“I didn’t know you could play the piano. Like, for real, you know?”
Morty’s voice cut in as he peeked out from under a jungle of bottle blond curls. Wrapped up in a silky pink robe and wearing fluffy pastel yellow house shoes, he slowly slipped into the room overlooking the city. Miami was just as beautiful at night as it was during the day, and as he brushed his hair back out of his face, he sat on the piano bench beside his grandfather.
“Eh, I dabble in a lot of instruments. Anyways, what kind of idiot would I be, buying a grand piano made of glass for my foyer if I couldn’t play it?” Rick responded with a shrug, shifting his toothpick to the other side and laying out another beautiful melody. Halfway through, his Morty picked up the hand closest to him and examined very calloused digit as if he’d find the secret to life itself in the fine grooves of his skin. As expected, his middle finger was brought to the nineteen-year-old’s lips and he kissed the tip of each one, then sucked his thumb for good measure. “I can’t play everything one-handed.” He added, as though that would sound cutting enough to get him to stop.
“Mm, I know for a fact you can probably play like, Fur Elise or Yankee Doodle one-handed.” Miami giggled, earning a scoff in return.
“You really want to hear Yankee fuckin’ Doodle?”
“Well, no, it doesn’t have to be that, I guess. I just mean, like… I dunno. You really do have good hands for piano.” He muttered, a light dusting of pink taking to his tanned cheeks. Embarrassed by the compliment he issued, he brushed his hair back again and glanced out the large picture window. “A-anway, like… You’d look handsome playing for a crowd, you know?”
“I haven’t done anything like that in…” Whistling low, he let his head drop back, his sunglasses knocking to his forehead and baring his blue eyes, “Years. My mother was the one that insisted I learn.”
“So like, recitals and junk?”
“Yeah, ‘like recitals and junk’.” Rick’s voice was a soft tease, and he leaned over to kiss the other’s head when it rested on his shoulder. His hand freed, he began to play again, this time the song was fast and exciting, before turning somber and almost sweet. “I had the worst teacher, Mrs. Fowler, she’d drive me crazy trying to make me perfect. In the end, I gave up and picked up bass, instead. I can also play a little bit of clarinet, and I tried a bassoon once.”
“Bassoon? That sounds like some kind of weird monkey-snake hybrid.” Morty observed absently, twirling his finger in one of his curls as he watched those fingers dance over the piano keys. “You’re such a good musician, Rick. Like, literally the best.”
A wry smile spread over Rick’s lips as he pressed another kiss to the crown of Morty’s head.
“Thanks, Doodlebug. You’re the best crowd I could ever play for.” He whispered it into the other’s hair, and that blush burned bright from Morty’s ears down to his chest.