Work Text:
It had started a month ago.
The first time Morty began coughing, he dismissed it as just another bout of seasonal allergies. After all, it was springtime, and every year without fail, the arrival of blooming flowers and budding trees sent a wave of pollen through the air. He was used to the itchy eyes, the sneezing, and the occasional cough that came with it. So when the coughing began, he didn't think much of it. He popped a Benadryl and went about his day, assuming it would clear up soon.
But as the days passed, Morty began to realize that this was no ordinary cough. It started off as a minor annoyance, a tickle at the back of his throat that wouldn't go away. But gradually, it grew more persistent and more severe. Each day, the coughing fits became more frequent and more intense. During the day, he would find himself doubling over in the middle of class or during lunch, trying to suppress the relentless hacking that left him breathless and exhausted.
Nights were even worse. Morty would be jolted awake in the dead of night, his lungs seizing as he gasped for air. The sensation was terrifying, as if something were lodged deep in his throat, obstructing his airway. No matter how hard he coughed, the blockage wouldn't move. He'd lie there in the darkness, clutching his chest, tears streaming down his face from the strain, until finally, the fit would pass, leaving him shaking and drenched in sweat.
His parents had grown increasingly worried. Despite Rick’s protests, they took him to the family doctor, who listened to his lungs and prescribed various medications: cough syrups, inhalers, antibiotics. None of them made a difference. The coughing continued unabated, leaving Morty exhausted and on edge, his school performance suffering as a result. His teachers expressed concern, and his few friends started to keep their distance, unnerved by the severity of his symptoms.
Morty himself was scared. The constant coughing was bad enough, but the feeling of something being stuck in his throat was even worse. It was like a persistent, unyielding presence that refused to be dislodged. He tried every home remedy he could think of: honey and lemon, steam inhalation, herbal teas. Nothing worked. A few days a week, he’d sit in the garage as Rick ran various tests, but they all came out negative. Not even his genius grandfather knew what was wrong.
One day, as Morty walks home from school, the sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows on the pavement. The afternoon air is warm, and the scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass lingers, a typical spring day. He trudges along, his backpack slung over one shoulder, lost in thoughts about his homework and plans for the weekend. Suddenly, an intense, sharp pain slices through his chest, catching him off guard. It feels as though an invisible hand is squeezing his lungs, making it nearly impossible to draw a breath.
Panic sets in. His airway feels blocked, and every attempt to inhale only makes the constriction tighter. He doubles over, clutching his chest in desperation. His mind races, thoughts jumbled by fear. Is it an asthma attack? Heart failure? Something worse? He staggers to the side of the road, leaning against a tree for support, his legs trembling beneath him.
He begins to cough, deep, wracking coughs that shake his entire body. Each cough feels like it’s tearing his chest apart, but he can't stop. His vision blurs with tears, his throat raw from the effort. He coughs into his hands, the sound harsh and desperate in the quiet afternoon. After what feels like an eternity, a gagging sensation overtakes him, and he finally manages to expel whatever is obstructing his airway.
Gasping for breath, Morty feels something wet and slightly sticky land in his palm. He stands there for a moment, bent over, one hand on his knee, trying to steady his breathing. Gradually, the world comes back into focus, and he becomes aware of the object he’s holding.
Slowly, almost fearfully, Morty pulls his hand away from his face and looks down. There, nestled in his palm, is a small, delicate, pink object. It takes a moment for his brain to process what he’s seeing. A flower petal.
He stares at the petal in bewilderment, a mix of confusion and revulsion swirling inside him. How on earth had a flower petal ended up in his throat? The thought alone is disturbing, making his skin crawl. He looks around, scanning the area for any clue, but there are no flowers in sight. The street is lined with bare trees and empty lawns, not a single bloom to be found.
His mind races with questions. Did he accidentally inhale it at some point? But how could he not have noticed? And why now, after weeks of relentless coughing? Morty stands there, feeling the absurdity of the situation wash over him.
He brings the petal closer to his face, examining it with a mix of curiosity and fear. It's delicate, with a soft pink hue that seems almost ethereal. He can't help but feel a strange sense of beauty from it, despite the bizarre circumstances.
Rick . Rick would have to know what it was now. How many sicknesses had coughing up flowers as a symptom? This would surely narrow it down enough for Rick to figure out what it was and fix him up ASAP. Confidence and relief swells in Morty’s chest, and he clutches the petal tightly in his palm as he picks up his pace, now more eager than ever to get home.
Morty hurries down the street, his heart pounding with a mixture of fear and hope. When he arrives home he’s breathless, the petal still clutched in his hand. He bursts through the front door and heads straight for the garage, where Rick is usually working on one of his many projects.
