this idea has been percolating in my mind for WEEKS i had to write (guys this writing is mid too apologies in advance)
Propinquity (I’ve Just Begun to Care)
Two years had brushed past Mike with such speed. Two years ago, he’d been pleasing bemused Californians and homesick southerners as a hootmaster, in between his folk gigs at any coffeehouse that’d take him, an amateur Dylan impressionist.
Mike had been the dropout, the runaway, the makings of a solider, the starving artist, and, always, the dutiful husband. He didn’t care for perfect, but he’d hoped for a life close to it.
Then he drove his motorcycle to an audition, and it seemed everything changed instantly. He was it. He was a Monkee.
Monkee-dom, he’d thought, would be a milder form of Beatlemania. Small concerts, maybe a teen magazine column - who would’ve thought it’d take him over.
Overnight, he became something rather than someone. It was as though he’d been split into two; Michael Nesmith the man and Mike the Monkee. Both had been moulded, changed, maybe even slightly corrupted by the odd world they’d be thrust into.
He really had only been in it for the same thing that drives the rest of the world: Money.
Money, or the lack thereof, had been a source of absolute agony for so many years, and now, with an abundance of it, 2 years on, 1 Monkee down, Mike thinks that money really can buy you anything.
1967, Capp Towers Motor Hotel, St Paul, MN
Peter’s sleep deprived delirium, made worse by the dizzying plane to Minnesota, had made everything look that bit more beautiful. As he’d looked out the window of the hotel room, toothbrush in hand, he sighs, a contented smile.
The navy velvetine sky, spotted with sparkling pearls, seems perfect. “Oh, Mike, isn’t it perfect?”
Mike, unlike Peter, is in no mood to talk about the stars or any cheery conversation Peter would likely initiate in such spirits, “Sure.”
“Come, look. The sky is just so clear, you wouldn’t believe it.”
Peter goes back to finish brushing his teeth, “C’mon. It’s a beautiful sky.”
“I’ve just seen a whole lot of sky, I think I’m alright, thank you.”
Peter shrugs, making his way to his own bed, “Are you sleeping now?”
“Would it?” Peter chuckles, the delirium beginning to really take hold. Mike follows suit, beside himself.
“You know what’s real great?” Peter turns off the touch lamp between their beds, wrapping himself in the stiff linen blanket, “That new show, Laugh-In.”
“Maybe a bit with Phyllis.”
Peter doesn’t say anything for a short while, and it isn’t until Mike says, “It’s a good pun,” that Peter manages a weak “Sure.”
Mike turns to lie on his back, “Are you tired?”
“Not at all,” Peter sighs, turning in the same fashion as Mike, “I think I’m overtired. I feel as though I’ve taken a million uppers.”
“We gotta be up early, you know.”
Peter sits up quickly, moving about in the dark, shuffling on the carpet. “What on earth are you doing, Peter?”
“Star jumps, Nesmith,” he continues, interspersed with brief jogs on the spot. His movement is hardly dampened by the carpet, making repetitive thuds that slightly vibrate Mike’s bed.
“Am I making it hard to sleep?”
Mike chuckles, “Well, I wasn’t sleeping anyhow,” he turns on his lamp and watches in slight amusement.
Peter, slightly out of breath, tilts his head with a huffed laugh, “What’re you looking at?”
Peter stops, flopping onto the end of Mike’s bed, “How was I?”
Mike moves closer to Peter, who props himself up with his elbows. Suddenly, naturally, they’re face to face, nose to nose.
“Very athletically gifted, you are.”
“I was meant to be in the NFL, you know.”
“Really?” Mike’s lips curve into a smile - he knows Peter’s going to begin a nonsensical spiel about an untrue life event, one that he’d usually be amused by. But he doesn’t want to talk anymore, and he hopes Peter feels the same.
“I don’t want to say the wrong thing, Michael.” He barely speaks.
Mike’s hand drifts up to Peter’s face, feeling the soft stubble that has begun to grow, “We don’t have to say anything at all.”
The kiss was sweet, and through it, they transferred rules for how this relationship would work; always in hotel rooms, always at night and never spoken aloud. How it has to be.
Peter breaks the unspoken rule after the first kiss, “You’re good at that,” Mike remembers quickly how delirious he is, “Thank you, Peter,” he giggles.
They kiss some more, until Peter yawns mid-kiss, sobering him up some; “Oh, God! That’s so embarrassing- I’m sorry.”
