Chapter Text
Mark sat on the edge of the sofa that he and *Mark had managed to wrestle through the front door three days ago, the cushions still too firm, smelling faintly of factory plastic.
This was supposed to be the beginning of a new life for the two, a chance to breathe after everything that had happened at the Pentagon.
His thumb rubbed against the spine of the comic book in his lap. Seance Dog. Issue forty-four. The cover was glossy, depicting a spectral hound tearing through a veil of fog. It was a distraction, a flimsy paper shield against the memories that kept trying to claw their way to the front of his mind.
Eve.
She was avoiding him. He knew she was with the way she would suddenly find an excuse to leave his home whenever they had time for each other.
He didn't know the reason why, though, but he was sure it had something to do with her powers acting up.
The space between them felt like a vacuum, sucking the oxygen out of the room whenever he thought about reaching out. His own mind was a disaster zone, a wreckage of trauma and adrenaline crashes that made holding a conversation feel like the calculus classes back in high school.
He was doing his part. He dragged rubble by day, attended strategy meetings by night, lent his power to the rebuilding effort until his muscles screamed and his vision blurred. It was easier to work until he collapsed than it was to sit still and feel the weight of everything they had lost. And in the quiet moments, like this one, the exhaustion didn't bring sleep; it just brought the silence loud enough to hear his own thoughts.
A sigh escaped his lips, deflating his lungs until he felt hollow. He opened his eyes and looked down at the comic again. He needed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. He needed to be a guy reading a comic about a mystic dog, not a hero trying to remember how to be a civilian.
The comic book panel blurred, causing Mark to blink, the dry air of the living room scratching at his eyes, and he lowered the book. The silence he thought he had secured was shattered, not by noise, but by the visual assault of the other sofa.
Across the low coffee table, William sat, thumb scrolling lazily across the screen of his phone. But it wasn’t William’s casual posture that made Mark’s stomach churn.
It was the thing attached to him.
*Mark, the other Mark, the one who wore his face like a mask, was draped over William’s side like a second skin. He had his head nestled into the crook of William’s shoulder, one arm wrapped possessively around William’s midsection, fingers idly toying with the hem of the other man’s shirt. It was a clingy, suffocating embrace, the kind that screamed ownership and desperation at the same time.
Mark felt a phantom itch crawl up his own spine, repulsed at seeing himself behave that way. He hated it. He hated the mirror image of his own face looking so needy. He watched, unable to look away, as the other Mark nuzzled closer, rubbing his cheek against the fabric of William’s shirt.
It was pathetic. The desperation was obvious to anyone who saw. Every shift of his weight, every squeeze of his arm around William’s waist, was a silent plea: Look at me. Touch me. Want me.
And then there was the outfit.
The other Mark was dressed in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, a visual scream for attention that made Mark’s fists clench around the edges of his comic book.
He wore a cropped top that ended just below the ribs, exposing a strip of taut midsection that flexed with every breath. It was an unnecessary slice of skin, framed by the tight hem of the shirt. Below that were shorts. They were sporty in cut but scandalous in length, loose enough to drape but short enough to be dangerous. The fabric hugged the curve of his ass, outlining the muscle beneath in a way that was impossible to ignore. When he shifted his leg, the hem rode up, exposing the thick muscle of his thigh, the skin looking impossibly soft against the harsh weave of the couch cushion.
Mark knew the logic behind it. It was a trap, designed to catch William’s eye and drag it down to the body on display. It was a desperate move, using his own body as bait.
Mark felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. He was watching himself whore for affection, and the voyeurism of it made his skin crawl. He saw the way the other Mark’s leg was thrown over William’s lap, the foot dangling in the air, toes curling unconsciously as he sought friction, contact, anything.
"Did you see this meme?" William’s voice cut through the tension, casual and oblivious. He tilted his phone screen slightly toward the man clinging to his side.
