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Mike’s never been so shaken up like this before. Rural Texas never really did this kind of stuff. In private, possibly, but never publicly. His aunts had warned him about the “sinful, wayward nature of Los Angeles”, and he assumed they were just being God-fearing; exaggerating.
Of course, that was before Mike had ever met Micky. Before they bonded on the street over Mike’s guitar; before they moved in together and met Davy and Peter.
But now, after, his aunts weren’t all that wrong. Because Micky was masquerading as Peter’s date to make Pete's crush jealous. A rather regressive assumption, a shallow reasoning for that whole particular getup, but whatever.
—
The first time, the two of them had ventured down to the dance club, the Vincent Van Gogh Gogh.
Peter told the lady— Vanessa? Mike didn’t remember— that he liked hanging out there, and apparently she promised she’d check it out.
It took a couple days of sending in Davy to scout the place and make sure she was actually in there before Peter and Micky followed. Micky in his best “go-go-ing girlfriend” outfit, and Peter in his raincoat. (There was a scheduled storm, and he’d gotten drinks knocked onto him one too many times there.)
But Micky in a two-piece dress! Orange and yellow, white trim on the hems to try and pretend it’s cohesive; which failed when the absence of fabric in the middle showed off his midriff. Flaunting Micky’s tanned, flat stomach.
Mike only noticed because of how out of Micky’s usual attire it was. There was no paisley or fringe; it was, well, pedestrian.
How right his aunts had been.
—
Apparently, Mike was a little bit off on his presumption.
The jealousy angle did work. So much so they needed to do it again, going to the beach this time. (Per Davy’s advice, Mike smacked him with the newspaper at that.)
Micky had gotten away with it though by wearing a huge sunhat, all beige and floppy, and a purple floral coverup to hide himself in.
Peter relayed to the gang how he applied sunscreen to Micky’s shoulders, showing what a good (pretend) boyfriend he was to the world, squinting through the blinding sun to see if the dentist-Peter’s crush-lady was watching him.
When Micky and Peter returned home, matching grins and red faces (Peter moreso, Micky didn't return the sunscreen favor), Mike stopped in his tracks in the kitchen.
Micky was shaking sand out of his shoes, and his coverup was open, showing long long legs all smooth and toned and the damn swimsuit skirt he decided to wear. Completely and utterly unnecessary.
As Peter went to ask Davy for more ‘advice’, Mike decided to ask about it, out of curiosity and nothing more. “You and Pete look like you were successful. Are you gonna stop with that scratchy get-up now?”
Micky paused with his shoe still upside down. He dropped it, landing in the pit of sand. “Well, I happen to like dressing up, playing characters and all, you know that.”
“Yeah, but…” he trailed off, then waved down to Micky’s skirt. “Do you like it?”
Micky pulled on the hem of his skirt, humming. “It's still the same. It's fun, Mike. I like the flow. I like the attention. And James Cagney never wore a miniskirt, so I gotta make up my own excuses!” He created a wall to protect himself, his knees pulled up and laying sideways. Micky tended to do that to comfort himself. Although he’s usually wearing pants, so his legs weren’t so exposed.
Mike hated seeing that, being the cause. He was supposed to be the gang’s safety net, not what caused them to fall. “Mick, listen to me. I'm not gonna stop you from dressin’ cute.”
Micky relaxed his body, sinking into himself. Then, cocked his head with a smirk. “You think I'm cute?” he asked, batting his eyelashes like a Southern belle.
“Micky..” Mike warned, blush adorning his cheeks and speckling his neck.
Micky giggled at him and jumped to his feet. "Don't worry yourself Mike, I'm just teasin’ you.” Micky headed to the bathroom to shower, throwing another smile back at Mike before closing the door.
That interaction had Mike grumbling to himself and stomping his way up to bed. Mike had a philosophy about never going to bed angry. Something which he also picked up from an aunt.
—
A couple days later, when Mike had assumed Micky had given up on his new life, Peter asked the group what they thought of his new ruse: pretending he and Micky were in the market for a new dentist. Peter assumed couples did that kind of thing together, Davy argued that was idiotic (and more importantly: lame).
Micky, though, cheered and clapped his hands together at the idea of more skirt-wearing and drama creating.
“Mike, do you think this dress,” he shoved a blue midi in Mike’s face, “or this dress,” a more muted green variant, “speaks more ‘dental office’ to you?”
Mike swallowed, the act difficult due to the dryness of his mouth. “Mick, how would I know?”
“Just pick one!”
“Neither.” Mike knew he’d pick the light blue mini number that Micky brought home for the last ‘date’. The one that felt a little too risky, even for Micky. Just a tad bit short. Also because, in his heart, he thought this plan was stupid from the start.
Micky paused, then grinned wildly. “Mike, you know I can't go naked. There's laws for that kinda stuff, man.”
Mike vowed to never answer another one of Micky’s questions after that. He'd take a cold shower and promptly forget his own admissions.
—
Then, Peter’s finally got his girl. Luckily for him going to the dentist for a check-up counts as a date. It's been a week and nothing horrible has happened to either of them. So, why in God’s name is Micky still dressing up like a girl.
