Work Text:
We become writers when our minds start to deteriorate.
So Rick kept a journal. Not a diary! Because diaries were meant to contain jargon regarding nonsensical feelings and suicide letters. Journals kept up with his days, his routines, and sometimes his...emotions. Just a tad.
So he wrote, and never scrapped it. It was raw and unedited, full of errors and failing sentence structures. But it was him. He had a tendency to forget what he was doing because he was so preoccupied with stress throughout the day, so he jotted it down.
Which started to shift into writing about his feelings.
He wrote down every interaction with Morty within his little book, filling up the pages with scribbles from simple evenings. And it mattered to him. It mattered a lot.
He had a section where he would write down dumb, or even clever quotes Morty came up with on the spot. Whenever he was feeling like shit, he’d just flip open the book and go over his notes for however long he needed to until he felt better. It kept him from drinking too much these days, which was good.
The old man would comment in his notes about Morty’s odd mannerisms that he was so fond of. How his voice squeaked whenever he was laughing and trying to talk through it. The way his grandson pouted his lips slightly and furrowed his eyebrows when he was concentrating or when he was very, very confused with something. Rick scribbled down about the way he wiggled his hips and tiptoed in pace while he was doing the dishes while singing. Weird, bizarre things that he did that somehow made the genius indescribably happy.
He started to realize his feelings within jotting down his feelings.
They were...unconventional. Something he stowed away instead of embracing them for what they were. He swore to god on his own pride that he wouldn’t delve into something illogical.
Don’t wanna hear about it.
It was dumb. Really, really dumb. The way the pit in his stomach heated up, boiled over. It burst within his insides once it hit the bottom of his belly like a bomb, affection splattering across his organs in the massacre. The carnage of the disaster began planting itself inside his ribs, manifesting, clinging to the bones like vines. It grew up around his lungs that resembled mold, making it hard to breathe when he was around the boy. The lungs, filling up with vanilla vodka as he drank, nourished the plants instead of killing them. It couldn’t abolish his feelings, he didn’t want them to. He found out that this is what adoration is.
Idiotic.
Love paints in flowers. He felt them blooming up past his gullet, the man vomiting out lovely words that were a little more than friendly around Morty. And it scared him. So he ripped the weeds from his lungs, it left him gasping for breath.
But he couldn’t bury his feelings, they were seeds.
Heavy weighed his heart as he snipped the vines, it was for the better. Rick couldn’t afford to jeopardize everything he had with his grandson, it would leave his garden in ruins.
So he snipped, and snipped, and...snipped…..
God.
I can’t do it.
He trimmed the weeds he now saw as flowers, less derogatory, more marvelous. He had the aha! moment as he knew he couldn’t completely rid of his feelings immediately, so he tamed them as best he could. He located them.
Locate.
Contain.
Locate.
He wanted to work through his head why he felt these things. Where did they come from, how would Morty feel about this? How did he feel about this?
It didn’t make sense. But that was love, he guessed. It just doesn’t make sense. It happens, whether you consider the emotion or not. Rick knew what he felt, and he assumed what Morty felt as well. And it hurt.
We become poets when our hearts begin to break.
He scrawled out a cacophony of unique phrases that meant very little to him, unimpressive. Bland, as his attitude was tasteless from his own point of view, whereas it was scripture in Morty’s. He found himself to be a plot of land, barren, dry. His wheat was separated from the chaff, but cast aside.
But just like wheat, you need to go through your own trials before you’re presented in your most desirable form. People accept the norm of your brand, but they don’t appreciate where you came from. The original you, is nothing.
He, was nothing.
Dread is he
Amid the lowest levels
Born to rise from the depths
But struggling with each devil
It meant nothing.
“Tasteless.” He whispered, closing his eyes as he pulled his knees up to his trembling chest.
Rick was sat on top of the roof with a drunk Morty as the sun was setting, the boy in an oversized hoodie that formerly belonged to the genius. Their fingertips were cold as their noses were pleasantly irritated by the start of fall.
Morty looked over at him, quizzically.
“Hm?” He questioned softly, eyes half lidded. The boy tilted his head as he, in Rick’s mind, graciously locked his curious gaze with him.
Rick just shook his head, scanning over his grandson’s soft facial features. Morty’s tanned skin paled considerably within the winter, much to the old man’s dismay until he saw the kid blush. He was delighted as the red stood out way more than it did previously on his now rosy cheeks. Morty did it somewhat often around him, always blaming it on the cold.
And maybe it was, but Rick wanted to think it was because of him.
“What are you thinking about.” Morty murmured, scooting closer to his best friend, their hands barely in contact with each other. Nevertheless, they were touching.
There was a long moment of silence before Rick gently exhaled, his breath looking almost palpable in the air.
He swallowed, throat clicking.
“I want to see you illuminated in the dark.”
Small silence.
Morty sniffled softly as he rested his head delicately on the old man’s shoulder, his fingers shyly brushing against Rick’s as he awaited the harsh retort to his uncalled quote of love.
