Chapter Text
It started with a poker game, as most things do.
Micky was sure he was going to lose. His hand… was not the best, to say the least. He was so sure he was going to lose that he planned on folding on his next turn. Micky let out a huff, not even bothering to try and play up his hand. Now that he wasn’t focused on actually winning the game, he might as well look at something interesting, i.e., his bandmates' faces. Peter was after him, so Micky would have some time before it was his turn again. Peter, per usual, wasn’t sure what his best move would be, instead furrowing his brows and slightly sticking out his tongue. His eyes were extremely focused on the cards, not straying further than the 4 inches they were from his face. Micky couldn’t even begin to guess what his cards were, as Peter himself had no idea what his cards meant. What Micky could see was Davy’s glance over to Peter’s hand, and the smallest , quickest smirk Micky had ever seen graced Davy’s face. Got it, Peter’s got a great hand.
Davy quickly instructed Peter on what he should do, and from the bits Micky listened to, it was solid advice. After Peter, it was Davy. Davy seemed to have an okay hand, if his expressionless face and loose hold on the cards said anything. Davy raised the bid, despite the lack of confidence he gave off. Micky rolled his eyes, resting his chin on the palm not holding the cards. What a boring game this was going to be .
Micky moved on to Mike, who was barely paying attention to the game. Mike, instead, was in what looked to be a heated argument with Peter. Mike looked utterly lost, mouth slightly agape and eyebrows creased. While he was completely engrossed in whatever nonsense Peter was spouting, Mike had temporarily let his hand show towards Micky. And man , were Mike’s cards shitty, even worse then the ones Micky had. Micky smirked at the hand, doubting Mike had even processed how bad they were, since he’d let out no visible reaction.
“Mike, it’s your go, isn’t it?” Davy said, obviously losing patience with having to get two out of the four players to pay attention.
Mike ended the conversation with a cough and a glance at his hand, and God , was it funny watching Mike’s face fall as he looked closely at the cards. And then Mike does the least predictable thing Micky could’ve guessed, going all in . Micky audibly scoffed, not believing Mike had the guts to have that bad of a poker face yet still play like he had been given the winning hand.
“You’re going all in?” Micky asked, the confusion evident in his voice.
“Yes, Micky , that's why I said it,” Mike replied, glaring at Micky.
“But your cards suck, Mike.”
“M-Micky! What the hell, man! We were just gettin’ started!” Mike exclaimed, dropping his cards. He stood up from the table, walking to the front door. “‘M goin’ for a walk.”
“Mike!” Davy shouted, standing up from his chair, but Mike had already shut the door. “Micky, what the hell was that for?”
“Look at his cards! They sucked, and I saw his face! That was the most dejected I’ve ever seen him, honest. Then he went all in like he had already won.” Micky practically yelled, pointing to the cards on the table. Davy and Peter leaned over the table, looking at the forgotten cards. Peter’s face paled, as even he realized how bad the hand was.
“Bloody hell, those are terrible cards! How’d Mike think he could with these?” Davy said.
“At least I had a slight chance at winning,” Peter muttered.
“I told you! There’s no way he thought he could do anything but lose with these cards.” Micky said. “Maybe his poker face is worse than I thought.”
“Maybe,” Davy said, a sly look overtaking his face, “maybe we use this to our advantage.”
“Use what to our advantage? How does Mike being bad at poker help us out?” Peter asked, voicing Micky’s unspoken concerns before he could.
“Think about it, Pete, it seems like Mike has no idea how bad he is at lying, so if we just keep this a secret between us…”
“Then we can always tell when Mike is lying!” Micky finished. “If we tell him, he’d immediately put his guard up. Look at how easily he just left, we have to keep this between us, okay, Peter?”
Peter sighed, obviously not happy with this plan. Micky was almost about to say forget it, that it was stupid anyway, when Peter replied.
“Okay. But if it gets to mean… or, or it feels like we should tell him, I am going to, okay?”
“That’s fine, Peter, there’s no reason it’ll get that far,” Davy said.
Micky nodded in agreement. It was just a silly thing about Mike, there was no reason why he had to know anyway. If they told him, it would probably just be another thing that Mike would get insecure about or think too much on. Yes, it’ll be fun anyway. Now we’ll know what Mike lies about .
