The Monkees: Just A Kiss
Title: Just a kiss
Pairing: Mike/Peter
Rating: R (for language)
Summary: Mike is struggling with his feelings and hurts Peter in the course.
Warnings: See me use the lamest Christmas plot point ever.
Author Notes: -
Disclaimer: This is pure fiction and deals with the characters from the TV show and not the real persons. I own nothing and make no profit!
“Mike!”
The shriek jerked him awake instantly.
Almost stumbling over his own boots, he hurried out of the bedroom where he had been taking a nap to find Peter clinging to the door-frame at the entrance to the pad.
One of his feet still stood on the step of a ladder while the other one swung through the air desperately searching for a foothold to support Peter’s weight.
Mike crossed the room, carefully avoiding to step into one of the various boxes with Christmas decoration that were spread over the whole floor, and gripped Peter’s waist.
“Let go, shotgun,” he drawled, “I’ve got you.”
Peter loosened his grip and Mike helped him to land safely on the ground.
Peter shook his hair out of his flushed face.
“Thanks Mike!”
A grin spread over Mike’s face.
“You know that you just could’ve let yourself fall, don’t you? You were hanging maybe three feet above the ground.”
Peter’s face grew even redder, he opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again without saying anything, reminding Mike very much of a fish on dry land gasping for air.
“What were you doing up there anyway?”
Peter smiled at him, thankful for the change of topic.
“I decorated!” he pointed at something above their heads.
When Mike looked up, he found a little twig of mistletoe hanging from the wall.
He sighed heavily.
“Oh, Pete, no…”
A pleading gaze out of the big brown eyes met his.
“Come on, Mike. It’s tradition after all.”
Mike’s face, showing an amused expression only a while ago, turned back to his usual seemingly impassive look.
Why couldn’t Peter just let it go?
He was tired of explaining this over and over again.
But at the same time there also was this faint tingling excitement that he couldn’t fight down every time Peter suggested that they kissed.
“Peter! You know that I can’t… that we can’t…”
It felt bad, as if he had just stolen a lollipop from a little child, because that was exactly what Peter looked like.
“I just don’t understand it, Mike.”
The tone in Peter’s voice was heart-rending.
He hated himself for doing this to someone as sensitive as Peter.
Why was everything always his responsibility?
Why did he always feel that it was his task to make sure everyone was happy?
Peter went on: “Why is it alright to do what we do, but not to share a simple kiss?”
Yes, why isn’t it? A voice in his head asked.
“Because it isn’t right! Men don’t do things like that! Men don’t even fuck each other! And that’s just lust, the satisfaction of animalistic needs. A kiss means love!”
He had lost his control. He had never meant to say this aloud, let alone shout it.
Directly in Peter’s face of all things.
The silence when Mike’s shouting had died was almost tangible.
Peter was heartbroken, it didn’t need much to be able to tell.
His eyes swam with tears.
Finally Peter spoke, barely audible: “And you don’t love me.”
Mike was disgusted by himself so much in this instant, he wanted to throw up.
“I am sorry.”
Peter pressed his eyes shut for a second, releasing his tears and then stormed off to the bedroom.
Mike wanted to scream his anger out, but instead he kicked one of the boxes across the room.
It hit Micky’s cymbals with a loud crash and scattered its contents, decorating the drum kit with golden garlands.
He opened the door careful not to make too much noise.
Peter laid on his bed, the blanket drawn over his head.
Mike stepped closer.
The figure under the blanket shook, he could hear sobs.
The heavy pain in his chest only got worse.
Mike was close enough now to touch Peter, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.
“Go away!” Peter’s muffled voice startled him.
He wanted to say something, but there was a lump stuck in his throat rendering it impossible.
Instead he sat down on the edge of the bed. He stretched out his hand to touch Peter’s shoulder, but he still didn’t find the guts to do so and rested his hands on his lap, entwining his long fingers nervously.
“I’m sorry, shotgun,”
He cleared his throat.
He wasn’t good at these things, he had never been.
You’re emotionally impaired, Nesmith, his inner voice mocked him, but he brushed his thoughts away and forced himself to go on.
“I never meant to shout at you. I never even meant what I said… It’s, it’s just…”
He had to gather all his courage to speak this out loud.
“It’s just that I’ve never been this confused. I’ve never felt this way for anyone… let alone for another man.”
It was out, he felt almost relieved until it occurred to him that he didn’t know how Peter would react.
For some nerve-wrecking seconds nothing happened, but then Peter drew back the blanket and sat up to look at Mike.
Mike felt guilty when he saw Peter’s swollen face and his reddened eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, not quite sure what exactly he was referring to.
Peter looked at his face searchingly for a while, making Mike squirm anxiously.
“It’s never easy for you, Michael, is it?” he finally asked in that calm and serene voice that seemed to be an octave lower than his normal tone.