“You’re r-r-r-really beautiful.” The teen mumbled, closing his eyes in contentment. “You are so lovely.”
Rick’s face felt unusually warm at that. He exhaled shortly, sharply as he smiled.
“Y-Y-You think so?”
“I know so.”
“O-Oh.” He breathed, heart hammering into his chest like he was being nailed to his own cross. Violent and reckless.
“So...what are you thinking about?”
Morty raised his head from Rick’s shoulder, the boy looking into his face.
“You.” He whispered, frame shaking subtly. “Always you.”
Rick looked over at the other, and he saw stars.
He turned to Morty properly, raising his hand in a bout of courage without thinking. The genius tentatively cupped Morty’s cheek, the man shocked by his own movements. He couldn’t imagine what Morty was feeling.
The boy’s breath hitched as he closed his eyes, swallowing. Rick wasn’t sure if it was because of his cold fingers, or the unexpected contact. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.
“I…”
Rick felt like a chainsmoker choking on their inhale. He’s been doing it for years, so why is he messing up now? He’s told Morty countless times in convoluted ways that he loved him, but this was a new brand of cigars. He never told it to him like this, and he’s not sure if the other would like his taste in wording.
“I am in love with you…?” Rick’s gentle voice wavered, the awkward statement stumbled out of his mouth.
His chest felt like there were missing bones within it. The fragmented pieces were found in his mouth as it poked at the back of his throat, tearing the flesh as he felt like crying. It was burning inside of him, and Rick half expected to taste blood pooling in and out of his mouth as his words burned his tongue regretfully.
“You sound unsure.” Morty furrowed his eyebrows slightly, eyes still closed before they slowly fluttered open.
“I don’t know why.” He murmured, exhaling gently as he retracted his hand. “I don’t know why.”
Morty sniffled quietly, huffing softly in his own amusement.
“What if I told you that I’m in love with you, too?”
Rick just blinked at him.
“Huh. Didn’t...didn’t consider that.” The old man admitted quietly, more to himself than the other. “Should I?”
“I’m telling you that you should.”
There was a brief moment of silence before Morty leaned towards Rick and pecked his cheek with his lips, making the old man blush profusely.
“Oh my god.” Morty giggled softly in his drunken stupor. “You are a massive dork.”
“Quiet. Be quiet.” Rick huffed, an embarrassed smile forming on his face. “Quiet, you.”
“Make me.” Morty pouted at him. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he knew Rick would fall for it.
And of course, he did.
Rick’s smile faded as he looked at his grandson intensely, who in return had a gentle softness molding his facial features. The genius leaned forwards slowly, Morty closing his eyes again before Rick kissed him gently, his hand coming up again to cup his cheek.
Morty, who had hid his hands within his loose sleeves due to the cold, brought them up to hold Rick’s face in his palms. This had an immediate reaction as he felt the old man smile widely against his lips, only to move his head back and snort.
“Really?”
“Wh…”
“Are you five?”
“It’s cold!” Morty flapped his hands, the wrists of his hoodie flailing. This made Rick laugh and a large grin manifest on the boy’s face.
“You keep stealing this hoodie from me!” Rick pinched Morty’s arm playfully, earning a yelp.
“Why do you think I do that, dumbass.” He mumbled, crossing his arms as he tried to hide his amusement. “It-It smells like you.”
“Oh..” The old man replied in a small voice, a tiny smile manifesting on his mouth.
“Yeah, well.” Morty’s cheeks were dusted pink as a hand came up to skim his nose as he sniffled. “It’s- hmph. Whatever.”
“You’re a fucking sap.”
“I said whatever.”
“Y-Y-You’re a brat.”
“Okay.” Morty nodded, frowning as his eyebrows raised. “Okay. No more kisses then.”
Rick looked absolutely devastated. He involuntarily emitted a small whimper of distress, his eyes pleading as he searched his grandson’s face.
“I’m- Morty…”
“I’m literally fucking with you.” He poked Rick’s shoulder, snorting in amusement. “C-Come here.”
The boy leaned forwards, kissing Rick this time on the lips as the genius’ eyebrows furrowed. He pulled away after a long moment, smiling as the other looked confused.
“You’re...you’re mean, Morty.”
“I’m sorry.” He pouted, holding one of Rick’s hands as he played with his fingers. “It’s just my way.”
“And your way is bullshit.” The old man laughed quietly, lacing his fingers with Morty’s. “Wh-Who taught you that?”
Obviously you, Rick.
“I love you.” Morty sighed, looking into Rick’s eyes in contentment. “I love you.”
In retaliation to the boy’s confession, the old man leaned forwards to press his mouth against the other’s plush lips, mumbling against his mouth that he loved him, too.
There was a comfortable silence between the two. Both of them were blushing, shaking from the cold of the night and their own adoration for the other. They exchanged short kisses, laughing between each one, their smiles breaking them apart half the time.
Rick would jot down later on that night that today was definitely a day to remember.