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"You Just May Be the One - Part 1"
Title: You Just May Be The One
Author: Lily Rose-Petals
Genre/Pairing: Romance/Humor; Mike/Peter
Warnings: Explicit m/m smut
Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or settings in this story, I only claim ownership for the words and ideas I've presented.
Summary: A Mike and Peter romance, with Monkee awesomeness from all four.
Author's Note: The title is also the title of the Monkees' song "You Just May Be The One." I thought if fit Peter and Mike very nicely--especially since Mike's singing it. :-)
The first time Mike kissed Peter they were standing in the bathroom of the flat the four Monkees shared. To be precise, Peter had just finished combing his hair after his morning shower and Mike was leaning against the open door frame eating a slice of buttered toast. Strange as it may seem, this situation (minus the kiss) was actually how almost every day at 1334 Beechwood Drive started for these two occupants.
Peter was the first to rise in the mornings, being, inexplicably, a morning person. He would make his way out of his bed, over the blanket Micky had invariably kicked onto the floor during the night, and through the bedroom door without waking anyone. He was always very good at this, which was surprising, for Peter. Davy and Micky were not morning people and hated to be woken by any noise. (In the early days of living together Peter used to make a great deal of noise upon rising, although no one knew how he possibly could; but now he was very good at keeping quiet.)
Every morning Mike would lay in bed, rolling over and over until he felt himself properly awake; then he would sit up, rub his eyes, untangle his blankets from around himself— sometimes he would fall over on Micky and that was always dreadful— but not this morning— and would head out the same way Peter had done, usually throwing Micky's blanket at the foot of his bed.
It wasn't that Mike was following Peter, not exactly. It was just that he was a day person. No, not a morning person, nor a night person. He just liked being awake during the day, and as the beginning of the day started after the first person got up, it was then, after Peter had risen, that his day began. (Sometimes, after a late-night gig, the boys would sleep late into the afternoon. Mike would still only rise after someone else got up first, unless he just couldn't take lying in bed anymore. It was just how his mind worked.)
But the Monkees hadn't had a gig in three days and so on this particular morning the day started at 8:12 am, sharp, for Mike. Instead of going to the bathroom upon rising, Mike always went down to the kitchen and made himself some toast. It mattered not whether he needed to use the restroom because Peter was already in there drying off from his shower by then, and Mike was distinctly uncomfortable going into the bathroom to take a leak while a naked Peter Tork dried off beside him. Certain things he felt for Peter and his body might become a bit too obvious then.
This morning Mike followed his usual routine of toasting bread, buttering it, and taking a bite as he headed over to the bathroom that was right off the kitchen to wait for a pee and a shower. (The date of this morning was October 2, 1971, in case anyone cares.)
Whenever Mike got to the bathroom door he would knock, and in a moment or two Peter would open it, usually while brushing his teeth, to let him lean against the door frame and await his turn. Sometimes Peter would already have the door open, and this meant he had already brushed his teeth and was fussily combing his hair. Peter always had to make sure it was perfectly straight and neat before he left the bathroom, wearing a plush red bathrobe, to dress and make breakfast.
As Mike had not taken a particularly long time making his toast this morning, he came to the bathroom door while it was still closed. He knocked, Peter answered, and Mike leaned. As usual, Peter wore his red bathrobe and was busily brushing his teeth. Mike used to wonder why Peter was so fussy about his morning routine until the thought occurred to him a couple weeks back that maybe one of the only things Peter was truly good at was his personal appearance, and therefore it was important to him to do it well. After that realization Mike stopped the little jibes he sometimes made to Peter when he took too long and he felt himself grow impatient.
However, this morning it was not necessary for Mike to remind himself to be nice, to be patient, as he was in a relaxed mood. Three days of doing nothing had put him in an easygoing mood instead of an agitated one, which Mike attributed to the rent on the apartment being paid up two months in advance.
Instead he stood at the door, watching Peter comb his hair, now, and he was ashamed of himself for realizing that he had the way in which Peter combed his hair practically memorized. Damn, but he had his whole routine memorized. But this did not deter him from talking, as he was in a good mood, and he said,
"Hmm, what, Mike?" Peter replied absently. Stroke, stroke, went the comb.
"Why do you always part your hair on the left side?"
Mike took a bite of toast.
"Well, why should I part my hair anywhere else?" Stroke, stroke, swipe.
"Oh, well, I don't know, my Aunt Kate always told me it was better to part your hair in a different place every once in a while, just to keep off dandruff and the like."
