#broooooooooo

at first, the distance was subtle. a canceled movie night here, a text left on read there. you brushed it off. he’s busy, you told yourself. hero shit, world-saving, whatever. you get it, after all. but then the excuses piled up, and the silence between you grew heavier. you weren’t stupid—you knew what was happening. you just didn’t want to admit it.

so you tried. really tried. you showed up at his place unannounced, like old times, only to find him already heading out with eve. "oh, hey—sorry, we’ve got plans," he said, rubbing the back of his neck like he actually felt bad. (he didn’t.) you forced a smirk, played it cool. "yeah, no problem. wouldn’t wanna interrupt your date." the way his face twisted at your tone almost made it worth it. almost.

after that, you stopped reaching out. what was the point? you threw yourself into your own shit—training harder, fighting dirtier, throwing yourself into missions with the new guardians like maybe if you bled enough, it’d stop hurting. rex joked that you had a death wish. william gave you that look, the one that said he knew exactly why you were acting like this. you told them both to fuck off.

but the worst part? seeing him with her. laughing at some dumb shit you know isn’t that funny, her fingers curled around his bicep like she’s got some kinda claim on him. and mark—mark just lets her. smiles at her like she hung the fucking stars, like he didn’t used to save that same stupid grin for you after you pulled off some reckless stunt together.

you don’t get it. what makes her so goddamn special that he’d throw away seven years of friendship without a second glance? was it always this easy for him to walk away? or—fuck—did he know? did he figure out the way your chest went tight when he flashed you that lopsided smile, the way you’d bite your tongue to keep from saying something stupid? maybe that’s why he’s avoiding you now. maybe he’s uncomfortable, grossed out, whatever. great. now you’re not just his ex-best friend, you’re the pathetic loser who couldn’t keep his feelings in check.

you tell yourself you hate him for it. (you don’t.) you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. (it does.) and when you catch them whispering together in some corner, her leaning in close, his cheeks going pink—you swallow the acid rising in your throat and walk the fuck away.

then the invincible war happened. and suddenly, none of it mattered anymore.

the sky split open with a sound like the world breaking in half, and then they came. dozens of him. hundreds. all wearing some twisted version of that stupid hero suit, faces hardened by wars you couldn’t even imagine. they moved like mark, fought like mark, though just a tiny bit more brutal. same face, same stupid hair, but their eyes—fuck, their eyes were all wrong. colder. sharper. like someone had taken the boy you grew up with and carved out everything soft. they moved through the city like a natural disaster, reducing buildings to rubble with casual backhands, their laughter ringing out over screams. you should’ve been terrified. but all you could think was: they’re still him. underneath all that blood and violence, they’re still mark.

you fought anyway. because what the fuck else were you supposed to do? stand there and watch? your knuckles were raw meat, your ribs a symphony of agony, but you kept moving—dragging sobbing kids from collapsed buildings, shoving civilians behind you when another variant came crashing down. you weren’t a god like him, just some stubborn asshole too stupid to know when to quit.

then one of them hit you. not the full-force punch that could’ve liquefied your insides—no, this one pulled at the last second, like some fucked-up courtesy. it still sent you skidding through concrete, rubble biting into your back. you spat blood, glaring up at the variant standing over you. his face was all wrong—smirking, cruel—but the way he hesitated? that tiny flinch? mark. always fucking mark.

and that’s when you broke your own rule. you screamed for him. not these warped copies. not the monster looming over you. your mark. the one who used to trade you half his candy bar even when you swore you didn’t want any, the one who’d elbow you in the ribs when you made a joke so stupid it hurt.

but he didn't come.

then laughter—not from the variant above you, but from somewhere in the smoke. another one stepped forward, then another, circling like sharks. they were all wrong in different ways: one with a scar through his eyebrow, another with eyes too dark, another with blood crusted under his nails. but they moved like him. breathed like him. the way one absentmindedly rubbed his thumb over his knuckles after a hit—mark’s nervous habit. the way another tilted his head just so before speaking—mark’s "i’m about to say something stupid" tell.

your stomach twisted. they weren’t him. but they were. and god help you, you still knew him in every one.