The other Mark didn’t even look at the phone. He just hummed, a low, vibrating sound against William’s shoulder, and pressed his face deeper into the fabric. "Mmhmm," he mumbled, the sound muffled and content. He didn't care about the meme. He only cared about the warmth radiating from William’s body.
Mark stared at the interaction. It was painful to watch. The other Mark was offering himself up on a silver platter, dressed in next to nothing, draping himself like a piece of furniture, and William, blessedly, seemed to see none of it.
William just kept scrolling. His thumb swiped up the screen, his eyes fixed on the glowing rectangle, completely ignoring the half-naked man practically trying to merge with his ribcage. He didn't stiffen at the contact, didn't pull away, but he didn't lean into it either. He was a statue, absorbing the affection without returning it, a brick wall that the other Mark was currently throwing himself against in vain.
A sharp pang of relief pierced through Mark’s disgust. Thank God. Thank God William was blind to it. If William actually responded, if he reached down and grabbed that exposed thigh or slipped a hand under that cropped top, Mark didn't know what he would do.
Run away, probably.
The other Mark let out a huff of breath, a small, frustrated sound that William missed entirely. He adjusted his position, sliding his hand lower on William’s stomach, his fingers splaying wide, trying to cover as much surface area as possible. The cropped top rode up another inch. The shorts tightened across the ass.
Mark forced himself to look back at his comic book, at the Seance Dog howling at a moon that didn't care. The page was crisp under his fingers, but the images were ruined. He couldn't unsee the desperation. He couldn't unsee the way his own doppelgänger was flaunting skin, begging to be fucked, begging to be seen, while the object of his desire just scrolled past videos of cats and cooking hacks.
The air in the living room grew thick with the weight of unspoken rejection. *Mark’s hand, which had been tracing idle circles on William’s denim-clad thigh, stilled as the silence stretched too long. William cleared his throat, the sound loud against the quiet. He shifted his weight, inching away from the warmth pressing against his side, and tapped his phone screen a final time before locking it.
"Hey, I actually... I gotta go..." William said. He stood up abruptly, forcing *Mark to scramble to keep his balance or slide ungracefully onto the cushion. *Mark chose to slide, his pout deepening as he looked up from the sofa cushions.
"Study," William added, the word hanging in the air like a bad joke. He didn't have any books nearby, and his bag was still in the hall. "Big exam coming up. Need to... review." He didn't look at either of them, his eyes darting toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. "Just going to head to my room. Don't... don't burn the place down."
He didn't wait for a response. William practically power-walked away, his footsteps quick on the hardwood, and vanished into the shadow of the corridor. A moment later, a door clicked shut down the hall, the latch catching with a final, decisive snap.
The living room was left in a vacuum of awkwardness. Mark stared at the empty spot where William had been, the comic book forgotten in his lap. Then, a snort escaped him. It was a harsh, ugly sound. He looked over at his doppelgänger, who was still sprawled across the sofa like a discarded ragdoll, and let out a short, sharp laugh.
"Smooth," Mark said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Real smooth."
*Mark’s head snapped around. The playful desperation that had been plastered on his face vanished, replaced instantly by a withering glare. He sat up, pulling his legs underneath him, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure malice.
"Shut the fuck up," *Mark spat.
"What?" Mark leaned back, enjoying the shift in power dynamics. "You really thought the 'study' excuse was because he couldn't handle your charm? He practically ran away just to get away from your desperate ass."
*Mark’s jaw tightened. He looked toward the hallway where William had disappeared, then turned his fury back on the original. "He wouldn't have left if you weren't sitting here," *Mark accused, pointing a finger. "You’re the reason he doesn't want to do anything. You make it weird. You sit there, killing the vibe. He can't relax with you staring at us like a creep."
Mark rolled his eyes, turning a page in his comic book even though he wasn't reading the words. "Oh, right. Blame me. It couldn't possibly be that William just isn't interested."
"He is interested!" *Mark insisted.
"He's not interested in sluts," Mark shot back. The word was blunt, a jagged stone thrown into the conversation.