Peter continued combing his hair methodically. Mike took another bite of toast.
"Why would your Aunt Kate want me to part my hair differently? We only met once and she didn't seem to mind it then," he said after a moment. Swish. His hair was parted.
"What...?" He swallowed his toast. It took a second for Mike to realize what Peter was thinking. "Oh, no, not you, Pete... Just people in general, you know..."
"Oh, okay, well next time you see her be sure to let her know I parted my hair on the right side." Peter looked at Mike intently in the mirror.
"But...you didn't part your hair on the right side. It's on the left, as usual."
Peter fingered his hair fussily. "Yes, but by the time you see her again I'll have had time to part it on the right side, won't I?"
Mike just looked at Peter. It was one of those moments where Peter was surprisingly astute, and Mike didn't know what to say, partly due to the fact that Peter turned his head and looked right at him with his innocent brown eyes, in complete sincerity, as if what he said was the most logical thing in the world.
"Yes. Yes, well, yeah, that makes p-perfect sense." Oh god, did he just stutter? Whatever for? For those wide brown eyes and curvaceous pink lips? Oh, god, he didn't just think the word curvaceous, did he? No, certainly not. Pull yourself together, Mike, he thought sternly. He really shouldn't be having these thoughts this early in the morning.
To his great chagrin and embarrassment, in the second it took for him to think those thoughts and refocus on Peter, he found that Peter was still looking at him.
"Are you...okay?" Peter asked, since Mike was sure he was blushing, and for no reason, as far as Peter knew.
"Er, yeah, I'm just..."—Peter was still looking at him! His brain searched wildly— "hot."
That was the best answer he could think of, but it was also the wrong word for him to say. He felt his cheeks flame once more and his heart race like a boy who had his first crush. This was weird. His relaxed stance of moments before was rigid, Peter's brow was starting to crinkle, and Mike just stood with the toast forgotten in his hand. God, he was stupid. How could a few simple words put him in this predicament?
And suddenly his agony was over, much to his relief and, surprisingly, his disappointment. Peter looked away, seeming to believe his answer, and fussed with his hair for a moment. He rested his hands on the sink counter and looked at himself, as he always did before leaving the bathroom, and said,
"I guess it is a bit warm in this bathroom."
Mike was somehow surprised to hear him talk so calmly. Hadn't he felt it, the electric current that ran between them when their eyes met? Was it only Mike who felt the almost overwhelming desire to kiss the other one, to shove him back into the bathroom, against the sink, and work on making the bathroom even hotter? But with a cold chill down his spine Mike mentally slapped himself back to reality. No, no, Peter did not reciprocate his feelings; only he wanted these things.
Peter flicked his eyes hesitantly to Mike in the mirror and then turned in an unsure way toward him in the doorway. His brow was a little wrinkled; he was confused by Mike's body language, by his flaming cheeks and jumbled expression. Mike wildly hoped for one second that Peter was mulling over his confused feelings for him and then crushed the hope in the same second.
And then, because Peter still stood there and because he couldn't control himself, his thoughts were back on hope for Peter's affection, of the months they had lived together, how long they seemed while Mike looked at Peter with longing and Peter seemed oblivious to his desire. Mike even dropped hints sometimes, so subtle that a mouse couldn't have picked them. But hope, unbidden, bloomed in his chest every time he did so, hope that Peter would somehow pick up that he wanted more than just friendship.
Hadn't Peter and he sometimes had moments of sexual tension, where they paused for a moment, not daring to look at each other, and then mumbling something they had moved away to their separate business?
What about the time in the kitchen when Peter had come downstairs after his shower and teeth-brushing and hair-combing and had made breakfast for Mike and himself, because Mike had gotten up uncharacteristically late?
Or that time when Davy had been out on a date and Micky, Peter, and he had been sitting in the living room having a jam session, and Mike had absentmindedly placed his hand on Peter's knee to reach over and grab god-knows-what? And when Mike realized what he was doing and had glanced quickly at Peter he found Peter staring at his hand in an intent, unfocused sort of way?
What about those moments? What about all those other times he couldn't even list?
Peter seemed to know he was thinking of something important because he stood quietly and waited for Mike to speak. If Peter had had pockets in his robe Mike was sure he would have stuffed his hands in them and waited patiently. Wonderful, wonderful Peter. Always so patient; so tolerant of criticism; so unaware of things everyone else knew; so understanding of things others did not understand.
