Archive of Our Own

The torn yellow T-shirt was clenched in Morty’s hand, warming slightly from his grip, its soft hem draping over his thighs. Save for the bullet-grazed wound at the shoulder, it was no different from any other yellow T-shirt in his wardrobe. The difference lay only in this: it had never belonged to him, but to another Morty—a parallel self inhabiting a different world.

The multiverse always complicates matters.

You could meet yourself somewhere beyond the mirror—countless versions of yourself, in every imaginable form, with every imaginable temperament. You could go on adventures hand in hand with yourself, bicker, chat, or kiss. Or, with nothing more than a single exchange of glances, devise a plan to swap clothes and identities, and together bring down the final boss.

The sensation was rather wondrous. Among countless differences, you shared a common essence—a resonance that reached the depths of the soul, a complete spiritual communion that no one else could achieve, except yourself.

Even days after the Prime incident, Morty could still vividly recall the surge of excitement that had burst forth from his chest the moment he put on that T-shirt, as though a long-dormant floodgate had finally been thrown open. No words were needed; in a single instant of thought, he understood the other self’s plan—binding the eyepatch, switching identities, deceiving Prime, striking when his guard was down. And yet, while part of him remained anxious over whether the plan would succeed, a greater part of his attention had drifted to the two cool fingers behind his head, tying the eyepatch for him.

Touch. A cold touch. A touch that resonated with the soul.

He felt dizzy, yet a sudden rush of heat surged through his belly. Then, accompanied by the thunderous collapse of the giant robot, a powerful shockwave struck. Unable to dodge in time, he lost consciousness in the dust and smoke brought by the explosion.

When he opened his eyes again, the plan had already succeeded. The boy wearing the eyepatch was dragging Prime's paralyzed body toward the control room.

“We did it… we did it!”

All the joy and excitement of defeating the enemy alongside his counterpart boiled down to those three words, repeated incessantly. Morty’s lips curled upward as he began shoving at the grandfather beside him.“Rick, we did it!”

Unfortunately, from then until he and Rick departed in the spaceship, he never managed to have any further interaction with the other version of himself. Not even when he summoned the courage to strike up a conversation on his own.

“We don't have to talk. That didn't make us friends.”

What the hell did that mean? Morty's heart sank, the joy in his chest doused with a bucket of ice water, chilling him to the bone. He felt hurt, unable to understand why his counterpart, after sharing a life-or-death crisis, treated him with such unfamiliar coldness—as if he were a stranger, as if their innate rapport had never existed.

Maybe he was still angry… because of the Citadel incident last time? Because Morty hadn’t chosen him, but Rick instead, leaving him feeling embarrassed? (That line about the back seat being a toilet really did sound like a flimsy excuse to save face.) Morty’s thoughts spiraled, yet clearly the one being an asshole most of the time was him—though sometimes he was pretty cool too, like being willing to wait for him, inviting him to come to the Citadel together, and helping him catch up with Rick...

He rubbed the yellow T-shirt between his fingers, lowering his gaze in quiet dejection. Perhaps, in Evil Morty’s eyes, what had happened that day placed him no differently from those cowardly Mortys he spoke of—those who worshipped and depended on Rick far too much. He looked down on them, and on himself, let alone becoming friends.

He couldn’t help wondering what infinity truly looked like, and what Evil Morty had been busy with lately.

Morty let out a long sigh, set the T-shirt down on the nightstand beside his bed, and flopped backward onto the mattress. Beneath the lingering scent of smoke and dust from the explosion, another fragrance drifted into his nose: the faint, unfamiliar sweetness of some alien plant, mingled with the sterile odor of a laboratory. His gaze flicked back to the T-shirt above him, and his heart rate picked up slightly.

—This shirt carries Evil Morty's scent.

A thought suddenly came into his mind, and the very idea sent heat rushing to his ears, the flush spreading swiftly across his face. He darted a glance at the clock—eleven p.m. His family should all be in their rooms by now, preparing for sleep. Still a bit uneasy, he got up again, padded quietly across the floor to lock the door, and switched off the light. Then he grabbed the shirt from the table and bounced back onto the bed.

Just once. Once. No one would know—not even the owner of the shirt.

Morty clutched the yellow T-shirt tightly to his chest. After a moment, he lifted it to his face and buried himself in it completely. He breathed in greedily, drawing the scent deep into his lungs, letting it flood his senses. The tangled emotions he had been suppressing for so long—kept under control, locked away—were finally given permission to surface, rolling up from the depths of his mind and igniting a burning heat low in his belly.

His breathing grew uneven. Eyes closed, his hand drifted downward, searching, until it found the familiar waistband of his underwear. He tugged it aside without hesitation.

What sprang free was already half-hard, the fabric darkened in a damp patch. Clear fluid beaded at the tip, dripping slowly down.

He sucked in a sharp breath, then seized his own dick, pumping it up and down with urgent strokes. Pleasure crashed over him in waves. Now it wasn't just his belly burning with pain; his cock and his brain were too. The heat made Morty dizzy. Slick fluid coating his fingers as the steadily hardening length twitched, swelling thicker with each pull.

The yellow T-shirt had slipped over his face, cutting him off from everything except Evil Morty’s scent. 

Morty let his mind sketch out his counterpart’s image: a face so similar to his own, that cool, detached expression, the eyepatch over his right eye. Oh yes, and the way he looked at him—that time in the cave, those countless times in the Citadel, and the moments inside Prime’s lair. Yes. Imagining Evil Morty touching him—not his own fingers, but HIS fingers—his fingers were a little cooler than his. They slid up and down his cock, brushing over the slit—

“Ah—”

A moan slipped from Morty’s throat as clear fluid spurted from the tip of his aching length, splashing messily onto the sheets.

He began to pant, fast and shallow. One hand clenched the T-shirt, soaking in his counterpart’s scent, imagining him holding him close. The hem of the fabric dragged across his nipple, sending a shiver through him. His cock jerked higher, harder, and he gave in—rubbing that poor, neglected nipple through the cloth.

Mmm—That cool, aloof counterpart was pressing him down, his chest sliding against his...

“——uh-hmm.”

His moans grew louder, less restrained, and with his free hand he began stroking himself faster, desperate to keep up with the rhythm of the pleasure.

Not enough. Still not enough… there was always something missing.

He toyed with himself in desperation, almost frantic. The pleasure piled up low in his belly, burning fiercely like fire, clamoring to be released—yet it hovered just out of reach, as if touching his cock and nipples alone simply wasn’t enough. The unspent desire tore through him like a caged animal, slamming into his insides. Morty’s thoughts dissolved into chaos, nearly suffocating.