*Mark recoiled as if he’d been slapped. His mouth opened, a shout building in his throat, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The air around him seemed to vibrate with the intensity of his retort, but Mark cut him off before he could unleash it.
"Look at you," Mark said, gesturing with the comic book toward *Mark’s outfit. "Seriously, look at yourself." He scanned the cropped top that exposed a strip of toned stomach and the shorts that were barely more than underwear. "You think that’s attractive? Have some fucking dignity."
Especially if he was going to have the same face as his.
The shout died in *Mark’s throat. The anger on his face didn't fade, but it morphed, curdling into something else. He looked down at his own clothes, then back up at Mark, a slow, predatory realization dawning in his eyes. Instead of shrinking away in shame, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and smirked.
"Is that right?" *Mark asked, his voice dropping to a teasing purr. He let his eyes drag slowly over Mark’s face, then down his chest, lingering on his lap before returning to his eyes. "You seem to know an awful lot about what I'm wearing..."
Mark stiffened. "It's hard to miss."
"Is it?" *Mark tilted his head, the smirk widening into a knowing grin. "Or were you just looking a little too close? You’ve been checking me out, haven't you? Watching me the whole time?"
Heat rushed up Mark’s neck and flooded his cheeks. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, a mix of rage and mortification.
"Get real," Mark snapped. He slammed the comic book shut. He couldn't sit there another second, couldn't look at that smug, mocking face that looked just like his own twisted in a grin of superiority. He stood up.
"Where are you going?" *Mark called out, laughter still dancing in his voice.
"Away from you," Mark growled.
He stormed across the room, his shoes heavy on the floor. He didn't look back. He grabbed the handle of the front door and yanked it open, the wood splintering slightly against the frame. He stepped out into the afternoon air and slammed the door behind him with enough force to rattle the hinges.
The outside air was cooler, but it did nothing to quell the heat burning under his skin. He stood on the porch for a split second, his fists clenched at his sides, breathing hard.
Annoyance spiked through him, sharp and electric. He needed to move. He needed to be anywhere but here.
With a grunt of exertion, Mark pushed off the ground. The familiar sensation of gravity losing its grip washed over him as he shot into the sky. The wind rushed past his ears, tearing at his clothes, but he welcomed the sting. He climbed higher and higher, leaving the house, his double, and the smug expression far below, until they were nothing but specks in the sprawling landscape of the city.
The wind roared in Mark’s ears, a chaotic buffer against the variant’s smug voice still echoing in his head. He didn't stop flying until the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and gray below him, putting miles between himself and that mocking grin. He touched down on the lawn of his home. He needed space, a vacuum where he didn't have to look at a twisted version of himself wearing his own face.
He opened the door and made his way upstairs. As soon as he entered his room, he collapsed onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. His hand fumbled for his phone in his pocket, the screen lighting up his face with a harsh, blue glow. He needed to hear Eve’s voice.
He hit dial. The ringtone droned on.
Pick up. Just pick up.
It went to voicemail. He stared at her name on the display, the silence on the other end heavy.
He tried again.
Nothing.
He threw the phone onto the cushion beside him, rubbing his palms over his eyes until he saw spots.
The adrenaline from the fight with his double was fading, leaving behind a hollow, aching exhaustion. His limbs felt heavy, dragged down by the gravity of the day. He told himself he’d just close his eyes for a minute, just long enough to stop the room from spinning. The tension in his shoulders unspooled slowly, sinking into the soft pillows.
When he opened his eyes again, the light filtering through the blinds had transitioned to the deep, bruised purple of early evening. His mouth tasted like cotton. He sat up, groaning as his spine popped. The nap hadn't fixed anything; if anything, the frustration had curdled into a dull, throbbing headache. He couldn't stay here, alone in the quiet with only his failures for company. He grabbed his phone, the need for distraction overriding his pride. He needed to go back to William’s, if only to prove he hadn't been driven away by his own goddamn reflection.