Micky’s holding out the tv remote and flipping through channels, tongue peeking out between his lips in concentration.
The little box vibrates as it plays the newest channel’s ad. “The Monkees, brought to you by: Kelloggs! K-e-“
Micky shuts the tv off. He sighs, “there's nothing good on tv this time of day, ey Mike?”
Mike stares back at Micky, at his legs crossed on the ottoman.
“Mike?” He waves a hand in Mike’s face, as much as he can from where he’s sitting, anyway.
Mike still doesn’t answer. He just swallows, and exhales deeply.
Micky still hasn’t taken off his— unnecessary— last date outfit. His legs are exposed and so’s the bit of thigh from where his dress is riding up. The scarf he had knotted around his throat is loose, chiffon exposing the collarbones it once hid.
Mike can only stare. Micky doesn’t shy away from Mike’s look, he never has. He revels in it. Tilting his head to the side, hair falling into his smiling face. He pulls one of his legs to himself, wrapping his arms around. His eyes shine, sparkles and crinkled at the corners.
Mike takes a step forward closer to the chair, thoughts trailing down as Micky stares up at him still, baited breath and pure giddiness on his face.
“Mick…”
The front door slams open, and Davy comes in. Micky whips his head toward the sound, and Mike almost cries. He yanks his wool-hat over his eyes instead.
With cotton balls still stuffed in his cheeks, making him look more like a chipmunk than he already has, Davy marches over to Mike and Micky, who, at the intrusion, pushed away from each other.
“Oh, hey, Davy! How was the dentist?” Micky asks, tone shaky.
“Itwolder weake music, sushaxedus tpefor!”
“What!?” Mike blinks, wondering if he should call the doctor.
He spits the cotton balls out, and wipes his tongue off. “I told her we make music, and she asked us to perform! At her sister’s wedding.”
“We don’t do wedding music. We don't do weddings, Davy!”
“Aw wait, come on, Mike, it’d be fun! Then, next interview for a gig we could boast about it!” Micky says excitedly, sitting up further from his slouch.
Mike almost immediately relents. But he takes a second to think with his head. He notices Davy come to the same conclusion, a pensive look on his face as Mike replies, “but it’s for that dentist’s sister. The dentist already knows you as a chick.”
Micky leans back. “Huh.” He unfurls his legs and hangs them over the armrest. His shoe almost falls off, to which he just kicks them off completely. Davy’s hit in the crossfire, and he crumples onto the banister steps with a sob.
Micky accepts Davy’s white flag and continues his thought. “Just means I have more excuses for my shopping spree!” Micky jumps up and goes out to the sundeck to tell Peter, who’s strumming on his bass.
Mike puts his hands on his hips. “Alright then. Guess we’ve got a wedding to prepare for,” Mike says as he looks to Davy.
Davy glances up from the mirror he was checking himself out in, and then nods. “I gotta figure out what I'm wearin’!” Davy heads out to his room, mirror still in hand.
Mike runs a hand through his hair. So now they’ve got a wedding to play for, and he’s not even sure if Davy worked out the pay for it. And he never figured out why Micky was still dressing up.
(Later, Davy filled him in that Mick was only dressing like that because he and Peter had to have a very loud, public breakup. Davy had to direct traffic for it. Mike’s not gonna get too hung-up on the details.)
—
Around a month later, when the air gets drier and the weeds grow longer, Mike finds himself tuning his guitar on a creaky wooden stage. The lights are soft and dim, the waitstaff are gossiping, and Micky’s wearing a brown wrap dress with poofy, loose sleeves that are tight at the wrists. The belt tied around Micky’s waist holds him desperately.
Three Monkees and the fourth in drag. It would feel insensitive to the sanctity of marriage, if the bride and groom weren't being officiated by a man in sequined rockabilly regalia. Or if Mike cared for that stuff.
Mike’s never been the type to be into men. Find some attractive, especially back in Texas, sure. He's never really known anyone to be. Except Peter, Mike remembers, who’s talked about having a crush on Davy before. But Micky in those dresses; it's changed his whole tune. Like a gateway opened and cleared his mind. Micky’s passion for singing, face glistening under the spotlight and fingers curled on his drumsticks, it’s got Mike contemplating everything. All that he’s done the past few years, all his little moments with Micky.
Maybe he’ll have time to stop internally freaking out later. When they don’t have to keep playing regardless of the heat, or Davy’s ‘innocuous’ winking to the dancing crowd.
—
A little later into the evening, the bride relents (very kindly) and allows them to take a respite. The venue’s got a nice stereo, and one of the staff members puts on a record. There's the scratchy silence, and then a familiar voice begins to sing softly. It's one of their records. Neat, Mike thinks, will they get paid?
He notices Micky sitting at a corner table with a couple of older women. His teeth shine brightly as he chats on, ignoring the advances of some guest and the set-ups the women keep giving him with their grandsons.