If Evil Morty were here—what would he do to him? 

With the last scraps of his reason, he tried to imagine how nice a kiss would be—on the lips, or the forehead, or maybe just his cheek. His counterpart would probably be better at getting him off. He would run his palms gently over his body, tease his nipples, stroke his cock… A soft whimper escaped Morty as his chest rose and fell sharply. He would—he would also—

He pulled the shirt off his face and drew in a long, shaky breath. Then he spread his legs, nerves fluttering as he moved his hand lower, past his cock. This was territory he’d never explored before. Slowly, hesitantly, he let his fingers search downward, inching toward that small, tight opening.

Yes. He wanted Evil Morty inside him, wanted his presence, his scent, to wrap around him completely, to fill him.

He wanted, so badly, to be held by him.

The bluntness of the sextual fantasy made Morty’s cheeks burn. He slicked his fingers with his own fluid and carefully eased one finger in. The sensation was strange, foreign, but also new in a way that made his breath hitch. He explored a little deeper, then soon added a second finger.

He didn’t dare go any further, so he began pumping along with the two fingers. Morty clutched Evil Morty’s yellow T-shirt to his chest; the moment his fingers accidentally struck a sensitive spot, another moan spilled from him. He arched his hips, working those fingers as best he could, imagining his counterpart sliding inside him, filling him with his cock, merging them together once more.

“Evil… Eve…” he murmured.

The sweet peak finally hit—white light flashed behind his eyes, and pleasure shot through him like lightning, setting his whole body trembling. Morty’s toes curled as his swollen dick spurted messily, some landing on his face, some soaking the yellow T-shirt. He withdrew his slick fingers and collapsed, utterly spent, too weak to move, his lower belly still rising and falling with the lingering waves.

Morty's eyelids grew heavy. After a thoroughly satisfying session, sweat clung to every inch of his skin; the room reeked of countless odd smells, and the sheets were a mess. He figured he’d deal with it in the morning. For now, utterly exhausted, he hugged the shirt to his chest, rested his head against it, and felt Evil Morty’s scent wrap around him once more. Before long, he drifted off into sleep.

——

As he stepped through that golden portal, Evil Morty never imagined encountering such a situation.

He had only intended to return Morty’s clothes and leave. He had even deliberately chosen the dead of night, counting on the hour to avoid attention. That yellow T-shirt from C-137 had become like a hook—no matter where he tossed it at home, it managed, irritatingly, to snag his attention. After days of being harassed by it again and again, every cell in his body had been screaming for it to disappear from his sight immediately. He had considered burning it, feeding it into a shredder, or simply throwing it out into space. Yet each option was stubbornly blocked by some contrary corner of his mind, until he was left with the most complicated and most troublesome solution of all: going to Morty’s house.

Walk in, toss the clothes anywhere, then come back.

Mission completed. Simple. Fast.

That was what Evil Morty had told himself before coming. And the person in the room was, indeed, asleep.

But the overwhelming, obscene atmosphere—the dull, clinging stench left behind after ejaculation—slammed into the unguarded visitor’s nose. He frowned sharply and choked on it, his stomach tightening in reflex, nausea rising as he nearly gagged.

Damn it.

Coming back to the Curve had never been a good idea. Seeing another, intellectually uncurious version of himself least of all.

In less than a second, Evil Morty felt as though he had plunged into some filthy gutter—one he had jumped in willingly. He had long known that most Mortys had a habit of holed up in their rooms, clutching a tablet and jerking off. People liked to blame it on the hormonal restlessness of adolescence, but it looked far more like sexual repression born of loneliness. After all, those with partners rarely spent all day shut in their rooms masturbating to complete strangers. It was pathetic.

He activated the light built into his eyepatch. His habitual fastidiousness made him instinctively search for somewhere marginally cleaner to place the shirt in his hand. Yet when the bright yellow glow illuminated the boy curled up on the bed—and the all-too-familiar piece of fabric peeking out from his arms—his body froze abruptly.

That was his shirt.

Evil Morty could clearly see the scorched tear from a bullet hole in the top left corner. Beyond that, the rest of the yellow T-shirt was pressed beneath the sleeping boy’s slightly flushed cheek, serving as a pillow; the portion draped over his chest rose and fell gently with each breath, faithfully playing the role of a comfort toy; and the corner resting near his belly was speckled with several suspicious white stains.

He drew in a slow breath, heat creeping up behind his ears as his gaze drifted downward involuntarily. Beneath Morty’s hips, a sticky puddle had gathered on the bedsheet—milky semen scattered randomly, the entire bed is a completely mess.

The point was: That was his shirt.

The answer was obvious. Morty’s tablet lay powered off on the far side of the room, and amid the wreckage, what he held tight in his arms was the yellow T-shirt they had exchanged—clutched tightly, as though it were something precious.

Evil Morty felt his heart skip a beat. Somehow, his mind flashed back to the scene just days ago when the two of them had entered Prime's lair together. Back then, faced with countless aircraft firing death rays, he had tossed Morty a gun. The two of them advanced back to back, cutting down enemies as they moved. No words were needed; the coordination seemed innate. He had expected the boy to be a liability, yet the collaboration turned out to be the most flawless he had ever experienced. Thus, there came the second cooperation, the next plan.

Those puppy-like eyes, wide with admiration when they looked at him. The trembling of his head when fastening the eypatch. the feeble attempts at conversation, straining to find something to say. The hand that wanted to reach out, yet hesitated, swinging restlessly at his side.

At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. He never intended to become entangled with anyone again—especially those from the Curve. Relationships, by their very nature, were chains. Healthy or not, they bound the two caught within them tightly together. Troublesome. Unfree. He had fought his way out of the Curve, so how could he possibly allow himself to be tied to something or someone there?

Especially to a 'self', written from head to toe with his own past.

Besides, it was Morty who rejected his invitation, choosing to stay by Rick’s side and continue his own descent. From that moment on, their paths diverged. The fleeting spark of admiration, that joy of finding a second kindred spirit, vanished without a trace. God knew how difficult it had been for him to allow a traveling companion at all. He had never desire one before.

It didn’t matter. He had always enjoyed solitude; alone, he was far more efficient.

Unlike Rick, he had no need for dead weight.

Evil Morty stared at the sleeping boy on the bed, whose features mirrored his own. He hesitated for a few seconds, then finally decided to set the shirt down on the nightstand and leave. Still slightly dazed, he didn’t even notice what he stepped on as he moved forward, until an abrupt, shrill creak tore up from the floorboards.

——

Morty woke from his dream—a beautiful one.

