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The guys were sick and stuck in bed, but Peter was still up and wandering around, wanting to help out around the pad. The only real problem was that Peter, too, was pretty darn sick. Unlike his bandmates, it wasn't quite bad enough to leave him stuck in bed. ...Or maybe he was just determined enough to get this done for it not to be. His head spun and his skin was so hot it had looped back around to being cold, again, but Peter was determined to make himself useful.
He wanted them to believe in him. He wanted them to love him. He thought it must be hard when he kept causing them so maybe problems. How could they? After all, he always felt like he wasn't doing enough to help the guys out. He hardly sang lead on any of their songs, he seemed to get them into far more trouble than he got them out of, and it seemed that every employer in a thirty mile radius had gotten it in their heads that he was a bad worker. (Which wasn't even true, by the way, they just didn't like the way he stared at nothing every once in a while and couldn't seem to get his tone quite right.)
He started by picking up the items that had been left laying on the floor by the guys across the several months between that day and their last good clean. There was some random copper wire in a few places, and on every surprise appearance of the stuff Peter had to check it wasn't connected to anything electrical before touching it, a task that was unexpectedly difficult with his mind spinning as it was. There was wire behind the giraffe, and under one of the couches, and wrapped around the high hat.
There was also some that was just close enough to a light for him to leave alone, but the area wasn't a total loss, as beside the lamp was one of Mike's spare blue hats. The one that none of them really liked the look of. It was dusty from where it had clearly been forgotten, so Peter shook away the dust and tried not to sneeze. This was, of course, a monumental task in the best of times, but even more difficult when he was actively ill, but he didn't want to wake the guys. He was doing this for them. They deserved the rest.
Once done with the hat, he picked up a few more items that the four Monkees had left across the lower floor of the pad. Half written music, a random collection of spices that the group had been gifted after preventing a robbery of a nearby restaurant, and a photo of the Beatles that had been used up until recently as a dart target. Somehow it had fallen to the floor, and Peter frowned at it while trying to remember where it's ”proper“ place on the wall had been. Those popular boys were just another band. Yes, a much bigger band than the four of them could ever hope to be, but seeing their photo torn and stabbed through had always made him feel a little bad.
The violence just felt so unnecessary, and the thought of it made him feel a little sicker. He wasn't sure if that sadness came from his illness amplifying his emotions, from his true belief in peace, or from his failure to fit in with the other guys on that particular regard. Either way, once the picture had been returned to its place by the door, he quickly turned away from it in search of something that could improve his mood. He kneeled to look, and froze at what he found.
He did not find such a thing. Instead, he found something even worse than his friends playing war with pictures of real people. In fact, the memory of their game drifted from his mind altogether, suddenly just another funny quirk to forget about later.
Instead of suspicious copper wires, or an ugly hat, or even a photo with pinpricks in it that made him sad, when Peter turned to check the floor around the door for debris, he saw a letter. A letter with a nice envelope and loopy handwriting next to a colorful stamp. It was substantial, like there was more than a few pages of text inside, maybe even a few cheeky little photos along with them. But it was not just any nice thick envelope. This was a letter with a smudge of lipstick on it. And not just any smudge, it was a kiss.
Peter did not have to check the name on it to tell that it was definitely meant for Davy.
When Peter's eyes caught on it, he felt something weird in his stomach. For some reason as he stood there, frozen as a tree in an ice storm, he just couldn't bring himself to pick up anything more. His fingers twitched against his tilted belt, and he frowned at the thrumming headache in his mind. He told himself that it was because blood had been rushing to his head every time he bent down to grab an item, making him progressively more dizzy over time. Surely, it had just been that final mind twisting bend that had made him feel that way. But deep down, he knew that that wasn't it. Not really. Not fully anyway.
He didn't want to see who sent the letter to Davy, and he didn't want to know if Davy would answer back if he put it somewhere Davy had the chance to.