"Rick!" Morty calls out, his voice trembling with urgency. "Rick, I need your help!"
Rick looks up from his workbench, his face marked with mild annoyance. "What is it, Morty? Can't you see I'm in the middle of something important?"
Morty takes a deep breath and extends his hand, revealing the pink petal. "I found this in my throat. I... I coughed it up."
Rick's eyes widen as he examines the petal, his expression shifting from annoyance to curiosity. He takes the petal from Morty's hand, scrutinizing it closely under a magnifying glass. After a moment, he looks back at Morty, his face serious.
"This isn't good, Morty. Not good at all," Rick says, his voice uncharacteristically grave.
"What do you mean, Rick? What is it?" Morty asks, anxiety creeping back into his voice.
Rick sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It's Hanahaki Disease, Morty. I-it’s rare, but it's real. It's a condition from— c-caused by unrequited love.” Morty catches the way Rick’s expression twists at the word. He already knows Rick’s stance on love, dismissing it as a simple chemical reaction that’s unnecessary and stupid.
“I-it gets worse the longer the feelings are unresolved, until the petals turn i-into full-blown flowers. Fuck, I-I should have realized what it was sooner. I-it shouldn’t have gotten to this stage. You have flowers in your lungs, Morty!” Rick groans and runs his fingers through his hair.
Morty's heart drops like a rock. He had hoped Rick would tell him it was some strange but harmless anomaly. "Unrequited love? But... but I don't—"
Rick cuts him off. "Think, Morty. Y-y-you must have feelings for someone you're not admitting, even to yourself. Someone close to you, someone who doesn't return those feelings."
Morty swallows hard, his mind immediately flashing to Jessica. But that’s was just a simple crush, and he’s 99% sure his feelings for her were gone by now. Who could it be?
“C-can’t you like, do something about it, Rick? You’re a genius. Isn’t there some kind of— l-like, medication? Or surgery, o-or something?” Morty pleads, clutching the petal tightly in his hand.
Rick hesitates, his expression clouded with concern. “There is surgery, Morty. It can remove the flowers, but i-it’s risky. It could mess with your memories, your emotions. It’s not s-something to take lightly.”
Morty listens intently, absorbing Rick’s words with a sinking feeling in his chest. Surgery. The word hangs in the air, heavy with implications. He imagines the risk, the uncertainty of altering his memories and emotions. But the alternative is equally terrifying – living with the relentless progression of Hanahaki Disease, flowers blooming and choking him slowly from within.
“Rick,” Morty starts cautiously, his voice trembling slightly. “What happens if I… if I don’t do anything?”
Rick’s expression softens, a rare glimpse of empathy crossing his features. “Morty, if it’s left untreated, the flowers will continue to grow. Eventually, they’ll obstruct your airways completely. It won’t e-end well.”
Morty swallows hard, his throat tight with unshed tears. The reality of his situation weighs heavily on him. “I… I don’t know what to do, Rick. I never wanted this.”
Rick’s gaze softens, his voice gentle yet firm. “Morty, sometimes we can’t control our feelings. They just happen. But you have to face them, head-on. It’s the only way to stop this from getting worse.”
Morty nods slowly, the weight of Rick’s words settling in his heart. “Okay, Rick. I’ll… I’ll try.”
Rick places a reassuring hand on Morty’s shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort. “We’ll figure this out together, Morty. I promise.”
Days pass in a blur for Morty. Each coughing fit feels like a harsh reminder of his unspoken feelings, the petals that continue to plague him. He tries to go about his daily routine, but his mind keeps returning to Rick – his brilliant mind, his irreverent humor, the way he always seemed to have a solution to every problem.
One afternoon, as Morty wanders through the garage while Rick tinkers with a new invention, he feels a familiar tickle at the back of his throat. He coughs into his hand, expecting to see another petal, but this time, something different lands in his palm – a small flower bud. Not just a petal, a bud.
“Rick…” Morty trails off, his voice pitching up in fear.
“What?” He snaps, turning away from what he’s tinkering with. “Can’t y-you see I’m— oh.”
His face grows serious as he looks at what Morty’s holding out to him, and his unibrow furrows in a mixture of concern and frustration.
“Morty, this is escalating faster than I anticipated,” Rick mutters, taking the bud from Morty’s hand and examining it closely. “We need to do something about this, now.”
Morty’s heart sinks further at Rick’s grave tone. “What can we do, Rick? I-I don’t want surgery, but I can’t keep going like this either.”
“Morty, y-you’re being stupid. Surgery is the only option at this point, you won’t be able to figure out who it is and confess in time if you’ve taken this long and still don’t know. And even then, you don’t know if they’ll reciprocate. You could die in a-a week, Morty!”
