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"You’ve Really Got a Hold On Me"
Title: You've Really Got a Hold on Me
Pairing: Torksmith (Mike/Peter)
Warnings: Languge, romance
Disclaimer: Don't own any of the Monkees. None of this happened. Completely fictional.
Summary: Peter grows attached to a song that expresses his feelings for Mike all too well.
Author's Note: Haven't been on here in a while. Man, it's good to be back.
Slam. Peter shut the icebox door, frustrated that there wasn't any food to occupy his bored state of mind. He ambled over to the doorway that lead to the sandy beach. Leaning against the frame, he watched with envy at all the fun his friend seemed to be having. Davy was entertaining his usual flock of birds. They lounged on beach towels; drinking in Davy’s words and laughing wholeheartedly at his stale jokes.
Peter’s eyes then wandered with ease over to Mike, who was sitting away from the crowd. He delicately strummed the guitar that was in his lap; making sure that his fingers were correctly placed on the frets. Peter visualized the gears rotating inside Mike’s mind.
Such determination, Peter thought. He adored Mike’s songwriting process. It was a great battle between Mike and his creativity. When he was the victor, the result was glorious. He was a musical genius.
Jealousy poured over Peter. He hadn’t written anything new in over a month. Not that the other guys had noticed. His songwriting talents weren’t highly valued in the group. For some reason, a dam was blocking the flow of his thoughts from his mind to his guitar. And that river of blocked-up thoughts was contaminated by one person.
Peter spun around when he heard the front door open. Micky had arrived home, carrying a thin, brown package under his arm.
“Hey Pete.” Micky waved him over as he set the package down on the kitchen table. “You gotta check this out.”
Peter walked over as Micky slid off the wrapping, revealing a new LP.
“I bought a new album,” he stated.
Peter held the Beatles album in his hand. The cover was a black and white photo, with each Beatle half silhouetted in light. An energetic title – With The Beatles – made a headline across the top of the sleeve.
“Don’t we have this album?” he asked.
“We have the American album,” Micky said. “I came across this at the record shop. The British versions always have more songs.”
“Oh. That’s cool, man.”
Micky’s smile faded. “Is something wrong, Pete?” he placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder.
Peter shrugged Micky off. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m…just a little tired.”
“Oh.” Micky turned his attention outside. “Think I’ll head down to the beach,” he said. “Maybe rescue some of those chicks.”
“Rescue them?” Peter asked.
“Yeah, from Davy,” Micky chuckled. Peter faintly smiled.
“You wanna come too?” he asked.
Peter shook his head. “No thanks.” Micky nodded and left.
Peter started flipping through his record collection, looking for some music to clear his head and drain the lonely silence from the room. But nothing caught his eye. He picked up Micky’s new record, scanning the track listing.
“You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me,” he read. “Never heard that one.” He set the needle on the corresponding groove. A somber, bluesy guitar riff filled the air. The drums beat on quietly in the background.
John Lennon’s voice, always rough, tough, and wounded, started singing the lyrics:
I don't like you
But I love you
Seems that I'm always
Thinking of you
Oh, oh, oh,
You treat me badly
I love you madly
You've really got a hold on me
After the first verse, Peter’s mental dam gave away, spilling his feelings about Mike. He dropped to his knees, suddenly weak from the overwhelming emotion.
I don't want you,
But I need you
Don't want to kiss you
But I need to…
It was evident from Peter’s latest dreams that he needed Mike’s kiss. Those plump, cupid’s bow lips that curled infrequently into a smile. Surely they needed some exercise…
Oh, oh, oh
You do me wrong now
My love is strong now
You've really got a hold on me
Mike did all kinds of wrong to Peter – put him down, insulted him, shut him out of his small circle of friends – but somehow, through all of the hatred, Peter’s love grew for his Texan comrade.