He stood faster than he should have, what with the headache and the fever and the nausea and the letter-induced-sickness, but he didn't care. He wanted to get away from that letter, forget that it had ever there, pretend that the only bad part of the day was the fact that the guys were sick and that he didn't always agree with their hobbies.
Peter switched to dishes. It was one of the tasks that none of the guys liked doing, so he tried to convince himself that it a decent fit for himself when he's sick. (He ignored the fact that being sick while cleaning the items that you were planning on eating off of was kinda a bad idea.) Since he was already feeling bad, doing something he didn't enjoy oh so much couldn't possibly make him feel worse, right?
He pushed the letter aside in his mind. It had made him feel worse, but this would be different.
He leaned against the counter to steady his shaking legs, and it helped. Maybe doing the dishes wasn't such a terrible idea after all.
In the unnerving silence of the sickness filled pad, the sounds of his cleaning sounded like the loudest thing he had ever heard. Even the low pressure of the water in their sink and the wet slapping of the paper plates (they had decided that were close enough to reusable) he was working on at that moment seemed loud. Loud, like his head might burst, or like Davy might wake up from it and see the letter still on the floor when he came out to ask what the ruckus was. Peter shut the water off and tried to convince himself that he was doing fine, but he was still stuck on that stupid letter and unsure if he it because of the fever or because of something else.
Carefully, on an even lower level of water pressure, he passed a few more paper plates back and forth in the sink to rinse them. But as he placed one of them on the side of the sink to dry, he suddenly realized that he forgotten the soap. He frowned and picked up the plates he had already done. He had to restart a stack of five plates, at least there weren't that many of them. Each had "used paper plate" written across its smudged face in clear black sharpie. As he scrubbed them a second time under the quiet flow of the water, this time with soap, the words blurred as the paper flicked away, so he took them as clean once he got the soap across and off of them for real.
To calm himself down, he hummed lightly to himself, but he was so sick that even humming was tiring.
There were a few more of those plates. Three more. Five more. Ten more. By the final two, Peter had mostly convinced himself to forget about the letter. (But not enough to actually turn his head to see where their plastic spoons and forks were when he was grabbing for them. He didn't want to remind himself of the letter on their dirty floor by actually seeing it, so stabbing his hand a few times on the weak prongs of a fifteen times used plastic fork wasn't that bad.)
The plastic "silverware" was even easier to clean than the plates (likely thanks to the fact that they weren't actively falling apart in his hands as he dealt with them), and it was sooner rather than later that he was able to move to the few real dishes that the guys had. There were, like, two total plates. A pathetic number left from when Peter he dropped them last time that the band been kidnapped in their own home. (Not the most recent kidnapping, but the most recent one in their house, somehow.) That had been bad. Just him, messing things up like always.
Somewhere between scraping the plates clean and remembering their fallen brothers, he found himself thinking of the letter once more. Somehow, the thought of it lying there, pure and bright and smudged with lipstick, made him even more sick than the memory of the gun to his head and the rope around his wrists. Those poor plates had lost their guys back then, but he hadn't.
Why did it feel like this letter could let him feel what they had felt back then, for real this time.
He reached over to place one of the two plates down to dry, but found with dismay that the entire counter was coated in soggy paper plates and slightly soapy plastic forks. It was not the kind of place for a real plate to dry, and Peter moved away from the counter for a moment. Really, it hadn't been a very long way to walk, just a few steps away to move a few things over to their tiny little table in order to dry them without the threat of paper plates or plastic spoons, but the world shifted as he took those steps.
The pad flashed from black to white to black again around him, and Peter made some kind of noise as his consciousness suddenly slipped. Holding himself up on the counter had apparently been doing more for him than he had given it credit for, and in the tiny space between the sink and the table, his previously ignored fever finally caught up with him. Without the counter to hold him up, he was going down, and without realizing it was happening, Peter fainted with a crash of the final two plates shattering.
…
Peter woke dizzy, shivering, confused, and being vigorously shook back and forth.
