Naked Persimmon ~ Put On a Smiley Face

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"Put On a Smiley Face"

Title: Put On A Smiley Face

Author: Saint Lady Day

Genre/Pairing: Torksmith (show-verse)

Rating: PG

Warnings: Adult Language; Corniness

Disclaimer: None of this ever happened, I made it all up.

Summary: Peter questions his sexuality.

Author's Note: First NP submission! Wooooo! Naw, seriously. This is just a little, spur of the moment vignette to keep my interest while I work on my much larger, editing intense epic of a fanfiction (also Torksmith) that I will be posting as soon as it's done. This one is kind of far fetched plot-wise (and totally loaded with crappy plot holes, obvious devices, and unexplained shit), but it's just for shits and giggles really, I bashed it out in like, two days and edited in about fifteen minutes. Anyways, this is based on Gnarls Barkley's excellent song 'Smiley Faces' which can be found attached to an equally terrific music video via Youtube.

Micky loved bad TV. Most low-budget soap-operas qualified as comedies in his mind, and he was always sure to laugh it up. He was the only one occupying The Pad at the moment, as Davy had been ferried away by his latest squeeze hours ago, and Peter had rushed off to the beach in search of Mike moments before. It was a rare and lovely moment when any of The Monkees had a chance to relax alone, and on this late afternoon, the pleasure was all Micky's. Of course he loved spending time with his friends, but nothing beats the tranquil smile of an empty house, especially after seeing the drama that had sprouted up and passed on just hours ago in this very room. The drummer frowned at the thought of it, recalling the unborn tears bubbling on the surface of Peter's face, simply itching to plunge unto his cheeks. Micky had then turned to see Davy at his side, in disbelief at the words they were both hearing. Dolenz was disillusioned by the sight of that square jaw hanging slack from his lily white cheeks.

Jones spoke then, shaken by the news.

"Wait... Petah, wot d'you mean t'say? D'ya mean you-- you're...?"

Davy's jumping words trailed off, making Peter bow his head in shame. "I guess so."

Micky bit his lower lip nervously, glancing from Peter to Davy, and back to Peter again. He wanted to pat his poor roommate's shoulder, but thinking twice, Dolenz shied back from this notion. He then inwardly scolded himself. 'Oh come off it Dolenz. Queer isn't catching.' But really, he still wasn't sure. Did he really believe he could catch Peter's queer? No, but a childish fear in his chest told him otherwise. It tugged at the corner of his sleeve, wracked with paranoia. Micky did his best to shake the fear off, but to no avail. 'What am I, five?'

This new development of Peter's brought on a sneaking sense of anxiety for not just Mick and Davy, but Peter himself. He'd always dug chicks, and he'd be damned if they didn't dig him back. How could he suddenly take that sharp turn down the road to Fagsville? He was a grown man now, shouldn't all the stink of teenage identity crisis be washed away by now? And why should it just suddenly return after years of contentment with himself? Looking into the eyes of his two friends-- no matter what they were really thinking-- Peter imagined that he could see misty, disapproving words etched into their pupils:

Peter's queer.

He detected scrutiny, whether it was there or not.

Finally, someone (Micky) spoke again. "How long ago did you...know?"

Tork's wet copper eyes rolled to the window, as if the answer was smeared on the glass pane. "About a year ago."

The drummer's eyes grew wide. "That long?"

"I just hoped it would go away."

"Was Mike the only one that you...?"

The bassist nodded bitterly, clamping his eyes closed. His friends exchanged one more knowing glance, and decided silently to put their shock away for another time. Right now, Peter needed their support. When they turned back to him, the bassist's chin was still pressed to his chest, silent tears gliding across his face. A few watts of sympathy coursed through Davy, making him want only to stop the flow of tears. He put a hand on Peter's bobbing shoulder.

