And so, things went back to normal (or at least, the Monkees' loosely defined version of normal). And that was – well, not what Mike had wanted, precisely, but what made the most sense to him. It was just – no matter how ridiculous the trappings (telephone booths, superheroes, incompetent magicians, or switched out crown jewels) there didn't seem to be any way of disguising the core of seriousness that seemed to lie at the heart of what kept happening between him and Peter in small spaces.

You could dress it up with all the killer monkeys and egocentric ARTISTES! you wanted – but there was no masking the feeling Mike got when his mouth met with Peter's.

It felt...serious. Not – heavy, exactly, but – sincere and – straight up. Genuine. Earnest. And as a one-off, or even a two-off, that was just fine, a sweet moment that Mike could press like a flower between the pages of his memory, and take out and look at afterwards.

But, as a regular thing – Mike couldn't see that there was room for something so heartfelt and real in their everyday lives. It just didn't look to be a smooth fit with all the kidnappings and zany schemes and whatnot. It seemed a sure bet that it would get trampled underfoot in all the general mayhem and zaniness, too delicate and new to withstand any kind of rough treatment.

So – as far as Mike could see, breaking the closet habit wasn't just the right thing to do – it was the only thing to do.

Except...he'd hurt Peter's feelings in doing that, and that hadn't ever been his intention. And even though Peter didn't say anything else, afterwards, Mike got the feeling he was still cut up about it, and that made Mike feel ten kinds of low-down for having made him feel that way.

Accordingly, he tried to explain it, to fix things so that Peter understood that calling things off hadn't been a matter of choice or preference for Mike – it was a matter of necessity. He'd meant to wait a couple of days, give Peter a chance to settle down, find the right moment – but instead, he found himself blurting it out the very next day, right after practice, over the sound of Davy and Micky arguing in the kitchen over their next meal (which was shaping up to be either nothing with a side of soy sauce, or nothing with a side of ketchup).

There was just something in the way Peter moved, this little hint of stiffness like he was still feeling tender – and Mike found he couldn't stand it any more, and he said, in a low, abrupt voice, "Look Pete – it wasn't, it wasn't that I didn't like it."

Peter looked at him and he found himself trying very hard to explain. "It's just – I'm worried that it sets a precedent – you know what I mean?"

"You really think the head of state cares all that much about what two unemployed musicians get up to in their spare time?" Peter asked. He stopped. "I guess we really are living in a police state."

He looked down and absently ran a hand along the strings of his guitar, but before Mike could marshal a better, clearer explanation, he looked up with a frown and said, "Can I say something?"

"Of course," Mike said. "What is it?"

It took Peter a second to begin. "I don't think the president cares about what we do in closets," he said eventually. "And – I don't think anyone else would care either. Micky and Davy are nice people and I think they'd be happy that we found a hobby that interests us."

Mike just looked at Peter, who stared straight into his eyes and continued. "And I don't care about it – because I like kissing you, and it's something that I'd like to keep doing." He stopped. "It seems to me like the only person who's bothered by it is you."

He got the feeling he should be saying something here – but there were no words at all in his head. Not that it mattered, because Peter didn't seem to have a shortage. "I wish it didn't bother you. Or maybe I wish that you could explain it properly to me, so that I could worry about it too. But - I guess you can't help how you feel."

From somewhere – maybe the bottom of the ocean, Mike managed to dredge up a rusty-sounding, "Peter – I" –

"I can't help how I feel either," Peter said. "But, I won't do anything about it." He held out his right hand, index and middle finger pointing up and apart. "Scouts honor."

Mike blinked at him, still wordless, but bizarrely moved.


Peter was true to his word. Of course, he didn't have any opportunity not to be, as the Monkees entered into a temporary closet-free lull – but it seemed kind of mean-spirited to take note of that particular detail.