For a few seconds he stared at the Pad's strangely patterned ceiling, uncomprehending of it, before he noticed who exactly it was that was shaking him awake. Davy.
Maybe it shouldn't have been, but the first thing that Peter noticed was that Davy's face (flushed bright red from the fever that they all had) was rather pretty, and that his un-styled hair (lightly combed but not curled up around his chin like usual) was very nice. Loopy, without thinking of what this would sound like, Peter opened his mouth. "Your hair looks really nice David," he said, as earnest as someone who had just fainted from fever could sound, "And your face is very cute red."
Davy's face turned even redder.
Still working on coming to correctly, Peter tried to sit up. "What are you doing here?" he asked Davy, as if he hadn't complimented his looks at all as the first thing he'd said after passing out in a mess of shattered plates and water droplets.
"I heard you fall," Davy explained, sounding far more scared than Peter had realized, "I got so scared I ran out as soon as I could- Peter, Peter, let me call the Doctor." He was almost begging. Peter must have only been out for a minute or two, but Davy still wants to spend their hard earned money just to make sure he was totally fine. The idea of that made Peter's head spin almost harder than it had before he had fainted, and he laid back down on the ground, humming slightly to show that he was doing fine.
He didn't know what to say. He hadn't wanted to cause them trouble. He'd been doing all this to prove he wasn't trouble, for hecks' sake, but as he likely should have predicted, it had all blown up in his face. Even cleaning up the Pad was too dangerous of an activity for Peter to complete without ruining his friends' days.
He watched as Mike and Micky struggled down the staircase. The dizziness that came with their shared fever was clearly making Micky's usual practice of sliding down the banister a little dangerous, and they couldn't quite seem to place their feet right as they walked, so they were being quite slow about the whole process. For some reason, though he probably should have wanted to have all of his friends around him, Peter couldn't help but feel glad that- even just for a moment -it was just him and Davy.
Being there, holding his hand and trying to explain that he was fine without actually speaking, almost made Peter forget about that letter and it's hot pink lipstick mark.
Almost.
Finally, Mike and Micky reached the bottom of the stairs, almost evident on their faces even as they stumbled.
"Peter!" Micky said, "Are you okay?"
Peter nodded, but it probably didn't look very convincing, given as he was still on the floor.
"I'm calling the Doctor," Mike said after a moment of pause to let the world stop spinning.
"Please do," Davy said, and the worry in his voice was so evident that it made Peter feel bad for not wanting him to, "I think he really hit his head."
"I'm okay!" Peter protested, but it did nothing. Obviously they didn't have faith in the guy who'd just passed out from carrying two plates to have a very good judge on how he was doing.
Mike stumbled over to the telephone, but frowned in dismay as he realized that it was not active. (It must have been yet another bill that they had missed. Peter had never thought he would live to see the day he would be thankful for their money troubles, but it seemed it was here.) With everyone's attention on Mike and the phone, Peter struggled to his feet, almost falling twice before holding himself up on the table.
"Mike," he insisted, "I don't need a doctor, it's just a little bit of fainting, I'll just get a drink." He smiled as wide as he could in the circumstances and moved to walk to the sink, but Davy pushed him back down before he could get very far, worry on his face. He stared into Peter's wide eyes, and Peter realized rather suddenly that he was blushing. (He cursed himself. He would appear even sicker with more redness to his cheeks.)
"I'LL get you your damn water." Davy said with finality. He stood, somewhat unsteady from his own fever, and gave Peter a look that told him to stay in place, and that was the end of that conversation.
As he filled the glass, Mike and Micky swept up the dishes Peter broke. He frowned.
"I'm sorry," he said, feeling like he might cry, "I didn't mean to break them."
"It's alright Pete," Mike said softly, his voice a little scratchy, "We have other dishes."
"Only paper plates and a few bowls!" Peter wailed, "I didn't even get to the bowls."
"Hey," Micky said with a smirk that looked like it was physically hurting him a little bit, "At least you were up and doing dishes."
