Chapter Text
He liked him. He knew Mike liked him, but he also knew that nothing was ever going to happen. Before it truly began, it had been over for years, and he knew that too. He knew everything, but pretended to know nothing at all. It had always been safer that way.
~
“Quiet on set,” a voice called out. Peter hadn’t been paying attention. People bussled around him. They fussed over him, adjusting his hair and reapplying his makeup. He still wasn’t paying attention. His eyes were locked on the man in front of him. Mike was tuning his guitar and muttering something unintelligible to himself. Unintelligible. What a great way to describe Mike, he thought. He never could make sense of what was going on with Mike; his mind was a mystery, but he knew Mike was softer than he’d ever let on.
A hand waved in front of his face. He looked up to see Micky smiling down at him. He didn’t say anything; his mind was stuck on the movement of Mike’s lips. He so desperately wanted to know what Mike was saying. If he replayed the memory over and over, there was a chance that he could figure it out. He wondered if it was about him. He always wanted to know if and when Mike was thinking about him. “Peter?” Micky said as he waved his hand again. “Anyone home?” He knocked on Peter’s forehead. “Don’t wander too far from home, our little space cadet, your scene is coming up,” he teased, but Peter was already lost out there in the stratosphere. He thanked Micky for the reminder and pulled out his script. He pretended to look at it intently to make the man leave, but Micky still looked down at him.
“What? Is there something on my face?” Peter remarked.
“You think too much, Tork,” Micky stated.
“Yeah?”
“You’re supposed to be the dumb one, so quit it. You’re making the rest of us look like the village idiots.”
He tussled his hair and walked off. Peter closed the script and stared forward again, only this time there was no one to look at. He usually noticed when Mike walked off, but sometimes he would just disappear into thin air. It made Peter sad; he always tried to say something when people left the room. He thought it showed people that he cared. Alone with his thoughts again, he tried to shake that feeling off. Mike didn’t give two shits if Peter said goodbye. Mike always flippantly waved his hand when he did. He thought it showed him that he didn’t care– Peter knew it meant that he cared too much.
~
“For fuck’s sake, Peter! I know how to play the fucking guitar!” Mike’s voice rang in his ears. Peter took his hand off the instrument and apologized. He knew he shouldn’t have tried to help Mike, but he couldn’t help the urge to help his friend. Bandmate. He couldn’t help the urge to help his bandmate. Mike always reminded him that they weren’t friends, they were just bandmates. Sure, Davy and Micky were his friends; they were Mike’s, too, but Mike liked to make sure that Peter understood the distinction of their relationship. He told himself it was because Mike saw him as a musician before anything else, but it was clear to everyone that it was to create distance. Mike needed distance from Peter. It was safer that way.
“Leave him alone. He was only trying to help,” Davy called from across the studio.
“Can it, Jones!” Mike spat.
“Take a walk, Nes. Take a walk,” warned Micky.
Peter choked out another apology, but Mike just waved his hand and stormed out of the studio. “Jesus Christ,” Davy muttered. Micky gave Peter a supportive pat on the shoulder. Peter just stared at the guitar on the ground. Why did he do that? Why did he try to show him how to play that stupid riff? Why didn’t he just keep his dumb mouth shut? It went poorly the other times he tried; he should know by now to just keep it to himself, artistic integrity be damned. He picked up Mike’s guitar and gently placed it on its stand. He ran his fingers over the strings, then turned to his friends.
“Don’t take it personally, Pete. You know how he gets in the studio,” assured Davy, but Peter knew it was deeper than that. Mike was jealous of Peter’s musical abilities, but more than anything, he was prideful. Peter did his best to stay out of Mike’s way when they recorded, but Mike’s pride found him every time. It came out of him in the form of insults and complaints about Peter’s musical ability or lack thereof. Sometimes his playing was too loud, sometimes too quiet, sometimes too sloppy, but Mike’s favorite dig was to call his playing too clean. If Peter did too well, it shot down Mike’s confidence and left him bleeding and vulnerable. Bleeding in front of the producers was worse than bleeding in front of sharks in Mike’s mind. If he showed any sort of incompetence, they were bound to find out he was a musical fraud who didn’t deserve to be in The Monkees. Peter knew he wasn’t a fraud and wanted him to be in the band, and no matter how many compliments Peter gave or how many times he smiled brightly when Mike walked into the room, it wasn’t enough. Peter still had a target on his back.
“I know, I just wish he didn’t have to take it out on me,” Peter relented.
“You’re a great musician, don’t take what he says seriously. He’s just insecure,” Micky added.
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Come on, Pete.”
“No, I’m serious. You really think I didn’t know he was an insecure asshole?”
The other men went silent. Peter never spoke this way about anyone; he tried his best to be kind to everyone, no matter the circumstances, but he was frankly tired of being Mike’s punching bag. His words were always meant to hurt Peter, not just release anger, and Peter couldn’t pretend to be okay with it anymore. He looked Davy and Micky in the eyes.
“I mean, let’s be real, Mike clearly has a problem with me. And it has to be deeper than just music. Whatever his problem is, it doesn’t only exist in this room. He doesn’t ever really talk to me. Haven’t you noticed that?”
The truth was that Mike wasn’t some scared narcissist who wanted Peter to feel like a horrible musician. Mike continued to lash out at Peter. It wasn’t always insults; oftentimes, it was silence. Sure, they talked, even joked, with each other when they were all together as a group, but once Davy and Micky were out of the room, Mike went silent. He wasn’t even all that passive-aggressive; it was as if he became mute.
“He just doesn’t know how to talk to you. Your sunny disposition clashes with his Southern Gothic. He’s completely out of his depths,” Micky said, trying to defuse the situation. Micky loved both guys as brothers, and even though he knew Peter was right, he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge it.
Davy, on the other hand, was sick of Mike’s shit, but was scared of the confrontation that would inevitably have to happen. “No, Mick, there’s something else. I don’t know what it is, but I know that it’s there,” said Davy.
Peter knew what that something else was, though. It was the silent stares they shared in dressing rooms. It was the lingering touches after the director called ‘cut.’ It was the warm smiles Mike gave him when they jammed together. It was the laughter that went on for a little longer than it did with anyone else. It was something they both knew they could never have.