The people and things one yearned for day and night, yet could never attain or realise in reality, could always be compensated for by dreams; the desires buried deep in the subconscious, the feelings that could never be spoken aloud, found free rein there as well. Dreams were a kind of time-limited magic, briefly turning the impossible into the possible.

Morty dreamed he and Evil Morty had left the Curve together. At the moment of life and death in the Citadel, he abandoned Rick who was pinned, grabbed his counterpart’s hand, and followed him aboard that exquisite golden ship, beautiful as a chrysalis. The back seat was not a toilet, but a real seat. The boy with the eyepatch nodded to him in quiet approval, then sealed the shield once Morty had settled in. Mechanical arms guided the ship to the launch bay, and beneath the blood-red sacrifice of countless corpses, it carried them hurtling beyond the Curve.

The world beyond the Curve seemed dazzling and bizarre, awash in color. The two boys pressed shoulder to shoulder against the window, unwilling to blink, greedily taking in every radiant wave of light the ship passed through, every strange planet and asteroid streaking backward at incredible speed, and every living and non-living form drifting in the void. Their mouths never closed. Sometimes they exchanged a glance and gasped in shared wonder, sometimes they pointed out amusing or novel discoveries to each other, and sometimes they simply fell silent, immersed in the infinite splendour, silently marvelling at the universe's miracles.

When the ship’s fuel was nearly spent, he and Evil Morty arrived at a planet that appeared rich in resources. Together they purchased materials to build a house, necessities for daily life, and all manner of strange and wonderful foods. Within days, amid their laughter, a small yet beautiful house took shape, floating in space not far from the planet. Inside, it was fitted with a steering wheel and control levers, able to function as a large spacecraft itself—carrying its owners to wander freely through the infinite, wherever their hearts desired.

In the dream, Morty and Evil Morty went to so many places together. They witnessed sights across the infinite regions that defied the limits of language; watched stars being born and destroyed; experienced the thrill of gliding hand in hand through radiant nebulae. They sampled every pizza-like food they encountered along the way, met a number of fascinating and bizarre alien beings, and got themselves into no end of trouble—things like accidentally dooming planetary civilizations.

Of course, they also kissed and made love.

The Evil Morty in the dream didn't look at him with such cold indifference. He was willing to take Morty along on adventures, to cradle the back of his head and kiss his lips, to tumble with him across the bed, skin against skin, giving him everything he desired. Those entries were forceful yet gentle, waves of pleasure crashing one upon another; his counterpart’s hands were deft as well, always able to guide him to the most exquisite climax.

All in all, the dream was far too beautiful. Morty didn’t want to wake from it.

Now, rubbing his eyes, he ready to curse whatever or whoever had woken him, nearly forgetting the scene in his room before falling asleep.

Morty lifted his head, and through the haze of half-waking, vaguely made out a familiar figure standing in front of him—someone wearing an eyepatch.

…Eh? An eyepatch?

The realization jolted him fully awake. As he rubbed at his eyes again and again, his vision sharpened, and he saw his dream lover—uh, no, Evil Morty himself—standing there with arms folded, studying him thoughtfully. One hand seemed to be holding a yellow piece of clothing.

The shirt… wait. The SHIRT?!

Morty snapped his gaze downward. The torn yellow T-shirt was still clutched in his arms. Flames roared up from behind his ears all the way to his cheeks. His entire body felt numb and feverish, as though he had been sealed inside a steaming chamber, the heat nearly suffocating him. Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the obscene puddle on the bed, the scattered stains of semen. Great—the scalding steam chamber began to shrink, compressing him from all sides. At this point, he’d gladly be crushed or boiled to death—any way was fine, as long as he didn’t have to face his counterpart alive.

“Really?”

Evil Morty's soft, deep voice came from above, tinged with a faint note of disbelief.

Morty didn’t have the courage to look up and meet his gaze, though he was intensely curious what kind of expression his counterpart was wearing right now. Disgust? Anger? Thinking he was some kind of creep? Burying his head, he began to babble in a flustered, stammering rush. “Uh—n-no, it’s n-not what it looks like. The—the shirt was on the nightstand, it just—it fell on me! I was going to wash it and give it back to you… Those two things aren’t related, you know… We—no, I mean, I—I often jerk off in my room, it’s just a hobby…”

The yellow T-shirt—the piece of evidence—was still glued to his hands. Maybe he had sweated too much; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake it off. Morty was nearly in tears.

After what felt like half a minute stretched into several centuries, a sigh finally sounded. The boy in the eyepatch spoke slowly.  “Next time you lie, remember to match your expression to your words.”

Morty kept his eyes fixed on the shirt in his hands, pretending not to hear him, acutely aware that the heat in his cheeks was still climbing.

The room plunged back into a suffocating silence.

Perhaps tired of getting no response, Evil Morty tilted his head, withdrawing his gaze from the yellow T-shirt still clenched in Morty’s grip and leveling it straight at him. “So,” he asked, a note of surprise in his voice, “you’re that obsessed with me?”

“N-no—it’s not like that, I just think, uh, think you’re really cool… The body mods, the fighting, building your own portal gun and all that…” Morty stammered, his face flushing crimson as he darted a quick glance at his expression. “Man, I—I’ve always wanted a life like yours. No rules, no leash... It’s kinda amazing. ”

“Uh-huh.” Evil Morty raised an eyebrow. “Then why didn’t you leave with me back then?”

…Why couldn’t there suddenly be a portal opening in the floor right now? Would it still be possible to snatch his counterpart’s portal gun and make a run for it? Morty thought in despair, the sweat in his palms nearly soaking through the yellow T-shirt. So that was it—Evil Morty really was angry over his choice.

He muttered under his breath, “Y-you were such an asshole back then. And—and all the bodies, all that blood… it scared me. I couldn’t just ignore it. You looked like a bad guy. E-even though later I realized you just wanted freedom. You wanted out of all this screwed-up crap so badly—I totally get that. If—if things had been different, if the way out of the Curve hadn’t been so brutal, if you hadn’t used my trust… I think I would’ve left with you.”

All of it was the truth.

What his counterpart had said that day had struck Morty deeply. After seeing Rick’s memories and witnessing his reaction, the outline of that painful, infuriating truth gradually took shape in his mind. No one could know how much effort it had taken him, in that moment, to hold himself from running over, from following counterpart's footsteps straight away. That ship, that seat… for days afterward, his dreams were filled with it. Again and again, he dreamed of boarding that ship, of escaping the Curve together with Evil Morty to reach infinity.