"Yes," Mike agreed, dumping the shattered pieces into the garbage, "we were just laying around despite you clearly being sicker than any of us."
Peter frowned again, but he couldn't stand up to be on their level. He still felt sick.
"Don't say you weren't," Davy said as he finished filling the cup, "You freaking fainted on the floor."
"And may or may not have hit his head!" Micky added, "I think this calls for an impression."
He started an impression, and Peter couldn't help the slight smile on his face. Oh Micky. He thought. Ever so wonderful at serious conversations. Almost as good as me, really. If he had spoken the thoughts aloud, he doubted his sarcasm would have been heard, so he kept it to himself.
Davy handed the glass to Peter, and he drank it as the still sick Micky completed his impression. He clapped politely once they were both done. He had really needed that water. After the stress of the upsetting chores and the fainting and the memories of being kidnapped, he had truly needed it.
Especially after that letter. Peter looked down, but before he could let himself be pulled into worries once more, Davy reached out a hand for him to hold on to. It felt… oddly intimate to him, even for someone who had already been helping him so much. For probably too long, Peter just stared at his fingers and short circuited. Oh man. He was a mess.
"Pete," Davy said, "You would rather sleep in your bed than on the floor, right?"
Peter nodded, mind still spinning a little. He didn't have to worry about Davy noticing him staring. Right? His friends probably just thought he was still out of it from fainting (which he was). But when he grasped the British man's hand and let him pull him to his feet, his tan skin felt boiling hot against Peter's, and he didn't know if that was more the fever or the crush talking.
Davy led him to their room, short enough that leaning on him was a little weird, but strong enough that it worked all the same. With their hands together and their torsos bumping together and the fever in his head, Peter suddenly found his worries melting, ever so slightly. Who cared about that letter? Who cared if Davy would respond? Who cared if he broke dishes and got them into trouble and couldn't land a job to save his life. Not him, that was for sure. How could he, when Davy was so close to him and being so kind?
Davy limped the two of them over to Peter's bed, still messy from when Peter had got up to clean that morning, and lay his fellow Monkee down. "I'll be here," he murmured, sitting next to Peter with a comforting level of weight into the mattress, "and… and thank you for helping around the pad."
He ran his fingers through Peter's hair, and Peter hadn't realized how tired he had been until he had already fallen deep asleep.
…
After a few days of rest, Peter felt a little better, but Mike made him stay in bed for a day more just in case. Peter found this somewhat unfair, especially considering the fact that he had been trying to prove his worth as someone helpful to the group, but he couldn't say he minded the way Davy ran his fingers through his hair every night to get him to sleep. He couldn't say he minded Davy's hands on him as he helped him in and out of the room when he needed to. He couldn't say he minded the stories he whispered to him, to keep him entertained. Tall tales of back in Manchester, even taller tales of his trip to the states. Things that Peter could have sworn he had never shared with anyone before.
If it wasn't for the fact that he still wanted to help, he might have wanted to stay that way forever.
Finally, Peter could take it no longer.
When he woke up that noon, Davy already long gone from his bed, Peter didn't feel quite so bad anymore. He shoved his blanket off of himself, glad that the chilling boil of his fever had subsided, and stumbled out of his room. His feet felt uncoordinated, but he no longer felt like he would fall over without a counter or Davy to lean on, so he left anyway. It had been long enough.
Plus, he wanted to know where Davy had gone.
As soon as he opened the door and tripped into the main area of the pad, he got his answer.
Davy was at the sink, finishing the dishes that Peter hadn't all those short days ago. He was humming to himself, nodding to a tune that sounded straight out of broadway as he fixed up one of their cereal bowls for use later that day at dinner. Peter froze slightly as he watched, feeling oddly like he had walked in on something he shouldn't have. Davy, doing the dishes. Of his own accord. If you'd asked him earlier in the month, Peter may have said that he would be surprised by that turn of events if it were to ever happen. When he had asked Mike about it earlier that month, he'd it would ice over in Hell before that happened.
