Chapter Text
Morty has always known, how could he not when every time he looked at himself his own body felt wrong, like he wasn’t meant for his own anatomy. How could he not know when he had to bite his own tounge every time that his parents tried to make him more of a man.
Speaking of, his parents were fighting downstairs again, shouting about star knew what once again, he really wished they’d just get a divorce as he had to sandwich his head between two pillows just to avoid the noise that grated at his ears, pressing down as hard as he could to muffle out the yelling, he wasn’t even mad about the fighting he could care less about how his parents barely tollerated each other and stayed together “just for the kids”
Something they really tried to hide even when it was so obvious to everyone.
he just hated the constant yelling that got under his skin and threatened to make him claw at it just to relieve the phantom feeling.
When he finally found that the house quieted down, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes threatening to spill out of pure irritation, he sat up on his bed, taking a couple of deep breaths to steady himself, it was late at night by that point, everyone gone to bed (exept maybe Rick? Late night building inventions wasn’t unusual lately) Leaving only him, the quiet of the night with the occasional chirping of the annoying birds from outside his window, and his thoughts that had been nagging at him all day making him wish to shove a nail into his eye socket to lobotomize them down. Morty stood up, trying to open up his closet as quietly as possible, the soft creak coming out making the hair on his arm exploding in goosebumps.
He found underneath the mess of his clothes hanging there the neatly folded and carefully hidden skirt he had stolen from summer earlier that evening.
Did he feel like a creep? Sure. Was he shaking like a leaf for at least a couple hours after he’d snuck into his sisters room and prayed that she didn’t notice? Also yes. But now he stared at the piece of fabric, his fingers delicately brushing against the ruffles on the bottom of it.
It was, admittedly, not the best piece of clothing, a pleated black skirt with white ruffles on the bottom trim of it, the upper edge frayed the culprit of its poor quality and reason as for why it was never worn by his soster, Summer had probably forgotten of its existance by now, but it was also one of the only things he knew she wouldn’t immidiatly notice was missing due to the fact that she would most likely never search for it directly.
He stared at it, then stared at it some more, waited a few more seconds.
He felt so silly for this, really who would have their fingers shaking just becouse they held a feminine piece of clothing? Him. He was the one who had that reaction.
His parents had always been very harsh christians, even after the handful they got from Rick when he crashed their house and loudly claimed while very drunk that god didn’t exist, while Beth seemed more lenient to agree with her father, he suspected it was just her fear of him abandoning her again and needing to comply to everything he said, Jerry remained very stuck up about having his children conform to the stereotypical gender roles. Huh maybe that was what they were arguing about earlier, who knew really they had so many “problems” in their relationship they could argue about the weather.
Holding the cloth felt wrong, something that he really, really, shouldn’t do. But he had seen his sister wear it a long time ago before it got ruined, and she looked so pretty in it (even after having their father preach about how it was “scandalus” and calling his daughter some words that really no teenager should have refered to them) and he… he wanted to be that pretty, it was something he wished for, being called weird for the looks he gave girls when he really couldn’t bring himself to sexualize them when he longed to look at himself in the mirror and see that kind of ethereal beauty, he knew that god couldn’t be called “all loving” if he had really let it happend for a person to feel like their soul and body collided with ideas of what to be.
So he changed into the skirt, feeling the soft breeze of the night blowing on his bare legs, he had to use one of his belts to prevent the slightly too large skirt to slip off his hips, and stared down at himself.
He had some conflicting emotions, on one hand, he felt overjoyed, becouse if he didn’t think about the fact that he could never wear this in public and that his cheeks burned with shame at the thought of showing anyone other than the pale moon in the sky, looking down at him with the gentle way it always had when the light slipped over his face. He loved it, he loved that he meneaged to wear it, he loved that if he didn’t think about his thick and dark hair on his legs that reminded him of his damn gender it made his chest fuzzy with a sensation he couldn’t quite place, a kind of euphoria just from seeing the girly clothing on him.
But of course everything came crashing down on him when he remembered all those things, quickly making work of changing back into his pants pj’s and feeling the tips of his ears burning up so much they might have actually produced smoke from his frayed neurons. He shoved his face in his hands, shame washing over him like a bucket of ice. He rushed to hide the skirt back in his closet, slumped down onto his bed and burried his face in his pillow.
Why, why couldn’t he just be a real man, why couldn’t he look at his naked body without feeling utter disgust, and why couldn’t he wear that damn skirt every day and be a damn girl.
It wasn’t exactly helpful that what came to mind next was all the other Mortys from other dimensions, he saw them around the citadel, they didn’t have the shame clinging to them as he did, all so damn comfortable in themseves, so secure that they belonged in their own body. Morty was so furious and envius of them, why did they get to have an accepting family? Why did they get to not hate themselves every day just becouse everyone told them to be “real man”? Even in the multiverse he got the short end of the stick.
Tears were now glossing over his eyes, creating little wet patches on his pillow, he knew this was stupid, and silly, and every other deminishing word in the dictionary, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling of wanting to scratch at his skin until he was nothing more than a torn piece of flesh.
With those reassuring thought still lingering in his mind, he quietly cried into his pillow until he fell asleep, knowing that he could only feel disgust thowards himself, about how he wished that things could be different and that he could tear his own body apart to show everyone what he really felt like everytime he was expected to be a “man”, he knew he wasn’t one damnit why did everyone have to rub salt in the wound.