But he also knew deep down that, in certain ways, he and Evil Morty were different. Perhaps it came down to their experiences, to the different Ricks they had known. Rick Sanchez was indeed the most arrogant, awful asshole in the universe—always bullying, exploiting, manipulating Morty, never apologizing for his mistakes. Yet his Rick—that part buried deep within, always prickly and reluctant to show it openly—still cared for him, loved him, regarded him as someone important in his life.

Moreover, no matter what, Rick was the first friend he ever had—the one who made him no longer alone.

So the choice he made that day wasn’t cowardice. It was a matter of principle. He couldn’t bear to watch someone who had genuinely cared for and loved him die. Nor could he turn a blind eye to the slaughter of countless innocent lives. He couldn’t be as cold as his counterpart—not even for freedom. He couldn’t just walk away. He couldn’t abandon everything without looking back. There were still people he cared about. 

At least, not then.

No matter how tempting that open golden ship had been. No matter how irresistible Evil Morty’s invitation was.

“Hmph.” The boy in the eyepatch scoffed softly. “So now you want to leave with me?”

Morty snapped out of his thoughts and scratched his head. He looked up at Evil Morty with those wide, puppy-dog eyes, earnest and unguarded, and gave him a small smile. “If—if you’re still willing to take me with you.”

His mind drifted back to the dream he’d just had. He didn’t know whether the real infinity looked anything like the one in his dreams, nor how he would live once he reached it—assuming his counterpart was willing to take him along at all. Those sights, the laughter, the kisses, the gentle touches and sex… 

The more he thought about them, the clearer the dream became, teasing him, stirring his desire. He even found himself thinking about his counterpart’s hand—encased in that sleek black glove—stroking his cock… that feeling, uh—Morty gasped sharply, having completely forgotten that Evil Morty himself was still standing right in front of him, watching his every reaction.

“Oh god,” came the voice above him. “Please don’t tell me it’s what I think it is.”

He saw his counterpart narrow his eyes, his expression turning faintly strange as his gaze flicked back and forth between the clothes clutched in Morty’s arms and Morty himself.

“You really do look…” Evil Morty studied him with pointed deliberation, “quite obsessed with me.”

“It's—it's not like that...” Morty protested weakly.

It didn’t sound convincing at all, for how he could argue against it?

Despite all the differences between him and Evil Morty, despite how distant and cold his counterpart could be toward him… Morty genuinely adored him. He was drawn to him, fascinated by everything this different version of himself was capable of, and beyond their differences, he reveled in the unique chemistry that was theirs alone.

It was like two puzzle pieces: they had to come from the same picture for the image to mean anything at all. Yet even that wasn’t enough—pieces that were completely identical couldn’t fit together—only with differences that complemented each other could they lock into place, seamless and complete.

“It'd be more convincing if you took your hands off my clothes.” Evil Morty raising an eyebrow, his expression soften slightly. Morty caught the quick movement of his throat, as if weighing something up.

Finally, he spoke. “Whatever. You can have a look. See what you've been missing.” He turned his head away, pulled a portal gun from his pocket, and fired a golden vortex into the empty space. Then, lifting his chin haughtily, he added. “But if this door closes, I’m not opening it a second time.”

Morty sprang off the bed at once, hurriedly pulled on his pants, and followed after him.

“Hey—wait for me!”

——

Taking Morty through the Infinite felt like reliving his own first arrival—only this time, it was accompanied by exaggerated gasps of wonder and an unrestrained, almost flailing excitement. Evil Morty knew exactly which places would catch his interest, where he would linger a little longer, what pitfalls he was likely to stumble into, and which creatures he would instinctively reach out to touch.

He hated to admit it.

That overlap in tastes and curiosities felt like something innate, a mark of the past that clung to him stubbornly, impossible to scrub away.

And yet, when he caught sight of the smile lifting the corner of Morty’s lips, it didn’t seem quite so unbearable. That happiness was oddly contagious, tugging his own mood upward in its wake—as if a tiny dancer had taken up residence in his heart, tapping its feet, illuminating some long-dead region within him, breathing color back into places that had been rigid and heavy with gray.

Lost in thought, he suddenly felt something soft press against him. A fluffy head nudged its way closer. Morty, practically glowing with excitement, stretched out his hands to show off his latest discoveries—a small crystal veined with vivid, multicolored patterns, and a tiny plant with butterfly-like wings, fluttering gently in his palm.

“Wow… they’re really beautiful.” The boy breathed out.

“Careful,” Evil Morty warned. “Some of these plants are poisonous. They’ll snap at you the second you’re not paying attention. I’m not carrying enough antidotes for you.”

Morty pouted. “I can’t help it… are they safe then? Could I… take one home and keep it?”

“The crystals, sure. The plants? Forget it. You can pinch it now, maybe make a specimen, but keeping one alive? Impossible. These things are proud—they remember your scent the second you touch them and they start hating you.”

“Alright…” The boy opened his hands, and the butterfly-plant spat a little venom at him before zipping away, gone in an instant. “You were totally right.”

“Hm.” Evil Morty lifted an eyebrow, glancing at his watch. “We’ve almost cleared this section. So, any regrets?”

“Uh—y-yeah. A little. I kinda… envy you. Living here… wow. It feels like paradise. You look around, and it’s like dozens of infinite TV channels are all playing at once, just this chaotic stew of the universe.”

Evil Morty’s lips curled with quiet satisfaction. “Mm. As long as you’re inside the Curve, you’ll never get to see any of this.”

He saw the same spark in the boy's eyes that had shone in his own when he first arrived, the pupils reflecting the Infinite’s bizarre, radiant sprawl of stars.

He could see the longing.

C-137 Morty was, in the end, different from every other Morty he had ever encountered.

He carried all the typical traits and qualities of a Morty, yet somehow remained so vivid, so alive. Like Evil Morty himself, he could see clearly the toxic relationship of exploitation and being exploited; the seeds of rebellion had long taken root in his heart, lying in waiting. Unlike other Mortys who blindly loyally defended Rick, what made him interesting was this: having seen the truth of his predetermined fate, he still chose to accept it, simply because he placed love and others above himself. It was a selfless, pure, unconditional love.

So pure that at times it felt almost stupid.

To Evil Morty, love was something far more abstract—formless, intangible, and difficult to grasp. Hundreds of times harder than inventing an interdimensional portal gun.

He found himself astonished by the very existence of such unconditional love, and in certain moments, he couldn’t help but envy Rick(though he would never admit it). why should that old bastard deserve such pure, perfect love?

After walking alone for so many years, that unconditional love was like a fragrant feast placed before a starving man. Evil Morty couldn't tear his gaze away.