More important, however, than that strange change in character, was the second one. Davy's hair was the way it had been the other day, when he'd helped Peter and Peter had told him how beautiful it looked. He thought about how much time had passed since that day, and then he thought about how late it was in the day. There is no way it was an accident of just not styling it yet for the day. Oh wow. It hadn't just been the fever. He looked good.
Peter sucked breath and walked forward, feeling like he was floating even more than he had when the fever had gripped him.
"Davy," he said, and his friend yelped and whirled around, looking surprised that he'd been caught, "You're doing the dishes."
"Well," Davy said, turning back to the sink like he was hiding a blush, "You didn't finish it, so I just thought…"
"I appreciate it," Peter murmured, reaching Davy and resting his chin on his head as if he still needed his support to stand. (Maybe he did. He half felt like it.)
There was a beat of silence, "I like your hair," he half whispered.
He felt Davy smile under him. "I know."
The pad around them was cleaner than it had been when Peter had been working on it. It seemed that the other Monkees had picked up where he had been unable to help, and somehow, that didn't make him feel bad anymore. The suspicious copper wire was hidden away, the last of the music had been sorted, and the space by the door had been newly swept.
The letter.
For a moment, Peter felt anxiety spike through him. Was he totally misreading this situation? Was Davy just being a good mate and him being a bumbling fool as usual? Had Davy already answered that bird with a kiss of his own?
But before he could start to cry, Davy opened the trash can to dump in a Used Paper Plate that had completely disintegrated in the center. Peter's eyes widened as he glimpsed the familiar pink lipstick smudge, and what was left of his illness flowed away in a sudden rush of calm. He felt whole somehow, as if the source of his fainting spell had truly been the stress of the letter after all, and not the fever or exhaustion at all.
There, in the suddenly silent kitchen, he could almost hear the rustle of violins and the soft humming of flutes in the air.
"The letter?" Peter asked
"I didn't need it," Davy said.
"Why?" Peter whispered, almost wishing he didn't have to.
"I already had something better," Davy hummed, still cleaning, as if nothing was strange, "But he passed out on the floor, so I didn't have a good time to tell him."
Peter's heart stuttered in his chest for a moment.
Suddenly, he wrapped Davy in his arms and put his nose into his hair, not sure whether to laugh in joy or cry in relief. He didn't have the words to say, but Davy seemed to know just what he meant. His eyes, reflected in the soapy (clogged) sink water, stared up at Peter. They sparkle, until suddenly they weren't anymore because his hands were on Peter's shoulders and they were kissing and it was everything Peter had ever wanted.
He didn't have a fever anymore, but he could have mistook it as one. He pushed Davy back a little closer to the soapy water. Their love-beads clacked together, and a bit of Davy's hair got into his mouth.
Suddenly, there was the sound of a pair of feet on the stairs and a person sliding down the banister, and the two Monkees couldn't pull apart fast enough. They tried valiantly, Davy's arm got into the sink somehow, and Peter almost tripped and fell right where he had passed out the other day, but it was totally useless. Micky was already snickering at them.
"Well," said Mike, sounding amused but not angry, "We were comin' down to see if everyone was feeling a bit better, but it seems we didn't have to ask."
"Yeah," Micky said, still snickering a little, eyes bright, "Maybe we should have waited to hear it."
Peter's face turned redder than it had been during the worst of his fever, and for a split a second he almost wished the he was still sick and in bed. But then he didn't anymore, and Davy laughed and Mike laughed and Micky laughed, and they were all friends and all was peaceful and loving all throughout the world. And Peter knew then what they thought. He wasn't the worse one, or the one that got them into trouble, or the source of all their messes. To them, he never had been. And as his friends laughed around him, he knew that he was safe. Within moments, he was laughing too.
Davy squeezed his hand, and Peter's heart fluttered. They were going to continue this later.
He smiled wider than he had in months.
He now knew that they could love him after all.