As Micky watched Mike for the next few days, he realized that Mike rarely lied. Sure, he made up an excuse for when he was running late or conveniently left out parts of a story that would be embarrassing for him, but he never lied to Micky or the others. It wasn’t till their gig got cancelled that Micky noticed Mike was prone to telling half- truths.
That Tuesday had been relatively normal. Micky had woken up earlier than he usually did; the sun had already risen, but it couldn’t be past nine. He let out a yawn as he stretched awake, throwing his feet to the floor. Looking up, he saw that Mike was already out of bed, but that was typical for the man. Mike was always the first up and last down. Micky could hear the faint sounds of bickering downstairs, meaning Davy and Peter were already awake.
Micky made his way down the cold, metal stairs, each step waking him up a little more. By the time he was at the breakfast table with the others, he was as awake and alert, ready to continue overanalyzing his bandmate’s face. To Micky, this whole thing had been like a science experiment. Getting to examine Mike's face, seeing how each part moved when telling a lie, and getting to know the man better than he already did were all a win, in Micky’s book at least.
The group was sitting at the table; Mike was reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee to his side, and Peter and Davy were arguing over whether or not it was reasonable to eat dinner for breakfast, since it was acceptable to eat breakfast for dinner.
“I am not eating a steak at nine in the morning, David!” Peter exclaimed, making it very clear that he was the counterargument of this debate.
“If we can have eggs and bacon at night, why does it matter what we eat in the morning? It’s just food!” Davy rebutted. “Mick, what do you think?”
Micky, who had sat himself down at the table while they were conversating, shrugged lamely.
“I dunno Davy, but I could go for eggs… or bacon… or steak…or-”
“You can have eggs with ketchup or ketchup with eggs,” Mike interrupted, setting the newspaper down to get a pan out for the stove.
“Eggs with ketchup,” Micky said.
“Ketchup with eggs,” Davy responded with a sigh.
“Just eggs, please,” Peter asked.
Mike hummed in approval and went to grab the eggs out of the fridge when the phone started ringing. Quickly, Micky put a finger to his nose, Peter and Davy following.
“Not it!” they all exclaimed, none of them wanting to answer the phone. Half the time when they answered, it was some wannabe villain of the week trying to rope the group into some ridiculous romp where one of them inevitably got hurt. Mike was better at handling those calls anyway.
Mike sighed and closed the fridge door, making his way over to the phone.
“‘S goin’ to get it anyway.”
The rest of the group dropped their fingers, and Davy and Peter went back to the breakfast/dinner debate. Micky, on the other hand, zoned out of the conversation to just focus on Mike. Watching the conversation was when Micky realized that, not only was Mike a bad liar, but he was just horrible at controlling his facial expressions. Micky watched the man speak on the phone, slightly out of earshot so he couldn’t hear what Mike was saying. Mike had brought his hand to his mouth, lightly chewing his thumbnail. His mouth was thin and tight, in a straight line. His eyebrows were furrowed down, looking rather worried. Micky watched him put the phone back on the hook and walk back over to the table.
“What was that about?” Davy asked, staring Mike down, remembering what he, Micky, and Peter had agreed to do just days before. Mike awkwardly shuffled to the fridge, resuming the eggs he was making. His back was now turned, leaving nothing for the boys to look at.
“Our gig. For Friday.” Mike replied, cracking the eggs into the pan. “They cancelled on us.”
“Oh.”
Peter looked like he was about to ask a question, mouth slightly open. Micky quickly started flailing his hands, trying to get the other man to wait. Peter seemingly got the hint and went back to scratching at the table with his nail. Mike kept making the eggs in silence, only the sound of the eggs frying and Peter’s nail against the table filling the room.
Eventually, Mike finished the eggs and served them onto the four separate plates, placing the ketchup on the table. He was back to sitting at the table, facing the group.
This is it , Micky thought.
“So,” Micky started, shoving a fork full of eggs into his mouth before continuing, “why’d they cancel on us?”
Mike looked at Micky, appearing disgusted by his mouth of chewed food, before he cleared his throat to respond. Before Mike started speaking, he looked away from Mickey's face and to his own plate instead. Just his eyes moved, his face still in Mickey's direction.