Mike ventures over, intent on preventing any detrimental exposures that could happen with a tipsy Micky. Or sober. He catches Micky’s eye as he just about nears the table, and Micky’s face fully lights up. His cheeks crinkle his eyes so much, and Mike grins back so fast it feels abnormal. Odd like his heartbeat, blood thumping through his chest.
Mike leans into Micky’s space a bit, hand on the back of his chair and their noses close. “Would you like to come with me?” Mike whispers, asking so nervously.
Micky hums an affirmative, nodding and bidding his new friends goodbye. He slips a hand into Mike’s as he guides them both through the wooden front doors.
The two of them are silent as they stand in the empty hall. Micky waits, allowing Mike to explain why they’ve left. A minute goes by, and Mike’s still standing stoically, lips parted yet unmoving. He let their hands fall away from each other a bit ago. Grasshoppers chirp incessantly from the propped open door.
“D’ya want to dance?” Micky asks, already assuming Mike’s answer as he goes to remember his dancing lessons. A quick twist, and he nods triumphantly.
Mike does agree. He doesn’t verbally say so, but he slowly raises his arms to hold onto Micky. They hold each other close in the reception hall’s foyer, music dimmed from the walls and nighttime traffic.
Micky does a majority of the swaying. They’ve got their hands clasped, chests pressed together and Mike laying his forehead to Micky’s shoulder. “This all isn’t just ‘cause of the dresses.” Mike murmurs. Immediately he shoots his eyes open, not daring to move. The nighttime life stops abruptly, and there’s silence.
Micky’s steps falter for only a half-second, and he skips a beat. “Mhm. I know. It’s just a nice bonus, yeah?” Micky responds, humming as the grasshoppers return.
Mike gets such a head-rush from that it’s like an instant headache. But he goes to hold Micky in place, the one hand still in Micky’s grasp and the other curling tightly into Micky’s back. He raises his head to face Micky directly. “You're serious?” Mike questions, barely speaking up. He glances down to Micky’s lips, pink and pursed.
It’s not unusual for the guys to drift close to one another; they’ve been comfortable with one another for a while. But Mike and Micky’s faces are so close together their noses brush, and Mike feels he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He gauges that Micky feels the same, since he takes the first step and tilts his head a bit to press their lips together. Mike’s nose presses into Micky’s cheek, but he doesn’t mind it. He shifts a little to breathe, but keeps a hold on Micky’s waist. Micky’s all soft and hot and confident, and Mike’s not too far off from that.
The only reason they pull back from each other is because one of the guests exists and heads their way. She's only looking for the bathroom, but she does give them a little smile and laugh.
“Love must be in the air!” she says, and Mike and Micky laugh politely. She walks further down the hall and out of sight.
Micky looks to Mike. “I'm surprised she didn’t chew us out!”
“What for? We're not bein’ too wild,” Mike questions, and Micky chuckles as he leans back into Mike’s hands.
“We could be,” he leans forward for a quick kiss, just the tiniest bit crazed. As he pulls away, Mike shakes his head at him.
“Man, sometimes you’re worse than Davy, you know that?”
Micky laughs again at that, and tugs Mike back toward the reception hall. “Probably time for one last song, right, Mike?” he asks, turning to face Mike. His lips are red and his cheeks are tinted pink, eyes shiny and glistening.
“Right on, Mick," Mike responds, holding Micky’s hand tighter as they go back in through the doors.
Peter’s dancing along with his new girl. And Davy. The three of them have formed a little circle, and Peter and his girl take turns twirling Davy. Mike’s not too sure why but he doesn’t care.
Settling into place, they play the last song of the night, when the only sober people left are the waitstaff (well, a few). Not their own track, but a little Bacharach number.
Micky takes center stage for this one, Davy hidden behind the drum-set. Micky keeps looking over to Mike every time the song calls for loving, and Mike just about misses a chord and looks down at his feet.
Peter glances between the two with a goofy grin. Davy peers over the cymbal to share a look with Peter. But the bride seems happy, her and her groom gently swaying with each other as the bride’s sister smiles proudly.
The room cheers, and Micky takes a sweeping bow. Peter almost trips on the amp cord.
—
The stroke of midnight, and the church bell next door clanging has Davy looking around like he’s gonna transform. Either into a servant stepchild or a werewolf, Mike’s not sure.
But, the party’s over, and no one was seriously maimed. The cops weren’t called, and not a single window got broken. Mike calls it a success.
Micky sidles close to him as they walk their gear out to the Monkeemobile. “Some wedding, huh?”
Mike looks behind him to see Peter arm-in-arm with his date and Davy. He turns back to Micky, who’s now leaning against the car. “Right again, Mick,” he says, quickly leaning in to kiss Micky again before they have to drive home.
He slides in the driver’s seat and spares a glance over to the passenger’s. Micky’s fiddling with the radio, hand holding an ear-piece as he pretends to be ground control. He cheers when he gets a station, throwing his notes in the air.
Micky notices Mike watching, and his smile turns coy. “Let's get home, babe,” Micky says, tone smooth and assured. Peter and Davy clamor into the backseat, and Mike shifts into drive.
His aunts were so wrong.