"Hey Petah man, look. It doesn't mattah if yer queer or not. Yer still Petah, an' that's awl that mattahs. Right Mick?" He gave Dolenz a meaningful glance. Unlike Jones, the pangs of pain Micky had received from seeing Peter so wrecked had not motivated him to move, but rather froze him where he stood. However, he sprung into action when needed. His hand shot out to brace Peter's second shoulder, clamping down on it firmly. "Right," he affirmed, with sudden startling confidence. "We're yer pals, no matter who ya fuck."

That last quip made Davy cringe, but it pulled a giggle out of Peter, which was all the drummer had wanted. He thanked his friends for their much-needed support, but only found himself overcast with doubt again. What about Mike? He was the cause of all this, after all. He was the one who'd made the bassist question his sexuality in the first place.

'But it had to be Mike, didn't it?' he'd thought with a bitter grimace. 'Mr. Michael "Aggressively-Heterosexual" Nesmith. What am I thinking?'

Davy released his friend and itched at the back of his own neck with the tips of his fingers, suddenly unsure again. "Well... why don't y'just talk to 'im?"

"Well..." 'He'll hate me forever, this is a terrible idea.'

"Look, I'm sure he'll understand," Micky said, palm still flattened against Tork's upper arm. "He's your friend, right?"

"Yeah, but he's not... you know..."

"What, gay? Well, he never said he wasn't."

This much was true, but playing on neutrality wasn't all that promising.

"But he's had girlfriends."

"He could be Bi."

Somehow, Micky had warmed up to this new "gay Peter" concept a little too quickly. Furthermore, his charisma had swallowed up his words, making everything sound easier than it really would be. Because of these factors, Thorkelson found himself wandering out of the house and onto the beach a few moments later, wondering how he'd been talked into this. He looked back at Micky, still smiling in the doorway.

"Micky, I dunno about this man."

The drummer just kept up his confident grin. "You'll be fine, Pete, I promise."

Peter squinted, still unsure, prompting Dolenz to churn out another chunk of advice. "Don't be so down babe. Put on a smiley face, will ya?" He took his two pointer fingers, tracing a wide "U" shape across his face. His companion only managed a weak one in return, watching as Micky retreated back into the house. Now there was no turning back.

Peter goose-stepped through the sand, eyes peeled for the green beacon of Nesmith's wool hat. Why he insisted upon wearing it at the beach, no one will ever know. As the hippie trailed back farther, he did soon come across the man on whom he'd focused his affections.

There he sat, perched on a rock and draped in form-flattering bathing wear. His finely shaped face down-turned at an angle, focused on the neck of his guitar, fingers spidering from fret to fret seamlessly, eyebrows furrowed with concentration. But he never noticed Peter.

'I could just go right now, he'll never be the wiser.' But by now, he knew damn well that he'd never forgive himself. It was too late to leave.

"Er, Michael?"

Mike looked up from what he'd been busying himself with, his solid, clear gaze fixed directly on the blond man before him. Peter's heart jumped and burrowed in his throat.

"Hia Pete. What's up?"

~*~

Micky Dolenz sat comfortably on the sofa, twixt the ratty, overstuffed pillows. Enjoying his usual processed, crappy television program, he settled back in his seat, a remote in one hand, and a bag of potato crisps in the other. However focused he was on the flashing TV screen-- despite being alone inside since the afternoon-- he did not jump at the sound of the door slamming. He simply turned and craned his neck to see over the couch's backrest. Standing there in the doorway, dogged by twilight swirling behind the glass door, was Peter. He'd been out for over two hours now in search of Mike, but Nesmith was nowhere in Micky's range of sight. Peter entered. No Mike followed behind. As the bassist swaggered through the room and up to the staircase, Dolenz couldn't help but to puzzle aloud. "Did you find Mike?" he asked, peeping over the edge of his chair like a tiny doe-eyed rabbit.

In mid-climb, Peter glanced back at his friend with pink flushed cheeks. "Yeah," he said, flashing a brilliant smiley face.

~*~

"So, you're in love... with me?" Mike's words came out stilted and divided, clamoring to take hold of his wits again.

Peter nodded slowly, weary of having had just drudged through the whole horrid process of confessing his gayness again. "I think so."

He watched as Michael's face contorted thoughtfully, now fully aware that there was no turning back.