“Found a new act.”
“Why a new act, what was wrong with us?” Peter asked earnestly. Out of the three, Peter was the one most against this ‘game’.
“Manager didn’t,” Mike started, moving the eggs around on his plate, a faint frown starting to form, “didn’t want our type playing there.”
“You're joking! He must’ve said more than that, Mike, what’s our type anyway?” Davy questioned. Davy, for all intents and purposes, did not care what the manager had thought of them, but was having fun pulling the truth from Mike.
“Long-haired weirdos. Hippies.” Mike said. He was still frowning, holding something back.
“What else he’d say, Mike?” Peter asked, his voice softer than normal.
“Freaks. Queers. He didn’t want long-haired weirdo, hippy, freak, queers playing at his club. It’s fine, though, we’ll find somewhere else.” Mike said. His voice was normal, like he was describing the birds outside or reading a menu, but his face was different. It was clear he was upset, even if he wasn’t going to speak on it.
“Mike, c’mon, man! That guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about! We’re real groovy anyway,” Micky said, now feeling bad about having fun at the expense of Mike.
“Yeah, yeah, I know Micky, ‘s just really lookin’ forward to that paycheck, that’s all,” Mike said, still looking down at the eggs instead of facing the group. An awkward silence set over the table for the rest of the breakfast. Micky just sighed, wishing he hadn’t picked up on Mike’s habit of not being able to control his facial expression.
Eventually, Mike left the table to go and look for another gig, since their next one had been cancelled. That left Micky, Davy, and Peter lounging in the living room area, flipping through channels and magazines, none of them really in the mood to do anything fun after that breakfast.
“Man,” Peter started, breaking the tension, “Mike was real put out by being cancelled on.”
“I mean, our gigs are most of our income,” Davy replied.
Micky let them bicker for a moment, thinking to himself about Mike’s behavior. He had seen the man getting rejected by women, thrown out of stores, booed off stage, drinks thrown on him, get kidnapped, saved Micky and rest from being kidnapped, break into buildings, shoot real guns at real people, and so many other horrible things, yet he had never seen Mike look as upset as he had when he recounted why they’d been fired. Micky went through the list Mike had rattled off to see what had bugged the guy enough to not want to tell the rest of the band.
Long-haired weirdos: This was an objectively true fact, as all of the Monkees had longer than average hair for men their age. Men of their age also didn’t live in a beach house with little money, probably where the ‘weirdo’ moniker originated. Couldn’t be that.
Hippies: Another true fact. Couldn’t be that one either.
Freaks: Okay, this one was a little mean-spirited. Yes , they typically did things a little differently than others, but surely there were weirder people out there. Possibly could be the issue. I’ll just file that away for later , Micky thought.
Queers: This was it. Micky could place all his nonexistent money on this being the issue. Mike was the man who grew up on a farm in Texas; of course, this would be the issue for him. It hadn’t occurred to Micky that Mike might be not okay with queer people, as the topic had never been brought up. Micky was born and raised in California, and while it was still looked down upon, he’d never seen an issue with two dudes kissing. It was kinda groovy , if you asked him, not that anyone ever had .
“Maybe he wasn’t upset about losing the gig, maybe he was upset about why we lost it?” Micky provided, hoping Davy and Peter would pick up what he was putting down.
“Because the club hired someone else to play?” Peter guessed.
“Because we’re a bunch of ‘ long-haired weirdo, hippy, freak, que -’” Davy started, putting the list in quotations before cutting himself off when he realized the issue. “I see now.”
“You guys think Mike’s against homosexuals?” Peter asked, on the same page for once. He could pay attention when needed.
“I mean, it’s not out to question. He spent most of his life in Texas, so…” Micky said, a little uncomfortable at the thought of Mike being against that way of life.
“Has he ever said anything against…that?” Davy said.
“No… but he’s also never said anything for it , either,” Micky replied.
“We could just ask him if that’s what’s wrong, then?” Peter suggested.
Micky and Davy just hummed in agreement, going back to flipping channels. Micky couldn’t pay attention to whatever show Davy had decided on, too busy thinking over this whole ‘Mike Thing’. Asking him would be the easiest, especially if he really did have the inability to lie to the rest of the band. The more he thought about it, the worse Micky felt about asking him with Peter and Davy present. It felt like cheating, asking Mike a question when the other three would be able to read the answer before he had the chance to speak. Mike needed to be talked to, one-on-one, Micky decided.