At his words Mike felt a strange unfamiliar burning behind his eyes.
It took him a moment until he could place it: He was on the verge of crying. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had cried.
Peter seemed to have noticed his commotion, too.
“Don’t cry, Michael. I cry enough for the two of us.”
This drew a chuckle from Mike’s lips, relieving the tension in his body.
Peter smiled his warm smile and opened his arms, Mike didn’t hesitate a second to accept the embrace.
The familiar scent of his band mate and his warmth were what Mike could hold on to while a mass of thoughts and emotions wreaked havoc in his head.
His precious control failed him when it came to Peter.
But Peter seemed to understand what this meant to him.
Mike realised that it was okay to let go once in a while.
Driven by a sudden impulse he brushed Peter’s neck with his lips.
He took refuge in the physical contact which came so much easier to him than any emotional matters.
Under Peter’s skin he could feel the blood pulsating.
Whom had he tried to fool?
A kiss would only be the last step on a path they had been pursuing for quite a while.
Why everyone thought of him as the fearless leader he didn’t know.
It was clearly Peter who was unafraid and not him.
The truth was that he had wanted to kiss Peter more than anything.
His lips had tingled every time he had looked at Peter, but he just hadn’t been able to allow himself to give in and do it.
He could dismiss everything that happened between them under the screen of night as carnal desire, not worth speaking of in the light of day.
It had been self-deceit. He knew now.
He pulled away from Peter far enough to look at his face.
There it was again, the tingling on his lips.
This time he wouldn’t repress it.
Ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach, he pressed his lips to Peter’s.
Peter welcomed his mouth, parting his lips slightly, but he noticeably held back to let Mike set the pace.
Mike was surprised to find that kissing a man didn’t differ as much from kissing a woman as he had thought.
Furthermore he was kissing Peter, breathing in his scent and tasting him on his lips.
He wanted, no, he needed to feel more of him, so he started to move his mouth, deepening the kiss.
Apparently this was what Peter had waited for.
Mike could feel Peter’s tongue brush his lips.
This time he didn’t need to think before reacting.
He opened his lips to meet Peter’s tongue with his, answering his invitations and asking for his attentions in return.
When they broke the kiss Mike rested in Peter’s arms for a moment, his cheek pressed to the hot, flushed skin of Peter’s face, his head spinning.
Once he had regained his breath, he whispered softly in Peter’s ear: “Merry Christmas, shotgun!”
Peter laughed.
"Presents come early this year."
Pairing: Mike/Peter
Rating: R (for language)
Summary: Mike is struggling with his feelings and hurts Peter in the course.
Warnings: See me use the lamest Christmas plot point ever.
Author Notes: -
Disclaimer: This is pure fiction and deals with the characters from the TV show and not the real persons. I own nothing and make no profit!
“Mike!”
The shriek jerked him awake instantly.
Almost stumbling over his own boots, he hurried out of the bedroom where he had been taking a nap to find Peter clinging to the door-frame at the entrance to the pad.
One of his feet still stood on the step of a ladder while the other one swung through the air desperately searching for a foothold to support Peter’s weight.
Mike crossed the room, carefully avoiding to step into one of the various boxes with Christmas decoration that were spread over the whole floor, and gripped Peter’s waist.
“Let go, shotgun,” he drawled, “I’ve got you.”
Peter loosened his grip and Mike helped him to land safely on the ground.
Peter shook his hair out of his flushed face.
“Thanks Mike!”
A grin spread over Mike’s face.
“You know that you just could’ve let yourself fall, don’t you? You were hanging maybe three feet above the ground.”
Peter’s face grew even redder, he opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again without saying anything, reminding Mike very much of a fish on dry land gasping for air.
“What were you doing up there anyway?”
Peter smiled at him, thankful for the change of topic.
“I decorated!” he pointed at something above their heads.
When Mike looked up, he found a little twig of mistletoe hanging from the wall.
He sighed heavily.
“Oh, Pete, no…”
A pleading gaze out of the big brown eyes met his.
“Come on, Mike. It’s tradition after all.”
Mike’s face, showing an amused expression only a while ago, turned back to his usual seemingly impassive look.
Why couldn’t Peter just let it go?
He was tired of explaining this over and over again.
But at the same time there also was this faint tingling excitement that he couldn’t fight down every time Peter suggested that they kissed.
“Peter! You know that I can’t… that we can’t…”
It felt bad, as if he had just stolen a lollipop from a little child, because that was exactly what Peter looked like.
“I just don’t understand it, Mike.”
The tone in Peter’s voice was heart-rending.
He hated himself for doing this to someone as sensitive as Peter.
Why was everything always his responsibility?
Why did he always feel that it was his task to make sure everyone was happy?
Peter went on: “Why is it alright to do what we do, but not to share a simple kiss?”
Yes, why isn’t it? A voice in his head asked.