So – everything was going according to loosely-conceived and sloppily executed plan, and Mike ought to be celebrating. Except...all the current options for celebrating (a hearty helping of nothing with a side order of soy sauce, or nothing with a side order of ketchup) didn't hold a candle to the memory of a celebratory practice of the past, involving lips and skin and hands and –

He caught himself doing that a lot, turning all his closet-based recollections over and over in his mind, like worry stones. He tried to stop himself, because it was stupid, it was unproductive, and now it was over, so it wasn't even like there was any point in it.

He still caught himself doing it though. And sometimes, at odd moments, he found himself looking at Micky and Davy and hearing Peter's words in his head and wondering if maybe he was right, and Mike really was the only one with hang-ups about kissing in closets...

But it didn't matter, ultimately, because whatever he and Peter had been nurturing secretly in confined spaces – it was done with now, and things were back to normal, and that made sense to Mike.

Or at least, as much sense as things ever did.


The sixth time Mike ended up in a closet (well, a small dressing room) with Peter, it was due to a mix up in Heaven (the club, not the afterlife).

It was the kind of mix up that began with a pretty girl, a smile, and Micky saying, "Aw, come on, I'm just showing her a little appreciation – what's the ahrm in that? You heard what she said – that guy just doesn't appreciate her." He shook his head. "Man, I tell you, if I was her boyfriend, it'd be a whole other story."

And of course, it ended with the reveal that Melody's ungracious boyfriend was Joey 'The Hammer' Palermo. It was a pretty safe bet that he hadn't earned the nickname because of his interest in home repairs.

The original plan was to hotfoot it out of Heaven before Joey Palermo took it into his head to dig out his toolkit and inflict some heavy-dity maintenance on their bodies – but this plan was derailed by the revelation that Micky had already snuck into Melody's dressing room and left her a note and an azalea.

"Why in the world would you do a thing like that?" Mike asked. He cautiously raised his head and peered over the top of the table, ducking down as soon as one of Joey's goons turned a piercing gaze their way.

Micky shrugged. "It was the only flower growing in the pots out front."

"I didn't mean" – Mike shook his head and refocused on the topic at hand. "What did the note say?"

"Well, uh, it said that I thought she was a groovy girl, and that I really liked her show and hoped to see her again soon. Signed, a secret admirer."

Mike relaxed. "Oh, well, if it's a secret admirer, I don't think we need to worry about it. All right – on the count of three, we crawl for the exit." Peter and Davy nodded and readied themselves. "One, two" – he stopped at the look on Micky's face. "What?"

"I mighta gone back and signed the note with my real name. And written my address. And drawn a map to the Pad on the back."

Mike sat back on his haunches. "Why?"

"Well, you know, just in case she wanted to be pen pals," Micky tried.

"All right, new plan," Mike said, squinting around the thankfully obscuring tablecloth. The goons were still milling around, casting suspicious looks at the curly-haired clientele. "We need to get you out of here, before those guys stop looking around, and start looking down. Davy – you go with him, and make sure he gets out without bumping into Joey Palermo or his hammer."

"What? Why me?" Davy asked.

"Well...you're used to working with your ears to the ground. You've got a-a built in advantage in this situation," Mike told him.

Micky asked, "But what about that note I left?"

"Me and Pete'll take care of that. Now quickly – you two crawl out of here as casually and inconspicuously as possible."

He and Peter watched as Davy and Micky made their way toward the exit. They did have to tug on one goon's pant legs to ask him for directions, but he squatted down willingly enough and pointed them on the right way.

Onstage, whatever Melody did was greeted with rapturous applause. Mike turned to Peter. "All right. Now we'd better find Melody's dressing room before the closing curtain."

After bumping into several distinctly unangelic looking patrons, they managed to find their way backstage – where Peter was dispatched to distract the gum-chewing goon stationed in front of Melody's dressing room.

"But how am I going to distract him?" Peter asked, peering around the corner.

"I don't know – but I'm sure you'll think of a way. We don't have much time. Just – try something. Anything."