“I think I’ll just ask Mike, alone, if that's alright with you guys?”
“No problem with me, mate,” Davy supplied, “Didn’t really want to have that conversation anyway.”
“Just be gentle, okay? Knowing him, he’ll get defensive about it,” Peter said. He’d always been a little protective of Mike, even if the other man thought it was the other way around most of the time.
“For sure, Pete, for sure,” Micky answered, already anxious for a conversation that hadn’t been had yet.
Two days had passed, and Micky had yet to talk with Mike. He could have, when Micky and Mike retreated to their rooms at night, and it was just the two of them. He almost had the second night, stopping only when the words died in his throat.
Micky was in his bed, sitting cross-legged on top of the comforter, half-reading a comic book he’d copped that day. Mike was in his bed, fiddling with the strings of his guitar. There was a record on, one of Micky’s choice. Now or never, Micky. C’mon, just say something.
“Mike.”
The man just huffed in response. Micky wanted to have a conversation, not talk to a preoccupied Mike, so he tried again.
“Mike.”
The man still didn’t look up, continuing to tie the string to the capstans of the guitar. Frustrated, Micky grabbed a pillow off his bed and flung it across the room, hitting Mike square in the face.
“Gah, Micky! You could’ve seriously messed up my strings, man,” Mike grumbled, an agitated look across his face.
“I’m trying to talk to you but you won’t stop playing with your freaking strings!” Micky exclaimed, the exasperation clear in his voice. Mike picked up on that, his face softening.
“Okay, okay, ‘m sorry, babe. What’s up?”
“Mike, do you ever… like when you see… er…” Micky stumbled, trying his best to get the words out of his head and to his mouth. God , why did he even care about what Mike thought? It’s not like it’d really effect Micky anyway.
“C’mon, Mick, spit it out.”
A beat of silence.
“... Could you grab me a glass of water?”
“Are you serious, Micky? You threw a pillow at me so I would grab you a glass of water?” The annoyance was back on Mike’s face and voice.
“...Yes.”
Mike just sighed, putting the guitar down gently and leaving the room. Micky quickly put the comic book on the side table, getting under the blanket and praying he could fall asleep before Mike came back. How embarrassing for me, I couldn’t even get the question out . He was drifting out of consciousness, thinking about how he would ask tomorrow, when he heard Mike coming back up the stairs.
The next morning, Micky was woken up early by the sun again. He groaned as he stretched, getting up for the day. As he put his feet on the floor, something glimmered in his peripheral vision. Looking at his side table, there was a glass of water with a note.
Get it yourself next time, if you’re just going to fall asleep - MN
Micky smiled to himself, surprised Mike hadn’t just kept the water to himself. He drank the water, grateful as it soothed his dry throat. After tucking the note safely away in a drawer, Micky went downstairs. He didn’t hear or see Davy or Peter as he made his way to the kitchen, so they must’ve been out for the day. Just you and Mike then… You and Mike…
Upon seeing Mike in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal, Micky decided he had to ask now . Just like ripping off a band-aid, just like ripping off a band-aid. Quick and easy and possibly friendship destroying. No biggie.
“MikedoyouhatequeersIjustwanttoknow,” Micky said in one breath, speeding through the words. If he said them fast enough, then maybe Mike would mishear and this whole thing could be avoided.
Mike, in fact, had heard Micky just well, if the milk he’d spit out meant anything.
“Micky, what the hell are you talkin’ about?” Mike asked. He was looking straight at Micky, so he got a good look at Mike’s face. He didn’t look angry or upset, a little confused and... some other emotion Micky couldn’t place. Deep breath, Micky.
“Well, it’s just, me and Peter n’ Davy noticed you were really upset about the gig getting cancelled, and it’s just not like you to get so upset over a lost show. Angry, yeah, but not sad . So we were talking and we figured, maybe, you didn’t like that he called us, you know. Queers,” Micky replied, his words getting softer as he continued, not sure how to explain himself, “So we guessed you might not like… queers.”