Morty crosses his arms stubbornly. “I’ll figure it out! J-just give me a few more days!”
Rick scrutinizes Morty with a mix of frustration and concern, his brow furrowed deeply. Morty's stubbornness is both admirable and exasperating, especially in a situation as serious as this. Hanahaki disease wasn't something to be trifled with. The flowers in Morty's lungs are progressing rapidly, and every day that passes without resolution poses a greater risk to Morty's health.
"Morty, this isn't a joke," Rick's voice is unusually solemn, lacking its usual sarcastic edge. "You've already tried to figure it out on your own, and look where that got you. Time's running out. You need to consider the surgery."
Morty shakes his head vehemently, clutching the flower bud in his hand as if it were the key to unraveling this mystery without invasive measures. "No, Rick. There has to be another way. I can't just— I can't mess with my memories and emotions like that. What if it changes me?"
Rick sighs heavily, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Look, Morty, I get it. Surgery is risky. But this isn't just about your feelings anymore. This is about your life . If you keep delaying, the flowers will keep growing until they choke you from the inside out. Do you really want to risk that? I can perform it with minimal risk, Morty. I’m Rick Sanchez, the smartest motherfucker in the universe. Trust me to do this.”
Morty's gaze falters, torn between his fear of surgery and the stark reality Rick was presenting. He glances down at the flower bud in his hand, its delicate petals a reminder of the ticking clock inside his own body.
"I just... I need more time," Morty finally mutters, his voice tinged with desperation. And before Rick can reply, can argue or try to convince him otherwise, Morty turns and hurries out of the garage.
Rick watches Morty leave the garage, a knot of worry tightening in his chest. He knows Morty’s stubbornness often leads him into trouble, but this time, it’s different. Hanahaki Disease isn’t something to be taken lightly—it’s insidious and potentially fatal if left untreated. Rick curses under his breath, frustrated by his own inability to find a quick solution.
With a resigned sigh, he presses a button on his workbench, a mini fridge popping out of the countertop. He swipes a six-pack of beer out of the fridge and pops open a can with a hiss, taking a long sip as he contemplates his next move.
Meanwhile, Morty retreats to his room, the flower bud clutched tightly in his hand. His thoughts whirl in chaotic circles, grappling with Rick’s words and the reality of his situation. Surgery looms as the only viable option to stop the disease from progressing further, but the thought of altering his memories and emotions terrifies him.
He sits on his bed, staring at the flower bud as if it holds the answers he desperately seeks. Who could it be? His mind races through the people in his life—Jessica, his classmates, even Summer—but none of them fit. The feelings associated with Hanahaki Disease are supposed to be intense, consuming, and Morty can’t pinpoint anyone who fits that description.
Lost in his thoughts, Morty isn’t quite sure how much time passes. He startles when his phone buzzes with a message. It’s from Rick, a rare occurrence outside of their adventures or emergencies.
Garaeg. Need 2 talkk yo u.
A groan slips past Morty’s lips, followed by a cough that brings a few more petals up. Of course Rick decided to get drunk as soon as Morty left the garage. Typical Rick behavior.
Morty hesitates but eventually decides to head to the garage. He's not sure what Rick wants to talk about, but he knows it can't be good given his grandfather's drunken state.
As he enters the garage, he's met with the strong smell of beer and the sight of Rick, slumped over his workbench, a half-empty can in his hand. Morty rolls his eyes but can't help feeling a pang of concern. Even in his drunken state, Rick still has that aura of unpredictability and danger around him.
"What do you want, Rick?" Morty asks, trying to keep his voice steady.
Rick looks up, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. "C-c’mere, Morty.. Morty, you.. I… c’mere, b-buddy.” His voice is thick with emotion, and Morty can’t help but feel a little bad. Rick only drinks this much when he’s feeling really fucked up.
“What’s wrong, Rick?” Morty approaches, gently pulling the can of beer away from his grandpa. Rick doesn’t protest, but his fingers grasp at air for a few seconds before his hand flops back onto the workbench.
“I can’t l-l-lose you.” Rick chokes out, grasping at the front of Morty’s shirt at pulling him closer. “M-my little buddy, Morty, c-can’t…” Rick's grip on Morty's shirt tightens as he pulls him closer, tears streaming down his face. "Morty, I-I can't lose you. You're the o-only good thing in my fucked u-up life."
Morty’s heart stutters in his chest at Rick's raw, unfiltered confession. He's never seen his grandfather this vulnerable, this emotional. It's almost like looking at a completely different person.
"Rick, I'm not going anywhere," Morty reassures him, his voice gentle and soothing. "I'm right here, and I'm not going to leave you."