Peter instead chose to stand stock still in the middle of the corridor. But this somehow provided ample distraction, as the goon squinted at Peter, standing completely motionless in front of him, before straightening from his slouch against the wall, and swaggering toward him. "Hey, kid," he said. Mike began to carefully ease himself along the left side of the corridor.

Peter swallowed. "Me?"

"You see anyone else around here?" the goon asked, beginning to turn around. Mike froze, and Peter's hands shot out and caught hold of the goon's shoulders, keeping him in place. The goon frowned, and batted away Peter's hands. "Hey – watch it! What do you think you're doing?" Mike crept closer.

"I'm – just standing here," Peter said, hands flying back to his sides.

"I know. I noticed," the goon said. "And if you don't mind my saying so – you've got a real talent for it."

"Thanks," Peter said, scuffing a toe shyly against the carpet.

"You ever consider standing as a professional gig?" the goon asked, while behind him, Mike quietly turned the handle of the dressing room door and slipped inside.

He looked around frantically, before locating the note and somewhat bedraggled azalea right in front of Melody's mirror. The handcuffs lined with pink fur dangling over the side of the mirror gave him a moment's pause, but he shook his head determinedly, before grabbing both incriminating items and heading for the door. Only to nearly get hit in the face as Peter scurried inside.

"What are you doing?" Mike asked. "We gotta get out of here before Melody comes back. Or worse, Joey Palermo."

"Too late – they're here," Peter said, and Mike heard the unmistakeable sound of Melody's voice wafting from behind the closed dressing room door, occasionally punctuated by the lower, more menacing tones of Joey Palermo. He didn't need to be able to make out the words to figure they were crooning a deadly duet for him and Peter.

He looked around wildly. "We gotta hide." At the back of the room, a green door beckoned invitingly, and he pulled Peter away from his wide-eyed contemplation of Melody's fur-lined handcuffs, hustling him through the green door and closing it just in time to catch a flash of a great deal of bare, tawny skin as Melody tottered into the room in her towering heels, followed by a dark blur Mike guessed was Joey Palermo.

He shut the door softly and turned around, to find that he and Peter were in another dressing room, similar to Melody's, except smaller, and with more blown-out bulbs bordering the lipstick-kiss covered mirror.

"You see?" Melody's voice came through the door pretty clearly. "There's nobody in here. I told you."

"I saw the way that kid was looking at you," Joey said. "I wouldn't have put it past him to have sneaked in here after the show. He disappeared from the club awful quick."

"Yeah, well, maybe you scared him away," Melody said. "Because he's not here, is he? Unless you wanna check Marie's dressing room – make sure there's no-one hiding in there."

Peter and Mike tensed, but Joey said, "Nah. Kid's not here."

"What do we do now?" Peter whispered.

"I guess we just have to wait for them to leave." Mike turned his head, startled to find Peter so close, just behind his shoulder. He cleared his throat and moved a little to the side. "It probably won't take that long."

"You're right," Peter agreed. "After all, she doesn't have much of a costume to change out of."

"I don't know why you're being so hard on Curly Top, anyway," Melody said, after a pause. "He's a real sweet kid."

"Is that so?" Joey asked.

"Yeah."

"Well, you just make sure he don't end up on your plate, baby – because I know what a sweet tooth you got."

"You know I only have eyes for you," Melody told him.

"It ain't your eyes I'm worried about," Joey said. "I tell you, if that kid was here right now, I'd pound him into a pulp just for looking at you. And then I'd pound his weird friends for free."

Mike hoped the sound of audible swallowing didn't travel through closed dressing room doors. He forced himself to release Peter's hand, which he hadn't realised until just that second, that he was clutching.

"You know, that's what I like about you, Joey," Melody's voice was thoughtful. "You got a real work ethic."

"Violence is a vocation," Joey agreed. "That's what people don't understand about this business."

There was another pause and Mike began to hope that his and Peter's sojourn in Marie's dressing room was at an end.