(you used to love that you could read him so easily. now it just felt like a knife twisting.)

when you managed to get away and finally found the real mark (your mark), he was pristine. not a scratch, not a speck of dust. and eve was there, because of course she was, her hand on his arm like she was anchoring him to some better world where this wasn’t happening. the second he saw you—bloody, swaying on your feet—his face did this fucking thing. eyebrows pulling together, mouth opening then closing. like he wanted to say a hundred things and choked on all of them.

"you left me," you snarled. your voice cracked. you hated that it cracked. "you promised. you swore—"

"it’s not that simple," he said, and wow, wasn’t that just perfect? not i’m sorry. not i fucked up. just another excuse.

"bullshit." you were shaking so bad your teeth rattled. let him think it was the adrenaline. let him think it was the pain. "what, was i just—what, practice? someone to kill time with until you found your real friends? your real—" your throat closed. you couldn’t even say it.

something flashed in his eyes—hurt? anger?—and for a second, you thought he’d finally fight back. but then his shoulders dropped. he just... let you go. again.

you turned away before he could see your face. before he could see how badly you were breaking.

(and if you had to bite your tongue bloody to keep from screaming—well. no one left to care, was there?)

the paramedics barely had time to slap some gauze on you before you were ripping the IV out of your arm and stumbling back into hell. your vision swam, your ribs screamed, but you'd be damned if you were gonna lie there while people died. you weren't invincible. you weren't even close. but you were angry, and right now, that was enough.

you lost count of how many you pulled from the wreckage. a kid sobbing for her mother. an old man trapped under a collapsed storefront. some rookie hero with their leg bent all wrong. each time you went back in, the smoke got thicker, the variants' laughter louder. one of them—slightly taller than your mark, with paler skin, and a bumblebee colour scheme hero suit—spotted you dragging a family to safety and grinned. "well look at you," he purred, landing in front of you with a crack of concrete. "little hero."

you spat blood at his feet, glaring up at the variant who'd been haunting the edges of this fight for hours. you'd seen what this one did—how he'd hover just out of reach while buildings collapsed, how he'd smile as people screamed. the worst part? he moved exactly like your mark. same tilt of the head when he was amused. same way he cracked his knuckles before a fight. but where your mark's eyes had always been warm, this one's were empty. like looking at a funhouse mirror version of someone you used to love.

"fuck off if you're just gonna cause me trouble," you snarled, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. your whole body ached, but you forced yourself to stand straighter. you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. you hoped that this variant wouldn't notice the family slowly backing away and slipping out of sight.

his grin widened, slow and predatory. "and if i don't?" he took a step closer, and you hated how familiar his shadow felt. "will you let me stick around?"

"in your dreams." you braced for a fight, but he just laughed—a sound that sent ice down your spine. it was mark's laugh, but wrong, like someone had stripped all the joy out of it.

"oh, i do dream about you," he murmured, circling you like a shark. "funny, isn't it? all these universes, all these versions of me... and not a single one got you." his fingers brushed your shoulder, feather-light. you jerked away, but he just smirked. "except this one. and what did my pathetic counterpart do? threw you away."

your fists clenched. "shut up."

"make me." his voice dropped, low and intimate, like he was sharing a secret. "you could, you know. i'd let you."

you swung at him. he caught your wrist effortlessly, his grip tight enough to bruise. for a second, you were nose-to-nose, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes—mark's eyes—and the way his gaze dropped to your mouth.

then he yanked you forward, his other hand tangling in your hair. "you're perfect," he breathed, and the reverence in his voice made your stomach turn. "all that fire, all that fight... and he just left you here to die." his thumb brushed your lower lip, smearing blood. "lucky for you, i don't make the same mistakes."

behind him, more variants emerged from the smoke. some grinning. some hungry. all watching you. they were all wrong in ways that made your chest ache—one had mark's smile but none of his warmth, another moved with his grace but none of his restraint.