When he caught the heat and infatuation burning in Morty’s eyes, along with that suppressed breath the boy thought had gone unnoticed, the heart in his chest began to pound violently. After all, after seeing someone clutch your clothes, obsessing over your scent, and blatantly fantasizing about all the things they want to do with you—how could you not feel at least a little pleased with yourself?

Fine. He enjoyed solitude, and had long grown used to being alone. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t at least take a taste when the spoonful of food was brought right up to his lips.

“C-can we go to your place next?” Morty look up, eyes sparkling. “I really want to see it. Where do you live, anyway?”

Those overly bright eyes tickled his heart. Evil Morty turned his head away and opened a portal beside him. “I built myself a floating villa.”

“Th-that’s amazing!”

“Uh-huh.” He try not to let the ending rise too much.

He and Morty stepped through the portal one after the other. The golden vortex carried them into a meticulously ordered, high-tech room.

The boy, visiting for the first time, eagerly took in his surroundings, eyes darting everywhere as if he couldn’t get enough, occasionally letting out awed wow.

The robotic butler rolled over slowly, a tray balanced in its grasp, holding a towel and a glass of vividly colored juice. “Welcome home, Master. I have detected that you’ve brought a visitor who closely resembles you. Shall I provide him with the same services?”

“Yeah,” Evil Morty replied. “Bring another glass of juice. Two waffles with cream cheese. And turn on the TV.”

During the wait, Evil Morty led Morty through the entirety of the floating mansion. He showed him the adjustable sunset views cast by the protective shield, star-filled nightscapes, and a collection of schematics that recreated striking landscapes from countless different worlds. With just a few extra turns of the dials, even the surrounding vegetation and terrain would shift accordingly.

Morty fiddled with the controls again and again, completely lost in the ever-changing splendor.

Evil Morty’s gaze drifted from him to the chairs lining the corridor. There was only a single lounge chair, standing all alone. A thought suddenly leapt into his mind—Why not add another one?

The freshly baked waffles were incredible.

After wandering through the Infinite for most of the day, the two boys were starving. One hand spread cream cheese generously over the waffles, the other held a glass of juice to sip from as they devoured the fragrant pastries with enthusiasm.

“Mmm, this is so good!” Morty exclaimed, his mouth smeared with cream. He licked his lips and cheered, “Your robot butler’s cooking is awesome!”

Evil Morty responded with a noncommittal hum, finishing off the last small piece on his plate.

The television played on its own, having switched to some planet in some unknown universe. The inhabitants of that planet seemed to be celebrating some kind of festival. Fireworks bursting across the screen in brilliant colors, cheers filling the air, lively and overwhelming.

After the meal, the two boys leaned back against the sofa, easing into the drowsy haze brought on by too many carbs.

Evil Morty felt a warm finger settle against the back of his hand, the fingertip even teasingly scratching at his skin, trying to draw its owner’s attention. He turned his head—and met Morty’s gaze head-on.

The boy gave him a shy smile, his puppy-dog eyes sparkling.

“What?” he asked, feeling his heart stir once more.

“I–I was thinking…” The boy’s ears flushed red as he lowered his head a little, as if suddenly too shy to meet his eyes. “C-can I kiss you?”

This was, of course, an invitation. An invitation to begin.

Not just a kiss, but more to follow. First the forehead or cheek, then the lips, then the neck… before one realized it, pants would be undone, and the two of them would be tangled together, bare skin pressed to bare skin, drawn into even closer intimacy.

Evil Morty could easily see the ending behind this invitation. But so what?

He pretended to not to know and replied casually, “Whatever.” Only the heat creeping up behind his ears betrayed the turmoil beneath his calm.

He counted the seconds in his head, tense. After perhaps a dozen heartbeats, the boy beside him finally moved, leaning in—a damp kiss landing softly on his cheek. Morty’s face abruptly filled his vision.

Another kiss landed on the tip of his nose.

See? Just as he had expected, “a kiss” had never been a statement with any real credibility. It took less than half a minute for it to fall apart completely, everything sliding effortlessly toward the ending both of them knew all too well.

Morty’s fingertips began to fidget again, restlessly scratching at the back of his hand, tracing slow, lazy circles. Where the hell did this kid learn tricks like this? Evil Morty thought irritably. Just how much experience does he even have?

That damp mouth soon found its way to the other side of his cheek, then to his chin, and finally to the burning edge of his ear, lips brushing lightly against it. His Adam’s apple bobbed sharply. This was almost like a tease. For the first time in years, heat stirred low in his abdomen.

Morty’s other arm reached over, growing bolder now, trying to pull him closer. Evil Morty could no longer bear it. He pressed a hand to Morty’s shoulder, braced a knee against his thigh, and leaned in, pinning him down. The hand on his shoulder slid to cradle the back of the boy’s head, forcing him to tilt his face up—and then he bit down, punishingly, on that soft, wet lower lip.

The cloying sweetness of waffles spread between their mouths.

Evil Morty could saw Morty’s eyes widen, disbelief quickly giving way to ecstasy. As he nipped at his lips, Morty began to respond in kind. Obediently, he matched Evil Morty’s rhythm, opening his mouth willingly, surrendering ownership of his mouth without reserve. Evil Morty’s tongue slid in smoothly, exploring, stirring the warmth inside, brushing over teeth and grazing the sensitive roof.

In reward, He ran a hand through Morty’s hair, the soft, fluffy texture feeling like petting a puppy. The puppy blinked at him, with lips occupied, only able to press out pleased, muffled whimpers from deep in his throat. Evil Morty pushed the kiss deeper. The hand at the back of Morty’s head slid down, fingers closing around the nape of his neck. The sense of control—the life in his palm—thrilled him. He could feel the fragile pulse of Morty’s carotid under his fingers, and the rapid beat of his heart—all because of him.

Evil Morty tightened his grip slightly, bringing a hint of suffocation, and continued to suck and nibble at his lips. Morty gasped and writhed in his palm, cheeks burning. Between tangled lips and teeth, obscene, wet sounds filled the room. Only when Morty was on the edge of running out of air did Evil Morty finally release his hold, letting him draw in deeper breaths mingled with his own scent.

“—Hah…” Morty panted, a reflexive tear slipping from the corner of his eye as he struggled to find his voice again. “Jeeez, y-your kissing is really… really good. Just like I imagined.”

“Just like you imagined?” Evil Morty arched a brow, pinching his flushed cheek between his fingers, his voice rough and low. “So how many times have you gotten off dreaming about me, hmm?”