The key turned in the lock with a heavy, metallic clunk that echoed too loudly in the silence of the house. Mark pushed the door open, stepping into the darkened interior of William and his double's house. He closed the door behind him, locking it automatically.
He stood in the entryway for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. The house was quiet. He checked his pocket again, his fingers brushing the smooth, cold screen of his phone. Still nothing from Eve. The silence from her end was a physical weight in his chest, a heavy, dragging anchor that pulled at his insides. He had hoped that coming here, being around William, would provide enough distraction to keep his mind from going crazy.
His variant’s words from earlier still rattled around in his skull, mocking him. You’ve been checking me out, haven't you? The accusation was insane, and yet it had lodged itself under his skin, itching and impossible to scratch. He shook his head, trying to dislodge the thought, and moved further into the room.
"William?" he called out softly, though he didn't expect an answer.
The living room was empty, the furniture silhouetted against the faint light filtering through the blinds from the street outside. He assumed they might be out, or maybe they had already turned in for the night. He was just about to head to the kitchen to find a glass of water when he noticed it...a thin, yellow line of light spilling out from underneath the closed door of William’s bedroom.
Mark paused, his heart rate kicking up a notch. He wasn’t sure why. It was just a light. He told himself he was just on edge, jumpy from the argument with his double and the stress of Eve’s silence. He walked toward the bedroom door, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. He would just poke his head in, bug William about something, anything, to get the sound of a friendly voice in his ears, to break the cycle of his own chaotic thoughts.
As he approached the door, the sound of shifting fabric reached him, followed by a low, heavy breath. He stopped just inches from the wood, his hand hovering over the knob to knock, when his eyes caught the movement through the crack where the door hadn’t quite latched.
The gap was narrow, barely an inch wide, but it was enough.
Mark froze.
Through the sliver of space, he saw the bed. William was there, lying back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that looked too fast to be sleep. And straddling him was...*Mark.
A hot, sudden flush of shame and shock spiked through Mark’s system. He knew he shouldn't be watching. This was a private moment, an intrusion of the worst kind. He was half tempted to turn around right then, to walk out the front door and fly back to the emptiness of his house, to pretend he had never seen this. His muscles tensed to retreat, his brain screaming at him to move, to leave, to look anywhere but here.
But his feet felt like they were encased in concrete.
He couldn't tear his gaze away from the scene unfolding in the slice of light. *Mark was positioned over William’s hips, his knees bracketing William’s thighs. He wasn’t naked, but the shirt he wore was barely long enough to cover him. The hem rode high up on his thighs, exposing the smooth skin of his legs. As he moved his weight, the fabric slipped up further, revealing the swell of his ass, the curve of it stark in the dim light.
Mark stared, his breath catching in his throat. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror that reflected not just his body, but a version of himself that was unguarded, exposed, and utterly lacking in the defenses Mark spent every day constructing. Seeing his own face contorted in desire, seeing his own body positioned so submissively, sent a jolt of confused electricity through his nervous system.
It was wrong.
It was terrifying.
And somehow...hot as fuck.
He forced his eyes to close for a second, his hand gripping the doorframe until his knuckles turned white. Just walk away, he told himself. Walk away and forget this.
Then, the voice drifted through the crack in the door. It was soft, breathless, and pleading. It was a voice Mark knew intimately, his own vocal cords, but the tone was foreign to him.
"William..." *Mark murmured, the sound dragging out into a whine that made Mark’s stomach clench. "Why don't you want to fuck me?"
Mark’s eyes snapped open. He froze, his back rigid against the wall outside the room. That was his voice. But he had never heard it sound like that. With Eve, he always felt confident with sex. He was the one in charge, the one who knew what he was doing. But here, through the dimension of that thin wooden door, his voice sounded lost. It sounded small. It sounded like it needed guidance, needed to be led, needed to be told what to do.
