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High-pitched, squeaky humming is what Luigi hears when he enters the holding room. Despite it being an offense to his ears, it brings a bit of a smile to his face. It implies that Bowser is far less likely to lose his cool or yell. Being the victim of insults isn’t off the table, it never is, but they’re more likely to be superficial rather than personal.
“Hey, uh, Bowser-bud!” Luigi greets, dropping his hands on his knees to peer in at the tiny, recovering tyrant.
Bowser squeals, flinching back from his painting and dropping his brush. Wide eyes whip to Luigi, then his face levels into a scowl. “Oh, it’s you.” He shakes himself out like a dog might, then marches up to the railing. He squints up at Luigi, paint-coated hands on his hips. “I’m in the middle of another masterpiece! What’re you botherin’ me for?”
Luigi shrugs. “I figured you could use a friendly face.” He points to his own smile.
Bowser rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “I need space to work, and it’s hard to do that when you keep sticking your big schnoot in my studio.” He waves a hand. “Shoo.”
As their routine goes, Luigi ignores this and takes a seat besides the castle.“What’re you working on right now?”
Bowser glares at him, steam puffing out of his nose. “You’re interrupting my art flow!”
“I can just sit here with you, then.” Luigi hadn’t come empty-handed— he’d brought a book. He always does, just in case Bowser only wanted silent company that day. And if he truly didn’t want anyone at all, he’d make that very clear.
“Reading. Ick,” Bowser grumbles, but he backs away from the balcony and takes up his brush again.
Despite his complaints, he quickly re-enters his artistic flow state, falling back into humming probably without much thought. Luigi gets lost in an adventure he’s read probably a hundred times before— this was his comfort story back when he was in Middle School, and although it’s not what he needs anymore, it still soothes him to read a familiar tale.
They keep up the parallel play until Bowser is done his painting, which Luigi is notified of by an empty paint bucket thwacking the side of his head. Bowser has the easel turned so he can easily see it: a cute, simplistic piece of a smiling Bowser flying in one of those odd, bowl-shaped helicopters the guards had patrolled the lava prison in. Luigi doesn’t dare call it cute, instead complimenting the tone, telling Bowser that the happiness in it is infectious, and that he adores how fluffy he got the clouds to look. The praise gets Bowser to beam, his tail wagging behind him a few times before he disciplines it by slamming it to the ground (something he always seems to do with it).
“You should look through my gallery!” Bowser says, gesturing upwards. “I’ve really been getting a lot faster with this, and there’s tons you haven’t seen.” He points directly at Luigi. “And YOU will tell me everything you like about them.”
Luigi grins. “Sure thing! I’m happy to look at anything you’ve painted— you’re really good.” He waggles a teasing finger. “Are you sure you’ve never painted before?”
That sends a glitch in Bowser’s ecstatic expression, but he shakes his head. “Nope! I’ve picked up a paint brush before, but I didn’t have er, the uh, patience to do it.” He chuckles, grin stretching just a little too wide. “I don’t have much of a choice now, it’s really all I have to do in here.” He waits a moment, as if he wants Luigi to say something?
“You’ve really turned into a real artist,” he tries.
There’s another glitch, harsher and not smoothed over. “Yeah, I have!” he says, sounding chipper where his disposition won’t. He shuffles back a few steps. “Lemme clean up my hands,” he lifts fingers splashed with color, “and then I can show you my best pieces.” He spins around and marches towards the curtain blockading his art room, calling over his shoulder, “Feel free to take a peek while you wait!”
Luigi gives him a private minute to get to his destination before he steps around to peek at the castle’s interior, directing his attention to the top room where Bowser likes to stash his art. He wasn’t kidding; there were only a handful of completed canvases stored there when Luigi last looked. Now, there’s stacks piled against the walls, and a few sitting in the middle of the floor. Maybe he should advocate for Bowser to get more room to store these.
He pokes around very carefully, as the canvases are an ideal size for a Koopa only a few inches tall, but doesn’t spend too much time taking them in. He’ll save that for Bowser’s presentations.