“Did I bore you?” Mike lightly jokes. Peter answers quick, without any of his usual jest, “I could never be bored by you.” He puts his head on Mike’s shoulder as they lie down on the bed.
“We’ve got the radio spot at 10am-“
“Remember what you said before? We don’t have to say anything at all.”
Mike stares up at the ceiling for a while, in a warm embrace with Peter, whoever he was to him now. He hears gentle snoring; Peter’s finally slept.
Mike moves himself slowly, carefully, as to not wake Peter, and moves to sleep in the other bed.
To be spotted together could be written off as.. Mike’s tired mind works doubly hard to think of ways to make it work.
1969, NBC Studios, Burbank, CA
The dressing room is a perfectly generic room - bulb light-rimmed mirrors, a bright yellow star on the door with a slate for the roving guest stars’ names.
Laugh-In, Mike thought, I’m in no Laugh-In mood.
Davy and Micky had been tossing rumours around about him, he knew. He’d been away for three weeks, and their imaginations had run wild.
I thought he’d went back to Texas, Davy said, didn’t he? To visit his family? R&r, I guess.
Some people I know say they’ve seen him out at night, real messed up, Micky said with great concern, but maybe he’s just grown a beard.
When Mike had finally shown face on the first day of rehearsals, somewhat red-eyed and with the beard Micky has predicted, they’d both been affirmed in their assumptions; he wasn’t doing well.
It had been three weeks since they’d last seen each other. Three weeks since Peter had bought out of the band.
Mike sounded slightly hoarse and congested, but before Davy and Micky got the chance to say anything about it, cornering him in his dressing room to check in, he said “I’ve been sick, I just need to rest.”
“Is there anything you need?” Davy offers, rearranging the flowers in a vase, “No. I just need plenty of rest.”
Rest, to him, meant that, outside of rehearsals and filming, he would sit in his dressing room and brood.
Costume fitting, colourful backdrop, cowboy costume, choir practice; he’d been able to get out of the seemingly endless choir practices for that brief sketch by exaggerating his ‘illness.’
Micky and Davy would come in, either together or individually, and try strike up conversation, or maybe just to excavate some expression of emotion.
They’d never get more than clipped, one-word answers.
Micky finally said on the day of the show, in a moment of impatience “It’s Peter, isn’t it? Well, he left and that might be it.”
“Mike, c’mon. It’s a drag, but you can’t let it get you down. It’s only business, him leaving. Nothing more.”
It all seemed to compound after he left, after Peter. He’d been exhausted before, sure, but suddenly it all became too much without him.
He was well-off, sure, he had that wonderful life he’d hoped for, but without Peter, it was empty. No one understood him in the way Peter had.
Laugh-In, the show, the gigs, the interviews - he was constantly performing. He was Mike the Monkee, and had been for years. But when he shut the door of the hotel room, when he and Peter shared even just a single glance or word, he wasn’t putting anything on.
He was Michael, just Mike, and Peter was just Peter; he’d felt silly even putting a name to it in his head, but he felt that he’d lost his ‘cosmic counterpart.’
“Just business,” Mike repeats.
“Show bizzzz,” Micky tries, lightly with a slight lilt, “How’re you feeling for the show?”
“Aren’t you excited? I thought you liked Laugh-In.”
Micky realised that it had been a Peter and Mike tradition, one of many, to watch Laugh-In together, and tries to distract from it as quick as he can, “I hear the after parties are real fun.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I’ll go-“
“Oh, come on, Mike, you have to! They’ll have ice sculptures of our faces-“
“Really?” Mike says flatly.
“Well, maybe not. A chocolate fountain?”
“I just don’t think I’m feeling up to it. I’ll just go back to the hotel.”
“Just come for a short while, huh? There’s no need to be depressed and alone in your hotel room.”
A stage hand knocks once, opening the door with great force, “You’re on in 5.”
“C’mon, Nez. Get Laugh-In.”
Mike doesn’t crack even a slight smile, “Ha.”
The quality of the show barely matters to Mike, as he walks through the sea of empty ‘you were greats’ and ‘nice show.’ He finds his way to Davy, who mingles with some of the cast. He shakes hands and as soon as he’d entered, he begins to leave.
Micky stops him as he’s halfway to the door, “Nez, you just got here-“
“I’m feelin’ tired, Mick, I really wouldn’t be much fun here.”