The vulnerability in the tone stripped him bare more effectively than the shirt riding up *Mark’s thighs. It was a sound of desperate need, an open wound seeking a salve that William wasn’t providing.
Instead of leaving, like he knew he should, Mark stayed rooted to the spot. A dark, twisted curiosity bloomed in his chest, overpowering the shame.
He needed to know.
He needed to hear what William would say to this version of him that was so broken, so willing.
A low groan rumbled from the bed. It was William’s voice, but it didn't sound like a man fighting to control his lust. It didn't sound like he was struggling to keep his hands off the body offering itself to him. It sounded exhausted, too tired to deal with one more crisis.
"Mark..." William sighed, the name heavy on his tongue. "Come on. I told you already."
There was a rustle of sheets, the sound of a hand scrubbing over a face. Mark could picture the gesture perfectly; William rubbing his eyes, the frustration etched into his features.
"You don't have to do this, okay?" William said, his voice firm but laced with a deep, aching fatigue. "We don't have to do this."
Mark held his breath, waiting for the reaction. He heard more movement on the mattress, the creak of springs as *Mark moved, refusing to be pushed away. Then came the sharp click of William’s tongue, a sound of disbelief and annoyance.
"But I want to, William..." *Mark whispered.
The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. I want to. Hearing his own voice admit that, hearing the unfiltered desire in it, made Mark’s head spin. He felt a strange disconnect, as if he were watching an actor play him in a scene he hadn't practiced.
He took a deep, shaky breath, his common sense warring with a compulsion he couldn't name. He knew he wasn't meant to hear this. This was a boundary he shouldn't cross. But the pull was magnetic. He needed to see. He needed to witness the dynamic between them with his own eyes to understand the reality of what was happening.
Slowly, silently, Mark took a step closer. He leaned in, aligning his eye with the crack in the doorframe again. The angle was better now, giving him a clearer view of the bed.
What the fuck am I doing? The thought screamed in his mind. What the fuck am I doing?
But he couldn't tear himself away. He was suddenly, violently engrossed.
William was lying back, his hands resting loosely on *Mark’s hips, but not gripping them. They were there to hold space, not to encourage. His head was tipped back against the headboard, his eyes closed, as if he couldn't bear to look at the man riding him.
*Mark, conversely, was leaning forward, his hands braced on William’s chest. He looked down at William with an expression that made Mark’s chest hurt. It was a look of utter adoration mixed with crushing insecurity. The double’s bottom lip was caught between his teeth, worrying the flesh there. His hips rolled in a slow motion designed to entice.
"Please," *Mark breathed out. "I know you want to. I can feel it."
William’s jaw tightened. He didn't push *Mark away, but he didn't pull him closer either. He was a statue of resignation, trapped in a moment he clearly didn't know how to navigate without causing more damage.
"It's not about what I want," William said. "It's about what's right. We're not together, Mark, you know that."
"But we will be," *Mark argued, his voice rising in pitch, cracking slightly. He moved one of his hands from William’s chest up to his face, his fingers tracing the line of William’s jaw. The touch was gentle, a stark contrast to the desperation in his tone. "You know we will so...just let me."
Mark watched, mesmerized, as his double leaned down, pressing his chest against William’s. The shirt *Mark wore was bunched up at his waist, leaving his ass completely exposed now. Mark could see the muscles in the double’s thighs flexing as he ground down harder, seeking the friction he was being denied. It was an obscene display, made even more so by William’s lack of participation.
William let out a harsh breath through his nose, his hands finally moving. But instead of grabbing *Mark’s ass or pulling him in, William’s hands came up to cup *Mark’s face, holding him still, forcing eye contact.
"Look at me," William commanded, though his voice was gentle.
*Mark stilled, his eyes locking onto William’s.
"You don't have to do this," William said, his thumbs stroking *Mark’s cheekbones. "As long as you're in this world...I'm always going to be there for you, no matter what. We don't have to have sex to prove that."
