wanted to practice further control, hone the fine motor skills of her greater magic. So today, she had asked to put Mario into a trance rather than full sleep, and he had happily agreed.

He would be getting sleep anyway, so it seemed.

“Forgive me,” Peach said, slipping off her high heels and setting them to her far side. He was right. The grass was lovely and soft beneath her soles.

“Huh?” was Mario’s well thought-out response.

“It was too much.”

He stretched his arms high above his head, his back arching from the force of it. “‘S’okay, Princess.” He paused to yawn noisily before continuing. “Today, I take a nap! Tomorrow we try again. I win either way!” 

Always looking on the bright side. She expected nothing less from him.

She watched him as he made himself comfortable, drinking in every little detail. The pale freckles dotting his tanned skin which she had committed to memory like a star map, the single gray hair in his mustache, his unruly curls exposed from beneath his cap, which had fallen halfway off and was pinned beneath his head. The gentle arch of his thick eyebrows, the thin lines beneath his eyes… lines that were darker and more pronounced than usual, she noticed now.

Peach sighed to herself, fighting against the temptation to run a hand through his dark locks. Perhaps her slip-up was fortuitous after all. 

It hadn’t come out of nowhere, Mario’s suggestion that she practice by putting him to sleep. When he wasn’t a beacon of unbridled energy, he was curled up someplace high off the ground, snoozing away. Peach always found it cute, his unabashed fondness for napping. But the more they got to know each other, the more hours they spent in aimless conversation, she had discovered it was no mere quirk. He hadn’t told anyone that he struggled to sleep at night. At least not until he told her.

He would never admit the extent of it to her. He didn’t necessarily hide or deny it, the fact that he wrestled with his own thoughts and memories more often than he cared to admit, the fact that he lived in understated but constant fear of being unavailable to protect those he was charged to protect, the fact that, when he did find sleep on his own, it was often unsteady and filled with nightmares. But he wouldn’t say any of this outright.

In learning to control her magic, Peach could help him. She could give him reprieve where he might not normally have such a luxury. But she wanted to do more. He was her dearest friend, and she loved him as such and far beyond, and she wished more than anything to be a pillar of support for him when he couldn’t support himself. After all, she knew better than to assume him invincible. He was only human.

But he refused to take her up on the offer. His burdens weren’t hers to bear, he would insist. “Not your fault I’ve got too many thoughts bouncing around this big head!” And then he’d tapped his knuckles to his head for emphasis, giving her a cheeky smile. She didn’t find it quite so amusing.

It baffled Peach. He trusted her with the control of his very mind, yet even now she hadn’t earned his full vulnerability. More than once she had wondered if his volunteerism was an invitation, or a request of sorts. Did he want her to know of these things? Did he merely have trouble articulating them? “He’s not always the best with words, you know,” Luigi had said time and again.

It would be so easy. With a single touch, she could know it all. She could see his emotional scars, the images that haunted him most, his deepest, most locked-away secrets. He wouldn’t have to tell her anything; she could just know. How deeply into his mind was she welcome to dig?

That was a line Peach refused to cross, or even entertain with any great gravity, until she was given express permission. And right now, her only permissions were to aid him in rest. She swallowed and wet her lips. 

“May I?” She extended her hand to Mario once more, hoping the gesture was clear enough in his hazy state of mind. He peered up at her through heavy lids, but he nodded without hesitation, letting those lids fall shut as she touched his forehead.

Brushing his curls from his face, she closed her eyes, conjured her chosen thoughts, and let the images flow from her fingertips into his subconscious.

Normally she waited until he was asleep to do this part. Once slumber claimed him, she would fill his head with scenes of softness and warmth, vague but peaceful images that might trigger pleasant dreams. But what was the harm in getting an early start? He’d be out cold in five minutes tops anyway.

Today she transferred to him something a bit more specific: memories of their afternoons in her private garden, sharing cakes and tarts and chatting until the light faded from the sky. It was… selfish, perhaps, her hope that he might dream of her. But more than once he had told her that their shared time together meant the world to him. Such memories would no doubt bring him the most serene sleep.

Selfish urges were okay if they aided someone else too. That was her own unsteady justification.

Within moments, a smile spread across Mario’s face. “Ahh…” He turned his head in the direction of her touch, and she followed it, tapering the flow of memories and cupping his cheek. His skin was warm against her palm, the heat permeating her silken gloves. His Firebrand made his body temperature unnaturally high, he had once explained, though rarely did she get to feel the evidence for herself.

How often had she dreamed of cupping his cheek just like this, feeling him blush beneath her? How often did she use sleep as an excuse to escape into a world of fantasy, one in which he loved her just as fiercely as she loved him?

A chuckle jolted Peach back into reality. “W-what?” she asked, cautiously drawing her hand away. A wave of paranoia flooded her when Mario didn’t answer, just laughed some more.

“‘Il mio amico Mario è tondo e peloso,'” he said, and the paranoia lifted at once.

“‘Come una pesca,’” she finished. She hadn’t accidentally broadcast her selfish thoughts to his subconscious, she realized with no shortage of relief. He was remembering.

“Ah, brava, principessa!” He pressed his thumb to his index and middle fingers, his hand bouncing with each upward lilt in intonation. “Il tuo accento migliora di giorno in giorno.”

Peach couldn’t help but giggle with him. “Grazie,” she said, though she hadn’t understood most of the last part. Of all the memories he chose to cling to in his state of near-sleep, he chose the time she had accidentally and all too casually slighted him? (To be fair, it was quite funny, yes, but still.)

Reluctantly, she withdrew her touch once more, watching as he relaxed in the embrace of pleasant memories. The dark shadows beneath his eyes seemed to lighten, though whether this image was real or imagined she couldn’t say for sure.