It’s during this that he finds… more questionable pieces, almost hidden behind a tall stack of lighter scenes. He flips through several ones depicting Mario dead, in an unfortunate situation (such as being rejected by Peach or shunned by Toads), or Bowser hurting or murdering him in some way. Not very appreciated, but Mario isn’t the only victim of painted violence— there’s other, more vague subjects of Bowser’s rage, and even one of him standing over a pit of skeletons, another burning in his hand. Luigi winces. “Yeesh,” he mutters. Even without these paintings, it’s not hard to notice that Bowser harbors an unhealthy amount of anger. But where the world shakes its head, Luigi’s heart breaks, because he can’t imagine feeling that intensely. Rage doesn’t come naturally to him; it’s a hard emotion for him to grapple, and for Bowser to be stuck with so much all alone…
At least he seems to be happier, now, despite technically being in prison, if the improvisational musical number about wiping his paint-covered claws is any indicator.
Luigi sifts through more of them— and his stomach drops. He’s starting to understand why they were stuffed in the corner. The violence was only a guard over works that Luigi can only describe as gut-wrenching. Mario stops becoming a victim of hate and seems to start representing fears and demons— snatching Peach away, throwing Bowser in cages, turning his army against him, hurting him without reason (and those are quite graphic on Bowser’s end), berating him in brush strokes that seem to mimic words. There’s even a few of Peach being cruel to him, or just plain rejecting him— among them is a bloody painting of her stabbing Bowser with a halberd, with his onlooking minions cheering.
The most heart-cracking of them all features twisted, colossal forms that can barely be recognized as Mario and Princess Peach, mainly through the red-and-blue and pink-topped-with-gold color schemes— although he’s not sure who the blue-and-a-bit-yellow shape is supposed to represent. They’re screaming more of those words, which eat up nearly all the miserable tones that make up the background, at a tiny, caged Bowser who is barely able to be seen through the vicious red scribbles slashing his cowering form to oblivion. That last detail seems to be impulsive; Bowser typically is so careful about not letting his paint drip— he’s raged over it before, setting a painting on fire from one runny stroke. Here, lines weep all the way to the bottom of the canvas, where they end in a lake of smudge, like heavy drops were wiped away in a hasty attempt to save the floor.
Bowser… is more hurt than anything else, isn’t he?
Luigi hears clawed feet pattering and clicking up the stairs, but can’t fix the stricken look on his face before Bowser bounces into the room and sees it— and what’s in Luigi’s hands. The cheer falls right off, and in the moment before anger takes over, he looks terrified.
“What do you think you’re doing?!” Bowser shrieks, shaking his fists, sparks flying like spittle out of his mouth. “Those are private!”
Luigi puts them back into the room, leaning them against the wall where he’d gotten them. “You— you said I could—”
“Not at THOSE, you IDIOT!” Bowser grabs the first couple and turns them around. “There’s better paintings to look at, there’s no reason for you to snoop through the trash pile— I barely even tried with those, just threw some paint on—”
“Bowser, are you okay?” Luigi asks.
And that shuts him right up. He doesn’t look at Luigi, staring at the pile of— of vent art (that’s all it could be). His tail flicks a couple times before he smashes it to the ground, tucking his arms into a tight fold. “You’re taking some dumb paint splatterings way too seriously,” he mutters.
Luigi shakes his head. “I don’t— no, you don’t have to say that. It’s— it’s okay to not be okay.”
“Ha!” Bowser turns on him, claws coiled at his sides, a glint in his eyes that makes him look maddening. He’s got a grin on his face, wide and shaking. “I’m better than that— that stupid motto for soft and whiny babies like you. You only think that because it’s the only way to cope with how pathetic you really are.”
It’s a deflection— turn the heat around so Luigi is forced to hold up another manhole, all while Bowser continues to suffer. And maybe he doesn’t need to hear all about Bowser’s anger-masked misery today, or tomorrow, or even next week, but he can’t ignore that he now knows it exists. “Does it help you to paint it out?”
