Invincible: Blood of Two

"A brother shares childhood memories and grown-up dreams." Unknown.

Two months passed in a blur of sharpened pencils, standardized tests, and cafeteria lunches that always smelled faintly of stale milk and mystery meat after the passing of the test. Marcus had settled into his new grade with unsettling ease, his adult mind sliding through adolescent academia like a hot knife through butter. The teachers marveled, sending emails home about his "uncanny grasp of abstract reasoning" and "mature perspective beyond his years," while his classmates hovered between admiration, wariness and jealousy. Rumors swirled in hallways—some said he was a genius; others whispered about strange tutoring or secret experiments. Marcus paid them little attention.

However, the Grayson home was not untouched by these changes. Mark began to exhibit noticeable shifts in his behavior: a new edge to his laughter, a restlessness in his eyes. Where once he had been content to trail after Marcus or lose himself in superhero cartoons, now he kept his distance, watching his older brother with a complicated blend of pride and uncertainty.

The Grayson household had settled into a strange rhythm. Morning light spilled through the kitchen blinds, catching floating specks of dust like fireflies trapped in glass. Debbie flipped pancakes with practiced ease, the scent of butter and syrup creeping into every corner of the house. Mark sat at the table; a comic book tucked clumsily between the pages of his math workbook. His tongue peeked from the corner of his mouth in concentration as he scribbled equations he barely understood, refusing even the smallest hint from Marcus.

Debbie glanced over with pancakes. "Since when do you care about homework, Mark? Everything okay?" Her voice was gentle, but her eyes searched for his face for any cracks.

Mark looked away, ears-tinged pink, and shrugged. "Just trying harder, I guess."

Marcus watched quietly over the rim of his orange juice. He didn't miss the way Mark's knuckles were white on his pencil, or how he kept glancing—never quite meeting Marcus's eyes, but always aware of him, as if measuring himself against a shadow he couldn't quite touch. It had been this way ever since Marcus had skipped grades, ever since the world seemed to whisper about the "prodigy Grayson" and left Mark in the echo of his brother's footsteps.

After breakfast, Mark disappeared into the backyard, practicing soccer kicks against the fence until the ball left muddy smears on the boards and his sneakers squelched in the grass. Marcus, meanwhile, sat with a book of advanced calculus, but his eyes drifted to the window, tracking his little brother's solitary game. He wondered if there was a cure for growing up in someone's shadow—if there was a way to fix something so hard to name.

At night, the boys would lie in their separate rooms, listening to the house settle and the city hum outside. Sometimes Mark would fall asleep with the light on, dreams tangled between envy and hope. Sometimes Marcus would stare at the ceiling, thinking that for all his intelligence and his experience from his past life, he still didn't know how to be a good brother as the same thing that happened with his brother of his former life is happening right before his eyes.

****************************************************************************************************

The playground reeked of woodchips, sweat, and faintly of rust from the chain-link fence. Kids yelled and scrambled, kickballs flew, and someone was always daring someone else to eat dirt.

Mark lingered near the edge of the playground, tracing idle circles in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. His friends clustered nearby, huddled around a game of marbles, laughter bouncing around him. Still, Mark's gaze wandered to a group of older boys lounging by the fence, their eyes sharp and voices low.

One of them nudged the other, tilting his chin in Mark's direction. "Look at him. Thinks he's so special just cause his brother's smart," he muttered, loud enough for Mark to catch.

Mark's friend nudged him gently. "Ignore them, Mark. Let's just keep playing."

But the words had already rankled, worming their way under Mark's skin. His hands balled into fists. The laughter from the fence grew louder, and Mark's jaw tightened. He turned abruptly, marching toward the older boys, his friend's voice trailing behind him. "Mark, don't—"

Before he could stop himself, Mark shouted, anger cracking in his voice. "Why don't you leave us alone?"

The older boy smirked and shoved Mark hard. The scuffle was brief—Mark swung, wild and unpracticed, and in seconds he was on the ground, dust in his mouth and his pride stinging worse than his scraped knee. The older boys sauntered away, one of them tossing a final barb over his shoulder: "Guess you can't stand up for yourself either."

*****************************************************************************************************

When Debbie got the call, frustration simmered in her chest as she drove to pick Mark up. The car smelled like old coffee and worries.

As Mark climbed into the back seat, Debbie twisted around, concern and disappointment etched across her face. "Are you hurt, honey?" she asked, her tone softer than her grip on the wheel.

Mark kept his gaze lowered, fiddling with the frayed strap of his backpack. "I'm fine," he muttered, rubbing at a fresh scrape on his elbow.

"Fine?" Debbie's voice wavered between worry and exasperation. "Mark, you got into a fight! What happened? I want to hear it from you."

Mark hunched his shoulders, staring out the window as the city blurred by. "They were just… jerks. Said stuff about Marcus. I tried to ignore them."

Debbie sighed, pressing her lips together as she glanced back at the road. "Ignoring is sometimes the best way, but fighting—Mark, sweetheart, violence isn't the answer. You could get hurt. Or hurt someone else."

The silence grew heavy, broken only by the hum of the tires and the squeak of Mark's shoes on the floor mat. Finally, Debbie spoke again, her voice gentler. "Did they hurt you? Did you start it?"