'Oh fuck, now I've done it. He'll hate me now. He'll never look at me again, I know it. What if he leaves the band? What will we do then? It's gonna be my fault too. Way to go Peter, you big dummy.'

He only managed a pathetic "Sorry."

"Well don't be sorry, shotgun." Michael's voice was tinted with sympathy, reassuring that Peter's attraction was pitied and not mutual. All the bassist wanted at the moment was the safe succour of sinking into the sand and never resurfacing. Still, his bandmate started to speak again, whether Tork wanted to hear it or not.

"It's no big deal Peter, really. C'mere 'n' sit down."

Reluctantly, Peter obliged, squatting down at the base of the boulder Michael occupied. He listened quietly, somewhat detached, as Mike dove into a schpeal modelled around acceptance and how the gayness didn't make him think any less of Peter. "Don't think for a second that it does," he'd said firmly. Meanwhile, all Peter could process in his mind was a string of forlorn thoughts, bitterly acknowledging that at least Michael wasn't angry or scared. At least he didn't seem intimidated. At least he was accepting of this new... thing. At least he was--

"...so with all that in mind, I'd say I'm willing to try this if you are."

Peter jerked his head in Mike's direction. "Hu?" He'd only just barely caught that last bit, but it sounded promising.

Mike ran a hand through the pleat of dark hair hanging over his eye, and reiterated. "Well, you said you like me, didn't you?"

Peter cocked one eyebrow up, cautiously hopeful. "Yeeaaah..."

"Well," He swallowed hard, and tried to make his voice sound no-nonsense. "Peter: I would, uhm, like to take you up on that. Y'know, if you're interested, that is."

Peter looked up at his companion in awe. This couldn't be real. He'd spent so long preparing for seemingly inevitable rejection that he barely believed what he heard. How could someone so handsome, so intelligent and smart, so seemingly not gay, be interested in him?

"Uhm... are you?"

Peter suddenly realized that Michael expected a response. "Uh! Well, uh, yeah, sure!" He shook his head in happy disbelief as he spoke, a white gash of a smile cracking across his face. He stood up suddenly, though he wasn't really sure why. Sheer excitement was likely the motivator. Nesmith rose too, uplifted by Peter's excitement. "Uhm, okay!" He took the bassist's palms in his fingers, but wasn't sure what to do with them. They looked at each other, for a moment, not sure of what to do next.

Michael examined his new mate's face, pupils twitching in their irises. His voice came up as a rasp. "So, what now?"

Peter gaped back, still rather shocked. "I dunno." 'What do we do?' He felt his eyes shift in their sockets as his focus changed, and he caught himself wondering if he was dreaming. There was no way this was real.

But it wasn't like any wet dream he'd had before. It was much more awkward, unsteady and unsure. There was something, though, that this had that no unconscious fantasy ever could: it had warmth. The warmth of another body, not the dream, ghost of a notion. Encouraged by this revelation, Peter shifted his head, pressing his lips against those belonging to the man opposite him.

When the initial surprise of being kissed wore of, Michael responded, not just by kissing back, but by taking control, as he would do in any other situation. He pulled back for no more than a split second, parting his lips and returning, signifying that he was more than willing to introduce tongue.

Challenge accepted.

Thorkelson mirrored this action, and their mouths felt as though they'd melded together, for a time. That first wave awkwardness had rolled away seamlessly, leaving the boys to do as they pleased. Mike's arms coiled around his lover's shoulders, pulling him into a loving bear hug type of embrace. Peter pressed his left hand against Mike's chest, and he could clearly make out the feeling of his steady heartbeat behind his palm. Something about the whole experience was comforting. It felt a little bit like popping the last piece of a puzzle into place, but here again, there's no warmth in putting a puzzle together.

When the kiss finally broke, Peter looked up at his inamorato, who stared back with affection. Michael thumbed at the bassist's cheek, coaxing his mouth to curl into a brilliant smiley face.

Slash Fiction Het/Gen Fiction Donatella's Head

General Art Slash Art

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