That snuffs out the evil grin that had been coming apart at the seams anyway. Bowser crosses his arms and turns away. A dubious no, a reluctant yes, or continued deflection?
“I just don’t like the thought that you’re hurting so much and haven’t talked to anybody,” Luigi says. “And it’s hard to talk to people, I get it— I can’t talk to anyone else other than Mario, not even my parents, really.” Mainly because Pa tends to dismiss his feelings while Ma still reacts as when he would come to her with a scraped knee. “I’d hate for you to feel like it’s just you against the world, or that you can’t trust anyone.”
Bowser snorts, turning his head further— not quite away, given how his back was already to Luigi, but his eyes are squeezed shut. “I’m not a wimp like you, or any of those stupid smelly little Toads. I’m strong enough to take care of myself, and ONLY myself. I don’t need anyone else.”
Luigi adjusts a strap on his overalls. Now that sounds scarily similar to something he heard from Mario a long while ago, and having been through this once before— “But… do you want someone else?”
Bowser’s spiked tail jerks, and his eyes slip open, grumpy expression falling away. One scarlet iris meets Luigi’s gaze and he pulls his lips up to show off his teeth. A growl rumbles from his throat in lieu of an answer. Maybe he doesn’t know what to say. Maybe he doesn’t want to lie.
Luigi can’t imagine how the answer could be no— sorrowful paintings aside, Bowser’s intense interest in Peach seems to speak to a desire for some sort of companionship. Wanting to marry someone because they’re good-looking is one thing, and a petty thing, Luigi thinks, but Bowser got so angry when they— mainly Mario and Peach, though he cared far more about the former— foiled his wedding. Fury like that doesn’t just happen, it has to come from somewhere.
In the streets of Brooklyn, Bowser was snarling something about ‘finally being happy’ and ‘making Mario suffer like him’ when he’d— gone after Mario (Luigi hadn’t watched, he’d hidden, but heard all the shouting and his brother crying out, objects thudding and glass shattering—).
(now’s not the time to think about that, no need to live in the past, things are better now)
Scary draconic turtle kings probably don’t have a lot of people clamoring to be their friend. And even if they did… getting ripped away from your home and everyone you love and stuffed in a cage— no matter how luxurious— with no way of knowing when you’ll see the people and places that comfort you again (if you’ll ever see them again) is such a disheartening experience.
“That’s okay,” Luigi says. “I can be your someone else.” He’d done it for Mario, so he can do it for Bowser.
“You?” Bowser lifts an eyebrow. Then he laughs. “Is this some weird reverse Stockholm Syndrome? Or maybe a late-onset one!” He holds his stomach as he doubles over to cackle, stomping a foot.
Maybe Luigi should be offended by this. Yeah, maybe offering to be Bowser’s friend is ridiculous, given that Luigi is only one of the many the people he’s hurt and scared, but… he’s believed, for a good while, that Bowser could be better. He thinks everyone is capable of that if given the motivation to be, and maybe Bowser has never found it before, or was never encouraged to be.
“I’m being serious,” he says.
That gets Bowser to quiet, twisting the amusement into disbelief. “Why?”
Luigi shrugs. “Why not?”
“Why not?” Bowser repeats. “Why not?! Are you seriously that stupid?” He flicks a finger between them. “Does you being my prisoner instead of me being yours ring a bell? How about me torturing you for information about that stupid brother who I wanted to kill? Who I still want dead, by the way.”
“I haven’t forgotten, I’m just okay with leaving that in the past if you are.”
Ruby eyes blink, then squint, and then Bowser’s whole head tilts.
“We can start over, with a clean slate.” Luigi offers a big smile. “I’ve already been coming to visit you, so we’re pretty much halfway there already. You just have to be willing to be my friend.”
Bowser’s muzzle twitches, crinkling at the bridge, and he averts his eyes. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters, without much bite. He’s worrying with his claws, shoulders pinched. “I know you’re just offering out of pity— which there’s nothing to pity, by the way, but I still hate you for it.”