He continues walking before Micky can say anything else, finding his way to his car in a distracted haze.
As Mike gets his first foot through the door, he hears the phone ring.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Mike stops still in his tracks; it’s Peter.
“How’d you know I was here?”
“Micky. You know, you ask a lot of questions.”
Mike sits on his bed, crossing one leg over the other, “Why are you calling?”
“I saw the show. Y’know, I was feeling pretty down, but it cheered me right back up. You guys were great.”
Mike almost winces. ‘You guys,’ Mike thinks, a broad compliment. Generic conversation. That’s all we’ll ever have now.
“You don’t know if you’re having tea?”
“I don’t know if it’s that kind of sickness”
“What kind of sickness is it, Michael?”
Mike doesn’t say anything for a moment, “Did you go back to New York?”
“No I didn’t. I think I might soon. But I’m still finalising some things-“
“Do you wanna come over?”
Peter is quiet for a moment “Why do you want me to come over?”
Mike feels a bit nauseous for a moment, his words coming out blocky and awkward, “I feel bad.”
“So do I. But will me coming make things better?”
Mike finds a bit of humour in the situation, “It usually does-“
“MIKE-!” Peter laughs, a sweet sound. As his laughter dies down, he sighs.
“You,” Peter speaks as though he’s convincing himself of this false truth, “need me to come over cause you’re sick.”
“Yeah. Sore throat, fever, aches and all. Sick as a dog.”
Peter is silent for a moment, quietly saying “Are you sure it’s the right time?”
Mike sees Peter standing in the doorway - he doesn’t look different at all. Somehow he’d pictured him wearing that beard he’d had not long ago, or maybe with shorter hair, or maybe with hair much longer than ever, but no. He looked the exact same way he did on that tired night in Minnesota.
“Hi,” Mike says, almost lost for words.
Peter takes of his scarf, a red one he’d bought when they went to Paris, with that ease they used to have, “So, you really are sick, huh? Should I run out and get you something?”
Mike shakes his head, “No, I think I feel better now.”
Peter continues, “Your throat sounds sore.”
“I know my own body, Peter.”
Mike sits on his bed, still fully dressed, kicking his shoe-clad feet upon the linen, a better feeling one than their touring days, and crossing his arms.
Peter chuckles, “Shall I dance for you, Mr Nesmith?”
Mike smiles a bit, “Was I good on the show?”
“Sure, didn’t I say you were?” Peter sits at the end of his bed, his knees resting on the side of Mike’s leg, “You said ‘we’ were good.”
“Well, you were good and ‘we’ was good too.”
“I’d thought you’d studied at Julliard.”
Mike turns to look out the window, “It’s a nice sky, huh?”
Peter shrugs, “Kinda foggy. And it’s terribly cold for Calif-“
He sees Mike’s face, almost pained, “But it’s beautiful.”
He inches himself closer to Mike, discreetly feeling his temperature by playing with his hair before moving down to his forehead, which Mike notices quickly, “I’m not sick nor am I stupid, Peter.”
“Just wanted to be sure,” Peter doesn’t believe a word of what Mike says, his face gleaming with sweat.
“You know, I thought I didn’t like you.”
“I thought,” Mike sighs, as though he’s being forced to let go of this truth, “I thought you were strange. You’d always act in such an outrageous way - like you never cowed to a stranger or someone above you. You just stayed the same Peter. And you’d always wear these outfits that- And then we.. We kissed. And then you- It was like my soul was shaken up completely. And then, just as soon as you do that to me, you leave, and I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
Peter had never seen Mike in any of these states, let alone all together; completely sincere, vulnerable, emotional and sick. Whatever fever he has makes his words less than delicate, but Peter isn’t confused by what he means at all.
As he sees the first tear trickle down Mike’s cheek, he quickly moves to wipe it, “Mike, there’s nothing wrong with you-“
Mike suddenly feels all sorts of terrible ways, “Mike,” Peter says gently, “Listen, this is the way I see it.”
Mike half-chuckles at Peter’s approach, “There’s any amount of love in the universe, and we each get some part of it to share. I share mine with you and you share yours with me. Does it really matter how we share it?”
It’s at that exact moment the rest of the night is written. Mike’s mind races, but he says nothing.
Their faces inch closer and closer, and just like that, they’re back.
[does anyone want a part 2 cause im lowkey thinking to write one 🗣️]
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