Morty flusteredly avoided his gaze, staring up at the ceiling as he mumbled, “Uh—n‑not many. J‑just that one time. I—I really thought you wouldn’t notice…”

“Hmph.” Evil Morty toyed with Morty’s reddened earlobe, rolling the soft flesh between thumb and forefinger, a trace of malicious amusement surfacing. “If I hadn’t shown up tonight, were you planning to keep going like that?”

“I-I don’t know.” Morty shrank his shoulders as his ear was worked over, answering honestly. “Maybe?”

“That’s pathetic,” Evil Morty said, still not sparing the poor earlobe.

“I-I thought you hated me. I mean, you said it yourself—‘That didn't make us friends’… I thought that once I chose not to leave with you, you’d never talk to me again…” Morty protested softly, wounded and plaintive. ““D‑don’t—don’t keep doing that, it tickles...”

“Oh. That?” Evil Morty shrugged, pausing the rubbing of his earlobe. “It doesn’t matter. There was only ever one seat on the ship. When I designed her, you really think I ever considered leaving with anyone else?”

“Then why invite me?” Morty glared at him.

“Just on a whim.” Evil Morty lowered his gaze, suddenly feeling irritable. He pushed him away and leaned back. “I’ve never had a traveling companion. Never even thought I would.”

Perhaps back then, he had simply wanted someone there to witness his success. Perhaps, after slaughtering so many Mortys, he’d been seized by a rare, misplaced mercy and chosen to spare just one. Or maybe he'd been drawn by the glint in that Morty's eyes – a spark so familiar it felt like his own.

He didn't know the answer, nor did he ever cared to dwell on it.

Still, the toilet seat lid in the backseat could indeed carry one person.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting, either. Being turned down should have been the obvious outcome.

Evil Morty suddenly regretted bringing Morty here, even accepting his invitation—clearly, that too had been a reckless, poorly considered act of impulse.

While his thoughts wandered, something soft, warm, and faintly fuzzy burrowed into his arms. Then the boy’s gentle lips pressed against his chin.

“I–I’m sorry… so that means I’m the only one you invited to Infinity, right?” Morty stared at him nervously, seemingly afraid of being pushed away again. After observing him for several seconds, he finally relaxed, then leaned in—tentatively licked at his lips. “Is–is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“Who said I cared?” Evil Morty scoffed. “Did I ever say I needed compensation?”

“Okay.” Morty muttered. “Th–then I just wanted to say that I really like it here. Both this villa and Infinity. I admire the path you've chosen, so different from others, and your fighting spirit, willing to risk everything for freedom. Those are things I don’t have. And I like you, too… You were right earlier, okay? I’m obsessed with you.”

His heart reacted faster than Evil Morty himself did. He turned his head away, heat flaring along his cheek. Annoying. He was rendered completely speechless by it.

“That was a terrible confession.”

He lets out a quiet scoff through his nose and turns his head—then, just as Morty, dejected, is about to shift away, he presses a light kiss to the top of his hair. “But really, what did I expect from someone who needed five seasons to finally get into a relationship?”

——

As he helped his counterpart pull down his pants, Morty couldn’t help but swallow hard when he saw that half‑hard cock spring free.

Whether it was just in his head or Evil Morty had actually modified even this part of himself, it looked more impressive than his own. The thought of taking it fully into his mouth sent a scorching heat shooting straight from his lower belly to his head. Excited and nervous, he licked his lips.

Evil Morty shifted forward, grasping himself and stroking a few quick pumps before pressing himself against Morty’s cheek. The warmth made Morty's heart race. He carefully kissed it, then parted his lips, tentatively taking a portion inside. The muffled groan that escaped his counterpart seemed like encouragement, making him all the more bold.

Morty let his tongue glide gently over the hot weight in his mouth, keeping his teeth tucked away as he worked to take a little more. He could feel the tip pressing against his throat, close enough to trigger his gag reflex. So he slowed, patiently sucking and licking the part already enveloped.

Morty was determined to give his counterpart the best blowjob he’d ever have.

After all, it was another version of himself—and who else could every sensitive spot better than himself did?

He skillfully teased the cock in his mouth with his tongue, his head moving with the rhythm to find the best angle. His cheeks hollowed slightly with each pull of suction, giving him a look both lewd and decadent. A low, guttural moan came from above, and a hand yanked at his hair, pressing down on his crown while roughly ruffling the short brown strands as he continued sucking.

Morty could feel his counterpart’s cock swelling and hardening, filling his mouth completely. The overwhelming scent of male heat flooded his nose—far beyond anything lingering on a yellow T-shirt could ever match. He breathed greedily, tracing the raised veins with his tongue, wanting to memorize the smell and taste. His heart pounded harder and harder, heat spreading from his lower belly throughout the body. Below, His cock lifted again, pressing against the fabric of his pants, forming a small tent.

He licked and stroked while reaching down to undo his own pants, grasping himself to stroke for relief. God—this felt incredible. He had never tasted himself while touching himself like this, never imagined that just giving his counterpart head could feel this intense… but it was awesome, better than every form of sexual fantasy and every piece of porn he had ever watched!

“Didn’t you just say you were going to make it up to me?”

A foot pressed lightly against the hand Morty was using to comfort himself, accompanied by Evil Morty’s cold, rough voice. The sole was cool against his skin, the humiliation far outweighing any pain. Morty flinched, stammer out a defense, when the hand above tightened in his hair and yanked him forward sharply, forcing the entire length down his throat—his nose even knocking against the the hot weight of Evil Morty’s balls.

Choking violently, he try to pull back, but Evil Morty's strong hand held the back of his head firmly, leaving him no choice but to swallow. It went in far too deep; Morty sucked and struggled to adapt, saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth, his throat making harsh, wet sounds each time it was pressed.

Somehow, being used so roughly only made him more aroused. The cock seemed even harder now, its tip steadily leaking slick. Even with a foot pressed against him, he kept wanting to steal a moment to touch himself—maybe rubbing against the sole of his counterpart’s shoe would be a good idea.

“Hands off. You don’t come unless I allow it,” Evil Morty warned again, breath coming low and uneven. “Look like I underestimate how filthy you are. Getting this worked up just from giving me head?”

Morty obediently moved his hand away. His nearly hard cock was pinned against his belly by his counterpart’s shoe as he picked up the pace, sucking eagerly at the massive weight filling his mouth, begging for it to release before his jaw split. As for the humiliation and the control… well. Perhaps masochistic tendencies really were hard-coded into his genetic program, for he found that, somehow, he actually enjoying them.

With the final thrusts, Evil Morty’s cock jerked sharply inside his mouth, releasing itself completely down his throat. Morty swallowed it all. He stole a glance upward, and noticed with delight that the usually cold, unflinching face of his counterpart was flushed. Evil Morty was leaning back against the sofa now, head tipped up, basking in the aftershocks of his climax, panting in short gasps. The rise and fall of his Adam’s apple achingly sexy.