Peach swallowed again. Her throat felt tight. These shared moments helped ease whatever struggles weighed him down, and for that she was grateful. But why couldn’t he bring those struggles to her before they robbed him of sleep? Why couldn’t he let the world fall from his shoulders long enough to entrust some of that weight to her?

“Mario?”

“Mm?”

She wrung her hands together, making her best effort to separate familiar sounds into still-new words. “Sai che puoi… dirmi… qualsiasi cosa,” she managed at last. You know you can tell me anything.

Mario’s face lit up in recognition, and she couldn’t help but be proud of herself. She’d never said it aloud herself before. It was always him saying it to her during their informal Italian lessons, encouraging her past her embarrassment, egging her on to ask questions no matter how silly she feared they might be.

“Oh, dai, sai che puoi dirmi qualsiasi cosa,” he’d say, nudging her if he was near enough, equal parts teasing and sincere. “Lo so,” she had learned to say in response, nudging him back if she was able.

Maybe she could get through to him this way, speaking to him in his native tongue when he was too tired to put up his guard. Maybe he would give her a “Lo so” of his own, and maybe, just maybe, he would follow through.

But that wasn’t the response Mario gave her. “Mm… davvero?” he said instead, his voice quiet with what Peach presumed was encroaching slumber. “E se ti dicessi che sei il mio sole e stelle? Questo la non turberebbe?”

A few moments passed in silence. Peach didn’t recall practicing any phrase set resembling this. Yet he was looking up at her, fixedly, as though he were expecting an answer to whatever question he had just posed.

There was something… oddly sad in his expression. He didn’t seem distraught, and no tears welled in the corners of his eyes, but his usual cheer was muddied with a sort of melancholy.

She didn’t like this feeling. She didn’t like seeing him like this. Her stomach turned and leapt painfully, as though urging her to do something.

“...Mind repeating that?”

Mario didn’t repeat himself. He redirected his eyes upward, focusing that sad smile on the sky above them, and Peach followed his gaze, a bit miffed. A fluffy cloud passed overhead amidst more modest and wispy offerings. It looked rather like a Jammyfish.

“Peach,” he said after a moment of silent contemplation, and that caught her attention, because she was never Peach. Even when he stood at her side as her trusted guard, even when he took her hands and pulled her from the castle grounds, urging her to follow him to some great sight waiting for her in town, even when they walked privately through rolling fields and let their shared presence ease countless unvoiced burdens, she was always Princess. Sometimes Principessa, rarely Your Highness, but never Peach. 

She wanted desperately to hear her name on his voice again.

Closing his eyes, Mario laughed, that giddy, sleepy laugh she knew she could never get enough of, and granted her wish. “Oh, Peach,” he repeated, his coherency rapidly slipping away, “there’s so much I want to tell you.”

That deep and unidentifiable sadness deepend in Peach’s gut. “Then why not tell me?” She startled at the desperation that leaked into her tone, clearing her throat in impulse and praying he hadn’t heard it. Why not trust me when you’re awake as much as you trust me when you’re asleep?

“Mi perdonerei mai,” he slurred.

“Mario, I don’t know what you’re saying.”

He hummed a torpid apology, folding his arms beneath his head. “Well,” he rephrased, “I’m just… I dunno. You know? I am. And that’s not…” He shrugged. “And then you… you’re…” 

“I’m…?” Peach pressed, fearing she already knew the answer. You’re a princess. That was one of his very few quirks that frustrated her. Never mind that he was only human, and never mind that she was his best friend. She was a princess, and he was a hero, and it was his sacred duty to internalize anything he feared might burden her, no matter how desperately she wished he would lean on her, be vulnerable with her, trust in her.

His answer was buried beneath a yawn, so quiet she almost didn’t catch it: “You’re everything.” 

Birdsong and the distant chatter of groundskeepers carried the silence that ensued.

You’re everything. Those two words swirled around Peach’s brain in a dizzying cyclone. What did that mean? You’re everything, a ruler and a leader and a friend, and I could never bother you with my own problems ? You’re already doing everything you can and telling you about the things you have no sway over just isn’t worth it ?

“You’re everything,” he might say one quiet evening, somewhere in the midst of soft kisses and tender touches, and she would tell him then that he was her everything too.

Peach clenched her teeth. 

She had found the courage just a few weeks earlier to ask how one might express love in his native tongue, “like I might say to Toadsworth or you might say to Luigi.”

She hadn’t expected to learn that there was more than one way to say it. “Ti voglio bene,” he told her. “That’s how I’d say it to Luigi or to Toad — or to you!”

And how would your mother have said it to your father? How would I say it to you ? Peach couldn’t even begin to amass that sort of courage.

Mario lay still beside her, his chest rising and falling evenly. Her fingers twitched.

She could dig as deeply as she liked. She could see his every thought and he wouldn’t know, so long as he didn’t wake. She could finally know those things he refused to tell her, she could know his struggles intimately, she could finally begin formulating ways to really and truly help him.

At the very least, she could see for herself what dreams ran through his head at the moment. Was he dreaming of her, just as she dreamed each night of him?

…Perhaps she could sway his mind far deeper still. Perhaps she could make him…

Balling her hands into fists, Peach sighed, laying back in the grass. She understood now more than ever how her predecessors had so easily become drunk on this power. But she wasn’t her predecessors. And she wouldn’t betray what trust Mario had freely given her.

Sei il mio tutto.

Maybe one day she could say as much. Maybe one day she would stop creating fantastical scenarios in her head, and she would stop wanting more than she was already blessed with, and she would stop being so selfish and be content with meeting Mario where he was rather than wishing for more, more, more.

Maybe she could say it then, when she truly deserved to.