Mike just stared. And stared. And stared. Nail on the head. God Mike hates queers and he probably thinks you one now, too. Which means Mike hates you. Yeah, cool, cool, whatever , Micky spiraled as he searched Mike’s face for some sort of answer. After what seemed like hours, he finally saw it. A small smile spread across Mike’s face, before the man was, honest to God, giggling like a schoolgirl.
“Mike! This isn’t funny!”
“Is that seriously-” Mike started before laughing some more, eventually stopping and letting a smirk stay on his face, “is that seriously what y’all thought?”
“I mean… why else would you have been so upset?!” Micky questioned. He was going over everything that had happened in the past few days, trying to figure out what else Mike could mean.
“Mick, babe, have you ever seen me on an actual date with a woman?” Mike asked.
Micky thought for a moment. He had definitely seen Mike flirt with women at bars, but he was bad at it, often having women leave mid-conversation. But as far as could remember, Micky had never seen or heard of Mike going on a date. That still didn’t answer Micky’s question.
“Mike, what does you not being able to get a date got to do with this?!”
“Am I unable to get a date, or am I purposely boring women to get them to leave me alone? Which seems more probable, Mick?”
“So what? You don’t date women, what does that have to do with queer peo-” Light bulb. “Oh my God.”
Mike nodded, not saying anything else, going back to his now soggy cereal.
“Mike, your- you like- oh my God, why didn’t you say anything!” Micky felt like his world had shifted on its axis. With this confirmation, pieces of a puzzle he wasn’t aware he was doing started clicking into place. Mike driving off women, never going on dates, never joining in story swaps with Davy, never giving names for the people he did meet.
“You know how Texas was, is still, s’not something they take lightly over there. Couldn’t really tell anyone there without a punch to the gut or whispers ‘bout town.” Mike said, no longer looking at Micky. Still hiding something, then .
“You know we’re not like that… right?” Micky asked. He hoped he hadn’t said or done anything to make Mike feel like he still had to hide himself.
“No, ‘course not Mick. I got so used to not telling anyone, I jus’, kinda forget to tell people, that’s really all.”
“So, why’d you get so defensive over it, if you don’t mind me asking?” Micky said, slipping into a chair, no longer feeling like he was going to faint from all the new information he was learning.
“I mean, ‘s one thing to know that about myself, and another thing to be called that by people who don’t take as kindly to it as you do. Especially when he said it about y’all, not jus’ me, ya dig?”
“I dig.”
“And Micky… please don’t tell the other guys about this. ‘S not that I don’t wanna, I just… need to get used to people knowing again.”
“I won’t say anything, Mike, swear,” Micky said. And he meant it. Mike just hummed, letting Micky know this conversation was over. Micky got up and made himself a bowl of cereal before rejoining Mike at the table. He looked at his cereal, then Mike, then his cereal again, then Mike again before Mike caught on.
“You can ask three questions before I leave this table.”
“How’d you know?”
“Do you want a tasteful version or the real one?”
“...Real.”
“Found out I could only… finish… by imagining men.”
Micky blushed at the vision that gave him while he carefully chose his next two questions.
“Who’d you tell first?”
“My Ma.”
“How’d she react?”
“Bad. I’ll see you later, babe.”
And with that, Mike put his bowl in the sink and walked out the back door, presumably to walk on the beach. Micky still sat at the table, staring into his bowl of cereal instead of eating it. Okay. So. Mike doesn’t hate queers because he is one. That’s fine. Great actually! That means he doesn’t hate you, not that your queer or anything. That’d be whack.
Micky continued playing with his cereal, trying to imagine Mike with a man. Sure, Mike was tall and lanky, had thick sideburns and thin lips, and he had stereotypically masculine interests, but Micky couldn’t quite picture him as boyfriend material. He could call himself a masculine man all the time, but Micky saw the effort Mike put into his appearance, how he made himself smaller in large crowds, and was soft spoken when with friends. Micky could see him as more of the girlfriend in a relationship. He laughed softly at that, imagining Mike as the girl in a relationship. Mike holding a guy’s hand, Mike being the little spoon, holding Mike’s waist, opening doors for Mike, holding hands on the beach with Mike. Micky imagined himself doing all the things he would do with a girl, but with -. But with-.
Oh.
Oh.