I love you and all I want you to do
Is just hold me, hold me, hold me, hold me
All he really wanted was to hold Mike’s lean frame in his arms. The way Mike carried himself was enough to make the fringe on Peter’s boots stand on end. He radiated power, authority, but also carried a lot of tension. If only Peter could hold him, letting the tension roll off his shoulders…
I want to leave you
Don't want to stay here
Don't want to spend
Another day here
Oh, oh, oh, I want to split now
I just can't quit now
You've really got a hold on me
The other guys didn’t know it, but Peter had thought about – and even attempted to – run away from home. He would get halfway through packing a suitcase, and then the thought of Mike would keep him home. The thrill of being around him was stronger than the pain of leaving him.
The other Beatles repeatedly sang the same line, while John added pathetic, pleading one word lines:
I love you and all I want you to do
Is just hold me
hold me, hold me
You've really got a hold on me...
Peter wiped the tears that were clinging to his eyelids. He was in complete shock. People always said that The Beatles’ lyrics had a way of getting inside their fans’ heads, but this was ridiculous.
The chatter outside grew louder as the beach goers headed towards the house. Peter bolted to his bedroom, leaving the door open a crack to peer out into the living room. He saw Mike inspecting the album sleeve. He looked around, as if expecting to find something – or someone.
Weeks passed and Peter’s infatuation with You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me grew exponentially. If Mike yelled at him during rehearsal, Peter would shed away the guilt with the song. If Mike fell into one of his detached moods, Peter’s urge to help his friend would fall on to the music. It became an aloe for the burning pain inside of his heart.
On the other hand, the guys’ annoyance with the song grew exponentially. They all loved The Beatles, but now they were growing tired of hearing John Lennon’s voice on a daily basis. Mike, known for his quick temper, always brought up the problem first. He wanted to confront Peter. Davy and Micky knew how sensitive Peter was, so they routinely talked Mike out of it.
But the sky can only remain quiet for so long before the thunder begins to rumble.
“I love you, Peter.” Mike’s voice strained to vocalize the words that he had longed to say for quite some time. Tears traced the lids of his eyes, waiting to plunge down his cheeks.
Peter’s head was spinning. Suddenly, Mike pulled him closer, enveloping Peter in his arms, resting his hands on Peter’s tense back. Peter traced Mike’s belt buckle with one finger.
Without warning, Mike’s lips connected with Peter’s neck. Eyes rolling, he let his strength go and melted into Mike’s embrace as he continued to assault Peter’s skin with kisses…
Peter gasped and flung open his eyes. It was nighttime and, much to his dismay; he was in bed, alone. Fourth dream this week, he thought, burying his face in the comforter. I doubt it will get any better.
Looking for solace, Peter crept past a sleeping Davy and found his way to the living room. He approached the record player, but hesitated on turning the dial. What if the guys find me down here? I shouldn’t do it. But…that dream…
I DON’T LIKE YOU, BUT I LOVE YOU…
Peter fell back and scrambled to lower the volume, the one element he neglected to check at three o’ clock in the morning.
Mike and Micky jumped and sat up in their beds, hearts racing.
“What the…?” Mike began before it clicked in his head. His eyes narrowed to a menacing size. “Peter.”
“Oh no…” Micky shook his head, foreseeing the terrible outcome of this situation.
Mike flung open the door and ran downstairs with Micky – and now Davy – in his wake.
Peter took a few fearful steps back when Mike came in his direction, his tired eyes sizzling with fury. He yanked the record off of the player, allowing a loud, ripping screech to echo throughout the room.
“Michael, what are you -” Peter’s jaw hit the floor as Mike cracked the record in two with his hands and threw it on the ground. No one dared to speak. They all waited for Mike’s next move.
“This is fuckin’ ridiculous, Pete!” Mike shouted, staring coldly at his friend. “You’re drivin’ us all crazy – more than usual, too. This was for your own damn good.”
He stalked away, returning to his room. Micky and Davy looked at each other, trying to find a solution to the problem on their hands. Peter picked up the vinyl halves and shuffled back to his room, avoiding eye contact with his friends.
“You take Peter, I'll take Mike?” Davy suggested.
“Maybe we should find out what's up with Peter first,” Micky said.
When they entered his room, Peter was curled up in his bed cuddling the record pieces like a child does with a teddy bear.
“Peter,” Micky began quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “What...what happened?”
Peter shook his head.