He might have stared for a second too long. By the time he came back to himself, he had already collided with Evil Morty’s gaze. Those eyes—identical to his own, yet sharper—churned with something complex he couldn’t understand. After a few seconds of eye contact, Evil Morty looked away first.

“Not bad.” Evil Morty said, patting the soft cushion beside him. “Up here.”

Morty rose slowly, brushing his thigh against him as he crowded into the seat. He muttered, “I think I deserve a reward.”

“What?” Evil Morty raised an eyebrow.

“I—I want you to put on those gloves. The ones from that day… and touch me.” Morty felt his cheeks burning as the words left his mouth.

He watched Evil Morty’s expression turn strange again as he looked him up and down in disbelief. “Really? That’s your sexual fantasy? You actually—”

“D-don’t laugh at me… it rarely happens! I was just thinking… what if I’d gone with you that day? You know, that day, you wore those gloves…”

God. In every possible sense, this felt like stripping himself bare in front of his own counterpart.

The boy in the eyepatch fell silent for a few seconds, then stood and headed toward another room. “Wait here.”

Morty watched his retreating back with wide, hopeful eyes. Before long, Evil Morty returned wearing the exact same pair of black gloves from the day he’d left—he’d even changed back into the spacesuit and black T-shirt. A faint flush colored his cheeks as he walked toward him. Morty couldn’t help licking his lips.

Man. That was so damn sexy.

“What are you thinking about now?” Evil Morty asked, eyes sharp as they studied him. “Still savoring what I did to you in your dreams?”

Morty shook his head hasily. “N-no—just… just get up here already…”

He felt a hand wrap around his waist, the cool, smooth glove gliding over his sensitive skin, sparks of heat igniting wherever it passed. The teasing, tantalizing touch made him moan, his lower belly jerking and pressing against his counterpart’s hand, aching with how hard he was.

Fingers closed around his throat, and his earlobe was captured by a warm, wet mouth. Morty watched Evil Morty’s face loom closer and couldn’t help leaning in to press kisses to the eyepatch and along his cheek. His heart was hammering as he kissed wildly, covering every patch of skin he could reach.

Evil Morty tightened his grip again. “Enough,” he said, straightening up, with a rough voice, and slid two fingers into Morty’s mouth. “Didn’t prepare any lube, so you’d better get them wet.”

Morty nodded, taking the fingers into his mouth and wrapping his deft, fish-like tongue around them. This was far easier than giving head, and the thought of what those two fingers were about to do made his breath quicken. After letting him suck for half a minute, the boy in eyepatch withdrew his fingers and crouched down.

“Oh...oh, jeeez...”

God, this is insane. That was the first thought that crossed his mind as the two fingers circled his entrance. After gently easing it open, the fingers pushed in slowly, inching their way inside along the channel. Morty tensed as he took it in, feeling his counterpart rotate the two fingers a few times before adding a third, all of them exploring him together. This was nothing like how it felt when he touched himself. Evil Morty seemed to know exactly where his limits were, how to stretch him efficiently without ever hurting him.

When the gloved fingers hit the sensitive spot deep inside, pleasure shot through him like lightning, racing straight up his spine. Morty trembled, nearly coming on the spot. He heaved, inhaling deeply, trying to suppress the urge to release. He remembered Evil Morty’s earlier warning, and dared not imagine what would happen if he came without permission—Maybe he’d be angry, disappointed in him again, thinking him a stupid fool without self-control. Maybe this was another test…

“Good boy.”

A praise came from below, and then those annoying fingers withdrew, replaced by something hot and hard pressing against his hole. The intruding weight, the sense of being filled, and the flood of pleasure hit him all at once. Morty tilted his head back, panting uncontrollably, his hips tensing as his ass pressed down, until his counterpart’s warm breath brushed against his ear, gently commanding him to relax.

Just like in the dream, Evil Morty’s entry was restrained and careful, yet allowed no resistance. He lightly gripped Morty’s neck, controlling every twitch, every reaction, riding the rhythm to deliver wave upon wave of pleasure into his body. Morty’s lashes fluttered as he moaned, and he reached out, wanting to wrap his arms around him—but the spacesuit was too smooth, his arms slipping off it again and again.

Pouting in frustration, he gave up caring what his counterpart might think about him. “H-hold me… Can you hold me?”

The boy above seemed frozen for a second, then sighed. Morty felt the carefully designed, cold and smooth suit press against his chest, accompanied by Evil Morty’s warm breath brushing his chin. He wrapped his arms around him at once, clinging tightly. This might have been the closest their hearts had ever been. Beyond the one pounding wildly in his own chest, baring its owner’s affection without disguise, a few centimeters away another heart was racing just as violently. Morty could clearly hear their heartbeats, the rhythm so synchronized, the pace so similar, as if two hearts had merged, two souls sharing one body.

He wanted to remember this moment forever.

Evil Morty sank his teeth into Morty’s neck, leaving a trail of marks as if claiming his territory, while Morty pressed kisses to his damp hair. Through the gloves, two fingers pinched and rolled over Morty’s already hardened nipple, teasing and scraping gently, making him arch his back. But the hand’s owner grew deliberately playful, focusing on only one, leaving the other standing alone, aching for touch.

“Mm—y-you’re such a jerk…” Morty writhed, trying to brush the untouched nipple against his counterpart’s suit—only to have it deftly avoided.

“Thought you liked making requests.” Evil Morty lifted a brow. “If you want it, just say it.”

Morty glared at him with wet, puppy-bright eyes. Pride wrestled with desire—and lost. Looking away, his face burning red, he ground out, almost through clenched teeth. “P-please… touch me.”

“Touch where?” Evil Morty slid his hand to Morty’s waist, tracing a slow circle beside his navel before lingering along his side. “Be specific.”

“Hah…oh, Jeez...” Morty’s waist was another sensitive spot. A tear of pure arousal slid slowly from the corner of his eye. The shame made it worse and better. “T-touch… my nipples…”

“Oh?” His counterpart leisurely pinched the already swollen nipple, feigning confusion. “Didn’t I just touch it? Are you sure?”

“Could you not be such an asshole?!” Morty snapped at last. “I—I just wanted you to—to hug me!” He stretched out his foot to kick him.

Evil Morty’s warm, wet tongue finally found the nipple that had been ignored, licking it deftly as the tip circled skillfully. His other hand worked the other one at the same time, kneading and squeezing. The combination of sensations hit Morty like a wave, leaving him dizzy; he forgot instantly how cruelly playful the boy upon him could be, sinking completely into the tide of pleasure.