Mark felt a strange pang of envy watching the scene. He saw the care in William’s touch, the patience in his voice. He saw the way William looked at *Mark with a weary, protective kindness. It was a look Mark hadn't realized he craved until this very second. Eve looked at him with distance now, with the walls up. But William... William was looking at a version of Mark that was falling apart and was trying to hold him together.
*Mark dropped his forehead to rest against William’s shoulder, his body trembling.
"I just want you so badly..." He said into the crook of William’s neck.
William sighed, the sound long and suffering. He wrapped his good arm around *Mark’s back, pulling him into a hug.
Mark watched them, the voyeuristic thrill beginning to curdle into something heavier, more complex. He was watching his double get rejected, comforted instead of fucked. He was watching a moment of profound intimacy that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the messy, complicated business of what William's life had become since his double had forced his way in.
And yet, he couldn't look away. He watched the way *Mark’s hands clutched at William’s shirt. He watched the way *Mark’s ass flexed in the air, a subconscious betrayal of his body’s desire even as his heart accepted the comfort. He was struck by the lines of his own back, the curve of his spine, the way the shirt rode up to expose the vulnerable nape of his neck.
He realized then that *Mark wasn't just some monster or copy. He was a reflection of all the parts Mark tried to suppress. The neediness, the fear, the desperate desire to be held and told everything would be okay. *Mark was the part of him that desperately craved the reminder that he wasn't alone anymore.
William moved slightly, adjusting his weight, and the movement caused *Mark to slip a little. The double’s knee brushed against the bulge in William’s jeans. *Mark gasped, his head snapping up, his eyes wide and hopeful.
"William?" he whispered, his hand moving down to palm William’s crotch.
William caught his wrist before he could make contact. He didn't squeeze hard, just enough to stop him.
"No," William said, the word final.
*Mark’s face crumpled. He didn't pull away, though. He leaned into William’s touch, his cheek pressing against the hand that held his wrist.
"Please," *Mark begged again, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that was pure sex. "I can be good for you. I’ll do whatever you want. You can use me. I don't care."
Mark felt his own cock twitch in his pants at the words. Hearing his voice offer itself up so completely, so shamelessly, was a potent aphrodisiac he hadn't expected. The filth of the offer contrasted sharply with the innocence of the embrace, creating a dissonance that made his head spin.
William closed his eyes again. For a second, the mask of exhaustion slipped, and Mark saw a flash of something else fighting to get out. William wanted this. Mark could see it in the tension of his neck, in the way his breath hitched when *Mark whispered use me. But he was fighting it with a discipline that bordered on heroic.
"Stop," William said, his voice strained. "Just... stop. Get under the covers, Mark. We’re sleeping. That’s it."
*Mark stared at him for a long moment, searching for a crack in the resolve, a sign that his pleading had worked. But William remained steadfast, his eyes opening to meet *Mark’s gaze with a look of sad resolve.
Slowly, *Mark nodded. He pulled away, the movement heavy with defeat. He climbed off William, moving to the side of the bed. As he moved, the shirt slipped up one last time, giving Mark a full view of his double’s cock, half-hard and flushed, before *Mark quickly pulled the duvet up and over himself, hiding his body from view.
William lay back, staring up at the ceiling, his chest heaving slightly as if he’d just run a marathon. He reached out and turned off the lamp on the nightstand.
The room plunged into darkness, leaving Mark standing in the hallway, staring at a sliver of pitch black.
He stood there for a long time, his heart hammering against his ribs, the silence of the house now deafening. He had seen everything. He had heard everything. And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that he wasn't going to forget this anytime soon. The image of his double, vulnerable and begging, was burned into his retinas. The sound of William’s gentle refusal rang in his ears.
Mark took a step back, his hand moving to cover his mouth. But beneath the shame, a darker thought took root.
He hadn't left. He hadn't stopped watching. And he knew, deep down, that if *Mark tried again tomorrow, Mark would be right here, listening to every word.