Rick sniffles, both hands reaching up and holding either side of Morty’s head. “D-don’t leave, Morty. P-please, I have to— I-I need…”
Rick's words trail off, his grip on Morty's head tightening as he buries his face in Morty's shoulder, sobs wracking his body. Morty stands there, stunned and unsure of how to react. And then a realization hits him with the force of a freight train, and it feels like all the air’s been knocked out of his lungs.
“ Oh . Shit.” Morty chokes out, his hands trembling as he pulls back to look at Rick. His mind races as he pieces together the puzzle, the truth staring him in the face like a neon sign. And suddenly, it all makes sense.
Rick sniffles, looking up at Morty with red-rimmed eyes. "W-what?" His eyes search Morty’s expression, and he must be able to read the realization dawning on Morty's face because his expression shifts from confusion to shock.
“Oh.” Rick echoes, his hands sliding from the sides of Morty’s head to his shoulders.
"I’m sorry." The words spill out of Morty's mouth, his throat growing tight with emotion.
“No, Morty, y-you can’t be saying…” Rick trails off, expression conflicted. When Morty nods, Rick lets out a shaky breath, his gaze dropping to the floor.
“Morty, this—this isn’t... n-no. It’s… i-it’s just a fucked up mix of emotions. You’re y-young, confused, a-a-and you’ve spent too much time around me. This is m-my fault.”
“N-no, Rick,” Morty protests, his voice pitching up into a whine. “Don’t say that.”
”Morty, this is b-b-beyond fucked up.”
“Please.” It’s the only thing Morty can say, his voice cracking as tears threaten to spill over.
Rick stares at Morty for a long moment, his expression unreadable. And then, slowly, he pulls Morty into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around him as if he's trying to hold on to something precious and fragile. "Morty…”
Morty clings to Rick, tears streaming down his face as he finally allows himself to feel the depth of his emotions. He's loved Rick for so long, but he's been too afraid to admit it, even to himself. But now, in Rick's arms, he feels safe.
Slowly, hesitantly, Morty stands on his toes and tilts his head up towards Rick’s. Their lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss, a moment of vulnerability and tenderness between two people who have spent years dancing around their feelings. Morty's hands come up to rest on Rick's shoulders, holding on as if afraid he might disappear.
And as they stand there, wrapped in each other's arms, the petals in Morty's lungs begin to dissolve, the disease slowly receding as the weight of his unspoken feelings lifts from his chest.
The sensation is indescribable—a lightness where there was once only suffocating weight. Morty feels the petals dissolve, the obstruction easing with each second that Rick holds him tighter. The kiss deepens, a desperate, needy affirmation of the emotions they’ve both kept buried for so long.
When they finally pull apart, Morty’s lungs feel clear for the first time in weeks. He takes a deep breath, reveling in the absence of pain, the freedom of a full, unlabored inhale. Rick’s hands remain on his shoulders, steadying him, and Morty can see the worry and relief mingling in his grandfather’s eyes.
“I-it’s better,” Morty whispers, his voice hoarse from emotion rather than illness. “The flowers… they’re gone.”
Rick nods, his grip tightening for a moment before he releases Morty and takes a step back, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I— I shouldn’t have let it get t-this bad, Morty. Should’ve seen the signs, s-should’ve known…”
“It’s not your fault, Rick.” Morty interrupts, his voice firmer now. “I didn’t even know how I felt. How could you?”
Rick huffs, a dry, mirthless laugh escaping his lips. “Morty, I’m Rick goddamn Sanchez. I should know everything . Especially something this important.”
“You’re not omniscient, Rick,” Morty says gently. “You couldn’t have known unless I told you, and I didn’t even know myself.”
Rick’s shoulders slump slightly, and for once, he looks almost… human. Vulnerable. The harsh lines of his face soften just a bit as he meets Morty’s gaze. “Yeah, well… maybe you’re right, Morty. Maybe.”
There’s a silence between them, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and the aftershocks of their shared realization. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s a silence filled with understanding and a strange sense of peace.
"I guess this means we're in it together, huh?" Morty says with a weak smile, looking up at Rick with a mixture of gratitude and relief.
"Guess so," Rick replies gruffly, but the corner of his mouth twitches upwards in a rare show of affection. He reaches out and ruffles Morty's hair, a gesture that is both paternal and endearing.
“I love you, Rick,” Morty mumbles shyly, his cheeks flushing.
Rick’s eyes soften at Morty’s words, the rare display of vulnerability striking a chord deep within him. “I love you too, Morty,” Rick murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically tender. “More than I probably should. But, well, you’re my Morty, and I can’t change that.”