Mark shook his head, blinking back tears. "No. I just—couldn't take it. They said I was dumb. That Marcus didn't want me around."

Debbie reached back, her hand finding his knee, squeezing with a reassuring warmth. "You are not dumb, Mark. And your brother loves you. Don't ever let anyone make you believe otherwise. But you have to talk to me, okay? I can't help if you shut me out."

Mark sniffed, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "Sorry, Mom. I didn't want you to be mad."

"I'm not mad," Debbie said quietly, glancing at him in the mirror. "I'm worried. I want you to be safe. We'll talk more at home, all right?"

At home, after band-aids and a gentle lecture about keeping his hands to himself, Marcus found Mark curled in his room, silent tears carving paths down his cheeks.

"Hey," Marcus said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. "What's wrong?"

Mark sniffed, burying his face in his pillow. "I didn't want you to know. I didn't want you to think I'm weak too."

Marcus knelt, ruffling his hair like he always did. "Mark... it's not about being strong right now. It's about learning. Growing. You're already stronger than you were yesterday. That's what matters."

Mark looked up, brown eyes wide and earnest. "You promise? That I'm not... weak?"

"Promise," Marcus affirmed, his gaze steady. "Everyone stumbles sometimes, Mark. The important thing is getting back up. And you did."

That night, the house settled into its soft domestic symphony: the faint hum of the dishwasher, the creak of floorboards as Debbie tidied up, Nolan working on his books in the living room. Marcus lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling when Mark padded in, hugging a pillow to his chest as they were watching a show on tv, but marks mind was not on the show at all far from it.

"Hey... Marcus?"

Marcus rolled onto his side. "Yeah, buddy?"

Mark hesitated while sitting at the end of the bed, voice small and a distant look on his face. "Do you think powers come from being smart? Like... if I just get smarter, will they come faster?"

Marcus sat up slowly, his chest tightening. "No, Mark. Powers don't care about grades. It's... genetics. Biology, sometimes luck. But there's more to it than that. Remember what dad said?, we just have to be patient." He leaned forward, searching Mark's face for understanding. "Honestly? Power isn't just about what you can do—it's about the choices you make with what you have. Doing the right thing, even when it's hard. You know, there's this old saying from a comic book I used to read: 'With great power comes great responsibility.'"

Mark looked up, curiosity flickering in his eyes.

"It means," Marcus continued gently, "that what matters most is not how strong or smart you are, but how you use what you've got to help others. That's the real power, and you don't need super abilities for that. You're already stronger than you know, Mark. And I believe in you."

Silence stretched between them, heavy as the darkness pooling in the corners of the room. Mark's eyes had that faraway glimmer, a look of understanding mixed with something unresolved beneath the surface. Marcus watched him for a moment, then nudged Mark gently with his elbow.

"What's up, Mark? You're still thinking about something, aren't you?"

Mark hesitated, fingers tightening around the edge of his pillow. He chewed at his lip, his gaze dropping to the rumpled blanket between them.

"Do you think Dad and Mum are proud of me too? Or just you?"

Marcus's breath caught as the words hung in the air, sharper and more vulnerable than he expected. His heart squeezed—how long had Mark been carrying this doubt, this ache that he wasn't enough in their parents' eyes? Suddenly, the bravado and brave faces they wore for each other felt paper thin.

Gently, Marcus patted the bed beside him, voice softer now, thick with feeling. "C'mere, buddy." Mark shuffled over, small and uncertain, eyes shining in the dim light—a silent plea for reassurance. Marcus opened his arms, pulling his brother close, holding him tight like he could shield Mark from every worry with the strength of his own embrace.

He let the silence linger, the weight of Mark's insecurity settling over them both. Marcus wished he could promise away every shadow of doubt, wished he'd seen it sooner. Tonight, he resolved, Mark wouldn't go to sleep wondering if he was loved.

"He's proud of you," Marcus said softly. "I'm proud of you. Mom's proud of you too. You don't have to be anyone else, Mark. We love you just the way you are."

Mark nodded against his shoulder, breath hitching. "You really think so?"

Marcus gave Mark a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, a warmth settling between them that no darkness could disturb. "You know, no matter what, I'll always have your back," he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Mark let out a shaky breath, then managed a smile of his own—tentative, but real. "I'll have yours too," he whispered, his voice barely above a murmur.

They sat together for a moment, the world outside quiet and far away, sharing the kind of silence that only brothers know—one that spoke of trust, forgiveness, and the promise that, come what may, they'd never be alone. And in that small, unremarkable room, Mark felt, perhaps for the first time, that he truly belonged.

As sunlight crept through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the floor, a gentle peace lingered in the air—fragile, but real. Mark gathered his things for school, shoulders held just a bit higher, the memory of last night's embrace echoing in every steady step. Marcus caught his eye at the door, and with a conspiratorial wink, sent him off into the world—reminding him, without a word, that he was never truly alone.

Outside, the day waited patiently, full of uncertainties and small victories yet to be claimed. But as the brothers parted ways, each carried with them the quiet certainty of belonging—woven not from grand gestures, but from the soft, unbreakable threads of family.

And in that hush before the day's noise began in earnest, Mark smiled to himself, knowing that whatever came next, he was enough.