(and the worst part? somewhere deep down, under all the rage and betrayal, a traitorous part of you recognized them. missed them. because no matter how twisted they were—they were still mark.)

then he landed—another variant, but this one was different. the second his boots hit the ground, his eyes locked onto you, and his whole face shattered. like someone had punched the air from his lungs. your name fell from his lips in a whisper, raw and broken, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

your heart stuttered.

it was the way he looked at you—like you were something precious. like he’d spent years searching for you in the dark. before you could react, he was in front of you, his hand hovering just beside your cheek, trembling. "i didn’t think i’d be able to see you again," he breathed, voice cracking.

and god, it hurt. because this—this was what you’d wanted. for your mark to look at you like that. to want you like that. your throat tightened, traitorous heat prickling behind your eyes. for one pathetic second, you leaned into it.

then reality crashed back down.

you wrenched away, disgust curdling in your gut. "don’t—don’t fucking touch me," you snarled, swinging at him blindly. your fist connected with his jaw, but he didn’t even flinch. just stared at you with those devastated eyes, like you were the one breaking him.

other variants closed in—hands grabbing at your arms, your waist, your shoulders—all of them murmuring shit that made your skin crawl.

"we’ve got you—"

"you’re safe now—"

"just stop fighting—"

you thrashed like a wild animal, throwing elbows, kicking out, biting when one got too close. but they were stronger. their grips were firm but careful, like they were afraid you’d break. the masked one—the one who’d spoken first—cupped the back of your head, his thumb brushing that stupid, familiar spot where your mark used to shove you playfully. "shhh," he murmured, voice so soft it made your chest ache.

you hated how good it felt.

"let me go!" you choked out, but it sounded weak even to your own ears. you were exhausted. hurt. and worst of all—lonely. so fucking lonely. and here they were, all of them, looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered in any universe.

(and maybe that’s why, when one of them finally pulled you against his chest, you didn’t fight as hard as you should have. maybe that’s why, when he buried his face in your hair, you shook instead of shoving him away.)

(you hated yourself for it.)

you should’ve fought harder. should’ve spat in their faces, should’ve clawed your way back to a world that didn’t want you. but their hands were so warm—calloused palms cradling your face, fingers brushing through your hair—and their voices curled around you like a safety net you hadn’t realized you were starving for.

they took you home. not some hideout, not a battlefield—yours. your shitty apartment with the broken AC and the couch mark had helped you drag up three flights of stairs a year ago. the variants moved through it like they’d memorized every inch, like it was sacred. one ran a bath while another pressed a glass of water into your shaking hands. a third—the one with the white viltrumite uniform and the expression of a haunted space prince—knelt in front of you, carefully peeling your ruined suit away from your wounds. "look at you," he murmured, thumb stroking your knee. "so brave. so perfect."

you flinched. it was too much. not just the tenderness, but the way they looked at you—like you were something worth searching for, like they’d burn the world down just to keep you safe. one curled around you on the couch, his chin hooked over your shoulder as he whispered how strong you were, how good. another pressed kisses to your bruised knuckles like they were something holy.

and god, it hurt. because these were monsters. you’d seen what they could do. but they were also mark—every smirk, every hesitant touch, every stupid joke muttered into your hair. your chest ached with the wrongness of it, the guilt. what did it say about you, that you could lean into their arms when they were coated in blood? that you craved their approval when your own mark had thrown you away?

"you're all gonna leave too," you mumbled before you could stop yourself. the words tasted like bile. "once you all get bored. once you all find someone better."

the room went still.

then hands were on you—not restraining, just holding. the variant with a veil tilted your chin up, his thumb wiping away something wet you refused to acknowledge. "listen to me," he said, voice rough. "there is no one better. there never will be."

"we don’t want anyone else," the one with a mohawk and piercings growled, pressing his shoulder to yours as he crossed his arms.

"you’re ours," the one without goggles whispered, lips brushing your temple. he pulls back slightly and your lips quiver when he has that lopsided, gentle smile on his face. "and we’re yours. always. okay?"

you shook. it was too much. not enough. you wanted to scream. you wanted to believe them.

so when they asked—not to claim you, but to be yours, to belong to you in a way your mark never had—you let out a shuddering breath.

and you didn’t say no.

(and if, across the ruined city, your mark finally realized what he’d lost—if his voice broke as he whispered your name as you stood with versions of him who knew better, if his hands clenched at his sides like he could physically feel the space where you should’ve been—well.

he should’ve held on tighter.)