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Jealousy - Chapter 02

        Morty had, to his thankful luck, managed to somewhat regain himself. He was sleeping a bit easier now, though he still did, on occasion, struggle. He had sent AJ to Gary's for his three day weekend, with much difficulty as he was attached to the toddler and AJ was minimally wary of Gary. After some convincing, the two had calmed AJ down and Morty had slept for a majority of the three days. To his surprise, AJ was somewhat reluctant to come home, often asking when he would see 'Gar' again. Though the older could only assume the attachment was partially because of his name matching one of the cartoon characters he adored.
       It was much less of a chore to stay awake, especially once Morty had gotten back into his normal routine. Yes, his arm still stung like a bitch on occasion, but it was to the point in which he could manage. The stitches were gone, and the scar was covered with a bit of cosmetic application, but Morty couldn't be happier. He was back to doing what he loved most, and he found his stress easing off a little after resuming his position.
       Yes, everything was slowly falling back into the routine Morty knew best. He was behind the counter, up on the stage, chatting with very colorful individuals, learning new things from those that were simply looking for a conversational partner and enjoyed discussing the world. He had, at one point, spoken with a physicist and learned what he never did understand in school while the man nursed some whiskey and smiled as he spoke of his experiments. He had also held conversations with botanists, algebra teachers, and others like that. Bartending was turning out to be the most educational and fun experience of his life with every conversation.
       With the 'same old routine', however, also came the extra rude remarks and digs at the brunet when they knew he was listening. It wasn't something he'd never come across before, but he missed when the people he worked with used to regard him as the best kid around, before he got caught up in everything and lost his stutter, lost the baby faced looks and traded in for a more simple version of his old model. Every day seemed new in regard to his treatment. The dancers he worked with often switched. Sometimes they were fine with him, other times they couldn't stand to be around him. Morty never minded. He didn't want to be caught up with having to find time to hang out with new friends, anyway, and they would all become... a liability. 
       Morty often realized just how careful his life was, even if he felt like it was carefree. He had to keep a close eye on who knew him, who knew he had a son, who knew he was somewhat involved with Rick. He had to be cautious about his friends, had to be sure they wouldn't be used against him. His life was guarded, and he could only assume it was because he traded it all in again for the man that tore him down without knowing. 
       He had yet to give himself away during a time when they were both sober and would remember it, when it would mean something, solely because he didn't want to. Yes, it was very obvious Rick was making multiple attempts whenever he could, and he was obviously frustrated that Morty refused him often, but Morty knew better. Besides, he was getting more than enough from whoever he went off to play 'poker' with every damn day. He didn't need any from the brunet. He got what he wanted, the sadist was sated every night and he could sleep easy knowing Morty apparently didn't mind. Rick was well aware of the bruises, making no attempt to hide them, no attempt to turn away when he caught Morty staring at them. The man put forth absolutely none of the effort Morty had been promised. It was the beginning for them all over again. But that was fine. As long as Morty kept telling himself, it was fine.

       Approaching the stage every night was like second nature to Morty anymore. He no longer feared screwing anything up, no longer wondered if he was going to be fired, if he would ever be deemed not enough for club Schwifty's, if he would ever be tossed. He knew too much, he was a large part of it all now, and he was 'needed'. 
       The brunet almost scoffed as he wandered over the wooden platform. He sure as hell didn't feel needed. Hell, he didn't even feel wanted anymore. He was just present, every day, just there for people to look at. For people that could potentially love Morty to stare at from afar. 
       Every night, green eyes would sweep the crowd as a signature smile took over a pudgy face. Every night, green would search desperately for somebody that seemed kind enough, somebody he could put his faith into, somebody that could make him feel like a better person. Every night, he would fail to find anybody that didn't wear a look of greed, didn't portray the erection in their jeans like it would attract the dancer, didn't wave in a grossly flirtatious manner. The brunet was beginning to believe that love was, perhaps, nothing more than an illusion that he would never witness for himself. He was near thirty. Of course he would be looking for something to sate the desperate part of his very being that wanted companionship more than a quick fuck when he felt stressed. 
        Twisting on the metal beam so fluidly always had the brunet grinning with a smile that felt genuine to himself. It always had him soaring again, always lifted him at the end of every night. It was a destressor for him. But dancing was becoming... droll. He hated dancing for fat fucks with thick wallets and coming home every night, smelling of sweat, smoke, and beer, knowing Mrs. Jenlin picks up on it whenever he picks his child up from across the street. She had asked several times if he was a hooker, a male prostitute, or something else. Every time, Morty would simply shake his head with a light laugh and bid her goodnight, listening as AJ told him of his day. He hated picking his toddler up at two AM, but he had no other choice. Someday, and he promised himself it would be soon, he and AJ would have something at least semi-normal, something healthy for both of them, and Morty didn't care, didn't know, if it would have Rick there or not. 