What was he going to say to him? Because Mike felt he could not back out of this situation he had created, however inadvertently. How long would he wait until he told Peter how he felt? But at the same time, how could he rock the boat at a time when the band was grooving so well, gigs were coming steadily, and money was available for need as well as for leisure?
How could he risk breaking up the group for his own wants? How could he lose his dearest friends, Micky and Davy, if they decided to repel him from themselves when they found out what he was? But surely, surely he knew them better than that, they were true friends... He felt miserable at the prospect of losing them; he felt joyous at the prospect of gaining Peter as something more than a friend.
There was nowhere to go but forward.
"Peter..." he started. "Peter, can I...? I need to say something, I need to let you...um, I don't know... Oh hell."
Peter still stood looking at him, his expression unreadable.
Mike looked at the bathroom door, thinking hard. What the hell was he going to say? Peter, I love you?I want you to be my lover? Mike snorted out loud at the word, but internally felt it was the right word to use. Peter, I hope you can understand my carnal desire for you, but even if you are repulsed by me can we please fuck like bunnies? But that certainly wasn't the right thing to say, because that did not cover everything he felt for the other man, not even close, although at the moment it covered about three-fourths of it...
"Mike?" Peter said tentatively, and Mike looked up suddenly; now his own brow was crinkled.
"What?" he said, too abruptly, which made Peter looked flustered and confused.
"Are you...are you going to let me pass?" He seemed at a loss for what to say.
What? Mike looked at Peter for a moment, and a single wicked thought slid into his brain and nestled next to his left ear.
"No. No I'm not," Mike said, sounding surprisingly calm to his own ears, sudden resolve coming to him.
"Er, why not?" Peter said uneasily.
Mike didn't like him to sound uneasy; it's not what he wanted for this moment at all.
"Because I want you right here, where we always start our day," Mike said, as if that statement was supposed to make sense to Peter in and of itself. To Mike it did.
"Why?" Peter asked.
"Because," Mike said, and kissed him.
Peter's lips were as soft and pliable as Mike had imagined them. Shit, but his lips parted easily for his tongue. Mike wasted no time in exploring Peter, however it may alarm him, because this may be the one and only time he could ever kiss him. Peter did not resist, which Mike did not register at first, but let Mike guide the back of his head with the hand that had thoughtlessly dropped its burden of cold toast.
Peter thought Mike tasted wonderfully of butter and bread. He always did love watching Mike eat his toast, and now he knew, as if he'd always known, that it was because he had secretly wanted to taste it on his lips and maybe even tongue for so long he couldn't even remember when he'd started wanting to.
And then Mike pulled away and his lips made a a sort of suction-y noise that sounded very erotic to Peter, as if they didn't want to leave his mouth as much as he didn't want them to leave.
Mike was instantly three feet away from Peter, his eyes wide and lips pressed firm, waiting. Peter stood with his mouth agape (or so it felt) and his eyes just as wide. Mike opened his mouth to say something but snapped it shut again. His eyes less wide, he looked nervously from side to side, making sure neither Micky or Davy had happened upon them. He was now out of the bathroom, in the sitting area, with the little round table behind him. He seemed shocked by his own action.
"You kissed me," Peter said.
"You didn't resist!" Mike shot back hurriedly, as if in self-defense.
The two stood awkwardly for a drawn-out time that probably only lasted a few seconds. Mike shifted nervously from foot to foot. He somehow couldn't bring himself to say what he had been planning to say before the kiss had happened. He was such a fool. The words wouldn't come, they were lodged in his throat with his heart, blocked by a kiss that tasted like mint.
Suddenly Mike jumped about a foot in the air as he heard the floorboards creak upstairs. He knew it was Micky because Davy was almost always the last to get up. He stared up at the landing as if he expected a monster to emerge from behind the bedroom door.
But it was only Micky who came out, looking tousled and sleepy, yawning. As he made his way down the steps, Mike darted toward the kitchenette. He must've seemed suspicious of something because Micky gave him a confused look, watched him open the fridge, and turned toward Peter who was at the bathroom door.
"What's up with him? And why are you still in the bathroom? Man, your shower ended, like, ten minutes ago. Not even you take that long."
"Uh, I don't know... Uh..." was all Peter could manage for Micky's benefit. He took a step toward the kitchenette and then thought better of it, hurrying up the stairs and for the bedroom to get dressed.
Micky just looked after him, feeling like he was missing something, before heading to the bathroom for a shower.