“Look at yourself,” Davy chimed in. “You're holding a broken record and crying. That's not...normal. What's wrong?”
Peter stopped clutching the pieces when he saw the absurdity in his appearance. “I...identified with the music. Just got attached. That's all.”
“We all have music that's special to us, but what happened out there, that was scary,” Micky said.
Peter tilted his head back against the wall, pressed his fingers against his eyes, and sighed heavily. “The song...it reminded me of someone. Someone that I really, really love.”
“This is all about a girl?” Davy asked incredulously. “Why don't you simply talk to her?”
“It's not that simp-”
“Sure it is! I do it all the time!” Davy grinned, nudging Micky playfully with his elbow.
“Yeah, just give it a shot,” Micky added. “Girls aren't that hard to ta-”
“I NEVER SAID IT WAS A GIRL!” Peter yelled, his anger boiling over. Davy and Micky raised their eyebrows.
“Are you talking about a....guy?” Micky's voice dropped down to a whisper on the last word, making it sound like taboo. Peter gave a tiny, shameful nod. “Who?”
Peter pointed at the ceiling, indicating the bedroom above.
“Mike?” His friends said in unison. Another small nod.
Micky struggled to find words. “Wow, uh...this is so, uh...”
“What?” Peter asked. “Stupid? Gross?”
“...Unexpected.” Micky finished.
Peter flushed with even more embarrassment. “Oh. I was expecting a far worse reaction.”
“We're your friends,” Davy commented.
“That's right babe,” Micky confirmed. “Sure, maybe this is new to us, but we're going to be here for you.”
“I know.” Peter yawned and ran a hand through his messy hair.
“Get some sleep, man.” Micky instructed. He left the room, leaving Peter and Davy to retire.
“Oh!” Micky jumped, clutching his chest in fright. Mike was standing by the stairs. “Oh, Mike. I would've guessed that you went to bed already. Why are you still up?”
“Couldn't really sleep,” he replied. Mike diverted his gaze and nervously ran his long fingers through the black wave of hair that hung over his eyes. He cleared his throat with a gruff cough. “So uh, how...how is he?”
“Not so good,” Micky said. “But I think he'll recover.”
“Why did he...what happened to him?”
“The song reminded him of...someone,” Micky shifted his weight uncomfortably.
“Who?” Mike asked.
“I don't know if I can tell you.”
“It's uh...pretty shocking,” Micky said, chuckling nervously.
“Come on, Mick.”
Micky swallowed the golf ball sized lump that had begun to occupy his throat. “It's you,” he whispered.
Mike took a step back and clutched the railing tightly, squeezing it until his knuckles turned white. Biting his lip to suppress any emotion, he gave Micky a few small head nods to show he had heard what he said. “I, uh, guess I...sorta screwed that up, didn't I?”
“I expected a more outrageous reaction from you,” Micky said, grinning in attempt to lighten the mood. Mike weakly returned the expression. “So how do you feel about-”
“Don't even bring it up,” Mike interrupted. “Because I don't have an answer.”
“I'll...leave you in peace, then.” Micky squeezed Mike's shoulder with his hand before ascending the stairs.
“Hey Micky?” Mike turned to his friend.
“Where did you find that record?”
“The shop a few blocks away,” Micky answered. “They might have a few more copies,” he added with a sly smile.
"Great,” Mike smiled just as energetically.
Peter was grateful to only cross paths with Mike a handful of times the following day. When they did, it was a quick “Mornin,'” “Hello,” or “Excuse me” - all without eye contact.
After a rather silent dinner in the evening, Davy and Micky headed out on the town with a some girlfriends, leaving the awkward pals behind.
Peter decided to play around with some chords on his dusty guitar while Mike did the dishes. He would have offered to help, but distance was a necessity right now.
As he took his guitar from the case, Peter noticed a corner of something underneath it. He uncovered it and gasped.
It was a new With The Beatles album. A note taped over Paul McCartney's picture read:
All I want you to do is just
Hold me (please)
Hold me (squeeze)
In the kitchen, over the clinking of dishes and running water, a voice started to hum the melody of the song that Peter knew all too well.