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The taping for the day had wrapped, and people started leaving.
Davy and Peter were standing close, the world around them momentarily quiet. Davy, with his expressive brown eyes, looked up at Peter, whose kind, thoughtful face softened as he stepped in. Peter wrapped his arms around Davy in a slow, comforting hug—his touch gentle but firm, like he was anchoring them both in the moment.
Davy leaned in, arms wrapping around Peter’s back. It wasn't a quick pat or a jokey squeeze—it was a hug that says thank you, that says I’ve got you, that says we’re in this together. No words were needed. Just the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet sound of shared breath.
They held it for a moment longer, before easing apart with a small smile between them—one of those looks that only old friends understand.
The moment between Davy and Peter was still lingering when a voice called out from the snack table.
“What’s this? A group hug and I wasn’t invited?” Micky strode over, holding a banana in one hand like a microphone. “Rude.”
Davy turned, still smiling. “We were having a *moment*, Mick.”
Peter added, “A deeply emotional one, thank you.”
Micky raised an eyebrow. “Well, now I feel *deeply* left out.” He tossed the banana onto a nearby stool and opened his arms wide. “Come on then, bring it in.”
With a theatrical sigh, Davy stepped in. Peter followed. And suddenly, there were three of them—arms wrapped awkwardly around each other, laughing as Micky squeezed them way too tightly.
“Where’s Mike?” Peter asked through the group squeeze.
As if on cue, a quiet voice spoke up behind them. “Watching you lot act like a pile of puppies.”
Mike Nesmith leaned against the edge of the set, guitar slung over his shoulder, hat tipped just enough to hide the grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“You joining or judging?” Micky called.
Mike smirked, then walked over and wrapped one long arm around Peter and the other around Micky’s shoulder. “Fine. But only so I can say I was the tallest in the hug.”
The four of them stood there, arms linked, heads bumping gently as they tried to find balance. It was awkward, warm, and oddly perfect. Like the band itself.
No one said anything for a long moment. There was just the quiet hum of the studio, the distant buzz of an amp still plugged in, and the closeness of four people who had been through the beautiful chaos of something bigger than themselves.
Peter was the first to speak, voice low. “You think we’ll still be doing this when we’re old?”
Mike chuckled. “You mean older?”
Micky added, “Speak for yourself. I plan to age backward.”
Davy grinned. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll always be The Monkees. Even when we’re just old monkeys with bad knees.”
They all laughed again, and this time, the hug fell apart naturally, each one stepping back, brushing off invisible dust from the moment.
But the warmth lingered—something unspoken passed between them.
Not just a band.
A brotherhood.