Dimly, he realized how limited his imagination had been during his solo session. Having sex with someone who knew everything about him—every sensitive spot, every subtle reaction, even the shame he tried to hide, and the faint traces of his masochistic desires—was both exhilarating and terrifying, especially when he surrendered the complete control of his body. In both mind and flesh, he felt stripped bare, exposed like a blank sheet of paper in front of another self; while Evil Morty remained fully dressed, composed, at ease; at least half his expression hidden behind the eyepatch, unreadable to anyone else. He knew Morty completely. Morty, however, did not fully know him.

So… how did Evil Morty see all of this?

The invitation. The sex. The Feelings he’d just laid out like this...Did he even want to see them?

So close to climax, Morty’s thoughts dissolved into chaos, trudging through something thick and murky. He had no clue what his counterpart really thought. But one thing was clear: Evil Morty had never denied a single request he had made.

No matter what, the sensation of being filled was real. The way his counterpart’s scent flooded his lungs was real. The weight of another body pressed against his own; the touches, the occasional kisses, the shared breaths, the echoing heartbeats—all of it was real.

Evil Morty was buried so deep inside him. Their bodies locked together so tightly that Morty felt dizzy with the illusion of sharing the same body. Every thrust lifted him along with it, heat flaring between his thighs and across his belly. His throat responding with instinctive moans. The room’s temperature climbed, the air growing thick and heavy. His counterpart had already shed the spacesuit and black T-shirt, revealing the firm, powerful muscles beneath. When they wore the same yellow shirt, there’d been little difference between them—now Morty couldn’t help wondering if, aside from the modifications, Evil Morty must work out regularly. He certainly didn’t have a body like that.

The final thrusts came fast and hard. Morty threw his head back, toes pointed tight, while Evil Morty wrapped a hand around his cock and stroked him rapidly, mercilessly, right up to the edge. Pleasure gathered low in his belly, more and more clear fluid dripping from the tip, his breathing turning ragged, broken—until Evil Morty’s low voice came, granting the final permission: “Come.”

It was like fireworks bursting behind his eyes. Like the world freezing in that instant. Like everything collapsing back into its most primal state—an endless field of white. Morty shuddered uncontrollably, release tearing through him as his cock twitched and spilled messily. At the same time, with a restrained, broken breath pressed against his ear, his counterpart came deep inside him.

He felt Evil Morty’s body roll over, settling lazily against his side. Morty was just as drained, too exhausted to make room for him. Skin to skin like this felt good—even damp with sweat, he found himself quietly wishing the moment would last a little longer.

After recovering from the aftershocks, Morty boldly rested his fluffy brown head on his counterpart’s shoulder. He whispered, “I love you.”

“Hm.” The reply came as a low hum, thick with a nasal tone.

“What does ‘hm’ mean?” Morty poked at him, then quickly looked away, nerves tightening again.

The man in the eyepatch yawned lazily. “It means ‘I accept.’”

“So...how you feel about me?”

“The answer is still inside you, hasn’t come out yet, Morty.”

Morty’s ears, which had only just cooled, burned all over again. He swallowed, sneaking a glance at him, wanting to confirm once more. “Y-you mean… just a one-night thing?”

“God,” Evil Morty groaned. “Do I really look like someone who drags people home for casual fuck? Do you really need everything spelled out for you? Your lack of security is honestly impressive.”

“I want to hear it,” Morty said seriously, rubbing his head against his chest like a puppy.

The boy beside him fell silent for a moment. Then he turned his head away and spoke slowly.

“Nearly all my choices, all my actions, are precisely calculated. Irrationalities—emotions in particular—are annoying, almost always the reason plans fail.”

Evil Morty lowered his gaze. “I despise connections. Never wanted a partner. Hate everything inside the curve. And still… someone is alive, sitting on my sofa.”

“So-so that means you love me too, right?”

Morty’s eyes curved as he smiled, interpreting the words with evident satisfaction. All the tension and worry he'd been carrying finally dissolved from his heart thanks to this awkward affirmation from his counterpart. Growing bolder, he wrapped his arms around him, draping his entire body over Evil Morty’s.

His counterpart’s chin came to rest atop Morty’s head. His throat vibrated against the hair as a muffled "Hm" escaped him.

At some point, the television switched to a music channel. Soft melodies filled the room, enveloping the two boys, their lingering kiss captured by the slow, trailing notes that drifted in from afar.

——

Evil Morty removed his eyepatch and lowered his gaze to the sleeping boy beside him. His fingers brushed lightly through the boy’s soft, downy hair. Leaning down just a little, he pressed a quiet kiss to his forehead.

The pale glow of the television screen illuminated the sweet smile playing on the boy's lips in his sleep.

Staring at this face, identical to his own, his feelings were complex. The boy carried everything he himself had once cast off, including things he admired but chose to abandon. The day the Citadel fell had already made it clear: in the end, they had chosen different paths.

Yet these paths were not entirely parallel. They had an intersection.

He understood himself so thoroughly, and understood Morty just as well. For this “The Mortyest Morty”, every action and thought should have been entirely predictable. However, standing on the verge of boarding the ship, he had still extended that invitation.

—Yes. An irrational, impulsive act. Just like everything that had followed today.

Morty had refused the first time, agreed the second, and the third time, turned the invitation back to Evil Morty. And he accepted.

Two diverging paths, each winding far on their own, had crossed once more by the same yellow T-shirt worn by both boys.

Why still wearing that yellow T-shirt? Evil Morty asked himself.

Perhaps, as a Morty, certain preferences and essentials were simply etched into the bones. Like wearing the same clothes, loving pizza, that curiosity about everything... He had never made a point of scrubbing them away; after all, they were harmless.

Likewise, as a Morty, he understood better than anyone which parts of Morty were most worth cherishing—those parts so often trampled underfoot by Ricks and willfully ignored. Like that puppy-like, pure, unconditional love.

Accepting Morty, allowing him close to his heart, had always carried a deeper significance. It reflect how he chose to regard his own past.

The boy in his arms let out a soft snore, his cheek rubbing unconsciously against Evil Morty’s chest as he drifted into murmured sleep-talk once more. Evil Morty gently pinched his cheek, feeling the warmth radiating from his body.

He was already free of his shackles. Everything he had set out to achieve had been achieved. So what harm was there in indulging a little?

He held the boy closer, intending to sleep once more until nature awoke him. After waking, he planned to take Morty by the hand, lead him onto the modified ship, and go for a turn together through the infinite cosmos.

By the way, the ship was going to have two seats now.