“Because it isn’t right! Men don’t do things like that! Men don’t even fuck each other! And that’s just lust, the satisfaction of animalistic needs. A kiss means love!”
He had lost his control. He had never meant to say this aloud, let alone shout it.
Directly in Peter’s face of all things.
The silence when Mike’s shouting had died was almost tangible.
Peter was heartbroken, it didn’t need much to be able to tell.
His eyes swam with tears.
Finally Peter spoke, barely audible: “And you don’t love me.”
Mike was disgusted by himself so much in this instant, he wanted to throw up.
“I am sorry.”
Peter pressed his eyes shut for a second, releasing his tears and then stormed off to the bedroom.
Mike wanted to scream his anger out, but instead he kicked one of the boxes across the room.
It hit Micky’s cymbals with a loud crash and scattered its contents, decorating the drum kit with golden garlands.
He opened the door careful not to make too much noise.
Peter laid on his bed, the blanket drawn over his head.
Mike stepped closer.
The figure under the blanket shook, he could hear sobs.
The heavy pain in his chest only got worse.
Mike was close enough now to touch Peter, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so.
“Go away!” Peter’s muffled voice startled him.
He wanted to say something, but there was a lump stuck in his throat rendering it impossible.
Instead he sat down on the edge of the bed. He stretched out his hand to touch Peter’s shoulder, but he still didn’t find the guts to do so and rested his hands on his lap, entwining his long fingers nervously.
“I’m sorry, shotgun,”
He cleared his throat.
He wasn’t good at these things, he had never been.
You’re emotionally impaired, Nesmith, his inner voice mocked him, but he brushed his thoughts away and forced himself to go on.
“I never meant to shout at you. I never even meant what I said… It’s, it’s just…”
He had to gather all his courage to speak this out loud.
“It’s just that I’ve never been this confused. I’ve never felt this way for anyone… let alone for another man.”
It was out, he felt almost relieved until it occurred to him that he didn’t know how Peter would react.
For some nerve-wrecking seconds nothing happened, but then Peter drew back the blanket and sat up to look at Mike.
Mike felt guilty when he saw Peter’s swollen face and his reddened eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, not quite sure what exactly he was referring to.
Peter looked at his face searchingly for a while, making Mike squirm anxiously.
“It’s never easy for you, Michael, is it?” he finally asked in that calm and serene voice that seemed to be an octave lower than his normal tone.
At his words Mike felt a strange unfamiliar burning behind his eyes.
It took him a moment until he could place it: He was on the verge of crying. He couldn’t even remember the last time he had cried.
Peter seemed to have noticed his commotion, too.
“Don’t cry, Michael. I cry enough for the two of us.”
This drew a chuckle from Mike’s lips, relieving the tension in his body.
Peter smiled his warm smile and opened his arms, Mike didn’t hesitate a second to accept the embrace.
The familiar scent of his band mate and his warmth were what Mike could hold on to while a mass of thoughts and emotions wreaked havoc in his head.
His precious control failed him when it came to Peter.
But Peter seemed to understand what this meant to him.
Mike realised that it was okay to let go once in a while.
Driven by a sudden impulse he brushed Peter’s neck with his lips.
He took refuge in the physical contact which came so much easier to him than any emotional matters.
Under Peter’s skin he could feel the blood pulsating.
Whom had he tried to fool?
A kiss would only be the last step on a path they had been pursuing for quite a while.
Why everyone thought of him as the fearless leader he didn’t know.
It was clearly Peter who was unafraid and not him.
The truth was that he had wanted to kiss Peter more than anything.
His lips had tingled every time he had looked at Peter, but he just hadn’t been able to allow himself to give in and do it.
He could dismiss everything that happened between them under the screen of night as carnal desire, not worth speaking of in the light of day.
It had been self-deceit. He knew now.
He pulled away from Peter far enough to look at his face.
There it was again, the tingling on his lips.
This time he wouldn’t repress it.
Ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach, he pressed his lips to Peter’s.
Peter welcomed his mouth, parting his lips slightly, but he noticeably held back to let Mike set the pace.
Mike was surprised to find that kissing a man didn’t differ as much from kissing a woman as he had thought.
Furthermore he was kissing Peter, breathing in his scent and tasting him on his lips.
He wanted, no, he needed to feel more of him, so he started to move his mouth, deepening the kiss.
Apparently this was what Peter had waited for.
Mike could feel Peter’s tongue brush his lips.
This time he didn’t need to think before reacting.
He opened his lips to meet Peter’s tongue with his, answering his invitations and asking for his attentions in return.
When they broke the kiss Mike rested in Peter’s arms for a moment, his cheek pressed to the hot, flushed skin of Peter’s face, his head spinning.
Once he had regained his breath, he whispered softly in Peter’s ear: “Merry Christmas, shotgun!”
Peter laughed.
"Presents come early this year."