Reading between the lines of words and body language is a talent Luigi’s never been able to grasp, but this time feels like an exception. He’s pretty sure Bowser’s just keeping up a tough front, or maybe he feels he doesn’t deserve a friend— his self esteem can’t be any good, given the horrible feelings the paintings captured. “I’m not pitying you. I just see that you’re unhappy and want to help.”
“Pff, sure.”
“I’m being honest— I wouldn’t lie. I’ve already been trying to be your friend.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Why else would I keep visiting you?”
Bowser fires a glare at him. “To rub your victory in my face.”
Luigi frowns. “I haven’t been doing that at all. I’ve been nice to you, or I hope I’ve been.”
Bowser’s quiet for a moment, eyes wandering around the room. His tail sweeps back and forth, bumping the canvases that clutter up the space, but, this time, he doesn’t seem to care (maybe he doesn’t notice). He growls, bares his teeth, and folds his arms. “You’re full of it,” he spits. “I’m not stupid— I know you’re playing—” he turns his head, lifting a hand and wiggling his claws, “playing some mind game with me. You wouldn’t gain anything from being my friend, so what’s your deal?”
“I don’t have a deal, I swear! All I’d gain is the pleasure of your company, and that’s what friendship is. Just enjoying spending time with someone outside of your family,” Luigi says, offering a soft little smile.
Bowser squeaks, loud and snarly, and stamps his feet. “You’re so ridiculous! And full of SHIT! Why would you want to be around me— it doesn’t make any sense! You think I’m awful, and you hate me!” He makes another angry noise, then glares at one of the buttons on Luigi’s overalls, body heaving with breath and eyes slowly scrunching up.
“I don’t really like hating people.” Even if they probably deserve it. “It’s okay if you don’t believe me.” He takes a seat on the ground, and Bowser jerks his body to block the attempted eye contact with his shell. “I’ll stay with you anyways.”
Bowser sniffs, hauling up his shoulders, tail slapping on the ground once. After a moment, he dips his head and a hand quickly goes for his eyes. “You’re—” his voice comes out shaky, so he growls, yet it still trembles. After a minute, he spits, “F-fine. You’re— you’re b-botherin’— grrrr, bothering me, and I hate you, I hate you a lot, but if you wanna waste your time and mine, I’m a prisoner,” he gives an elaborate shrug as he turns around, expression unbothered, “I can’t stop you.”
Not gonna even comment on that. He thinks that’s all he’s going to push for today. He smiles, stands up and gestures an open palm towards the impressive collection of much happier paintings that the room hosts. “You wanted to show me your favorites?”
Bowser glances at the art around him, and can’t hold the unfeeling face for long, muzzle softening with a tinge of a smile. “Yeah.” He gives his head a little shake, brightening more. “Yeah, I did.” He peeks up at Luigi, holding up a dramatic hand. “Hold, and prepare to be wow’d!”
Luigi lifts a thumbs-up. “I’m well prepared, don’t worry.”
Bowser grins, then immediately turns to a pile that must have been set aside in advanced. He hands them up to Luigi, and tells him the meanings behind them or stories they depict, behind-the-scenes tidbits, and where he got his ideas from. Luigi finds something specific to compliment about each one, asks questions, and affirms everything that Bowser tells him. It seems to work fast to put and keep the tiny working-towards-ex-tyrant in a far better mood; his posturing lessens, his mask of embellished pride relaxes, and he becomes far more animated in a way that’s probably natural to him.
This is the side of Bowser nobody else gets to see, the one he hides under lock, and one Luigi wishes he’d offer them the keys to. He thinks people would like him a lot better if he did, and agree that there is good in Bowser, it just needs to be coaxed out through all the walls of rage-disguised pain and defensive ego. And given how Luigi has seen this relaxed, real version of Bowser multiple times, although still rough around the edges, he thinks there must be hope for him yet.
After enough time, genuine praise, and generous kindness, he’ll be able to talk more about what he put in the despairing paintings, and then Luigi can help him fight against it.
Maybe even overcome.