       In the changing room, Morty was somewhat surprised to find that he wasn't alone. Another dancer, Grayson, sat as though waiting for him on the small bench running from one end of the room to the other. The brunet gave a soft sigh, grabbing his belongings from his cubby area and wandering towards the changing stall. Danny was leaning against the cubbies on the other side, with Quinn not too far off. Morty was highly unnerved, trying to casually make his way over to the stall now. 
       In his peripheral vision, Morty picked up on Grayson actually locking the door to the changing room from the inside, something they were only supposed to do in an emergency should one arise. The brunet knew he wouldn't be making it out of the room without some sort of confrontation, and he worried just the same. Would he return to his son bruised and bloody, or would these men have some sort of sense and back off? It would only be so long before Gary wondered why Morty was taking forever, after all.
       "Excuse me," Morty whispered, slipping past Danny and Quinn. Grayson wandered over to them and Morty felt himself cornered before he even spun around. 
       "What's so special," Danny began in that thick accent of his, "about a cheap trick like you?" Morty gave a soft sigh, turning to face the group now. He didn't have it in himself to banter, nor to pull his belongings back to himself from Grayson when the man stole them from his hands. "Well aren't you mighty wimpish," Quinn sneered, shoving Morty's shoulder. The brunet managed to stay upright, his vision trained to the floor. He just wanted to go home now.
       "Come on, guys, quit screwing around," he spoke softly, folding his arms over his middle while his curls shielded his eyes. The three gave quiet laughs, Grayson setting Morty's things out of the brunet's reach. Morty found himself grabbed by Quinn and Grayson, now more worried than he had been upon seeing them. "Don't," he whispered, tugging at the hold. Danny laughed, "Now you start breaking, sniveling little bitch." Morty stared with wide eyes at the small razor the man wielded, finding his mouth covered to ward off any calls he would have had the gall to make now. 
        "You know what you are?" Danny growled, now directly in front of Morty. The brunet shook his head, trembling as he tried to back up from the man. "You think you're special, but you're a little whore. Nothing more, nothing less." The cold edge of the metal ran lightly over Morty's stomach, leading the brunet to whimper against the material held over his mouth and to shy away from the touch as best he could.
        Morty jerked when the metal pressed into his hip, yelping into the material over his mouth and scrunching his eyes shut as the blade ran and separated his milky flesh. He was scared, yet not completely terrified. Danny seemed intensely focused on making his point known, continuously dragging the metal over in some sort of pattern as Morty felt a wetness of his face, pulling away from the small searing pain as best he could manage with every slash. Danny was going agonizingly slow, wearing a sadistic grin when he finally stood after what felt like forever. Morty felt something hot running down his leg, trembling when the men finally let him go. 
       "Daddy's little whore," Danny spat, shoving the silver metal into his pocket. The three men laughed as Morty sank to the floor, not wanting to look at his hip as it felt on fire, before they left through the back door.
       "Morty?" he heard, looking over to the door. It was Gary's voice, and he knew the door was still locked. "I-I-It's locked," Morty called out, looking around the room for a towel or something. He heard a curious conversation, watching the knob rattle and seeing the door open while he pushed himself to lean back against the cubbies. He saw the small droplets on the ground, the crimson contrasting severely with the white, and turned away from the figures wandering curiously into the room. He knew Gary was already aware. The blood ran from Morty's left hip, the side facing the doorway, and the brunet was only brought to further tears, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them. 
        The brunet shied away momentarily before he sank into the bear hug he was tugged into, having seen Gary kneeling down next to him a moment beforehand. It was never Rick trying to comfort Morty anymore. It was never the man putting forth the extra effort. He simply stood in front of Morty, wearing a look of sympathy that never matched the anger in his eyes. 
       "Kid," Gary spoke softly, holding Morty out at arm's length, "who did that?" Morty shook his head, not in the mood to talk, and stood slowly. 
        "They all hate me. It's never going to change," he mumbled, more to himself, and went about grabbing his outfit. He didn't care anymore, tugging it all on over his stupid little dancer uniform, hissing when his pants dragged over the marks. He had paused to look at them in the mirror, seeing the crimson rivers reached his knee. 'Whore' stood out in partially dried blood, in haphazard letters, awkward lines and shapes. It was there, and, to Morty, it spoke the some small truth.
       "You have to tell me," Gary stated, pausing Morty where he stood for a moment. The brunet shook his head, "No. I don't. I'm letting them get away with it, Gary, because everything they said was right." 
       The brunet looked down and away from the near hurt expression Gary wore, a look that read failure, and made his way from the room after finally finding a towel and wiping up the crimson droplets from the floor. "Goodnight," he muttered before the door shut, checking the time on his phone. 
       As Morty wandered across the parking lot, he heard three bangs ring out in the night air. He would always know what they meant, and he wished they had let the men be, but he never had a say in it anymore.

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