"I bet it got you all worked up, didn't it? Seeing me with Curly Top." Melody's voice dropped into a throaty purr.

"All worked up, and with no-one to pound at the end of it," Joey said.

Something twisted sickly in Mike's stomach. It was as if he knew subconsciously what was coming next, and he had a feeling he and Peter weren't going to get out of this dressing room as easily as all that.

"I wouldn't say 'no-one'," Melody said, in that same low, inviting voice. "I'm here, aren't I?"

"You want me to" –

"You gotta show me how made I made you, Joey, or I won't know how much you care."

"Well, in that case..." Joey said. "My ma always used to say that you oughta give a lady what she wants."

"Your ma was a smart lady, Joey."

Mike closed his eyes and swallowed.

"Mike," Peter said, tugging at his sleeve. "What's going on?"

Mike didn't answer his question, because in just a few minutes, he guessed it was going to be obvious, even to Peter, what was happening in Melody's dressing room. Instead, he moved back, into the middle of the dressing room, and said, "We might as well get comfortable, buddy. It looks like we're going to be here a while."

Ten minutes later and Mike was sitting underneath the big dressing room mirror with the blown out bulbs, and Peter was sitting against the opposite wall. Their stretched out legs almost touched.

They were both avoiding each other's eyes and pretending not to hear the breathy squeals and the the unmistakeable sound of a hand hitting bare skin.

Mike stared up at the white ceiling, eyes practically watering from the force of his concentration and waited for the whole thing to be over. He had a sinking feeling that Melody's words to Micky ("Believe me baby, I can go all night") were going to come back to haunt them.

Peter shifted his weight, and even though Mike was studiously avoiding looking at him, and this dressing room was positively palatial in comparison to some of the places they'd been trapped, he found himself incredibly, uncomfortably aware of Peter's every tiny movement.

"Don't you think we ought to help her?" Peter asked eventually. Startled by this sudden conversational gambit, Mike's eyes flew to his face, but Peter was carefully looking at the carpet.

Mike followed his lead, and ran a hand over the fuzzy brown pile. He cleared his throat and said, "Remember the pink fur handcuffs she had in her dressing room?"

"Sure," Peter said.

"Well – let's just say I don't think Melody's in any kind of a situation she doesn't want to be in," Mike finished.

"Oh," Peter said.

As if to underline Mike's point, Melody's appreciation for Joey's handiwork reached new and even more voluble levels. Her moans vibrated through the door, curling through the air salaciously. They seemed to hook right into Mike's brain, hauling out every single memory he had of himself and Peter and enclosed spaces and laying them right in the middle of the dressing room floor – invisible but somehow impossible to miss.

And with every breathy gasp and every panting moan, those memories seemed to pulsate and grow bigger, demanding more and more space and insisting upon some kind of acknowledgment until eventually it seemed almost impossible to breathe.

Peter must have been feeling the same way, because finally, in the middle of an ecstatic drawn-out whimper (that made Mike both appreciate and despise Melody's level of breath control), he said, almost mutinously, "I still don't see why we couldn't just call it a hobby."

Mike really didn't want to have this conversation right now. As a matter of fact, he didn't think he could have this conversation right now given the desert-like state of his throat. "Pete – maybe we could talk about this when we get out of here," he managed to croak out.

Peter looked away.

Melody groaned, a long, lush sound that stretched out, filling the room, and Mike suddenly found himself talking, because this was some kind of torture, sitting and listening to all this moaning and sighing and trying not to look at Peter's face, or his shoulders, or his hands.

"Look," he said desperately, "Say it is a hobby, okay? It's just...I get used to acting one way in here – right?"

Peter didn't say anything, but his eyes met Mike's, though Mike wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not, considering the situation. Still, he kept going. "And then...we go outside, and, let's say I forget how I oughta act out there. And then – even if you're right and Micky and Davy don't mind...it's not a hobby any more. Because – if I want something out there..." he felt like he was drowning, gasping for air in a sea of soft gasps, and Peter's gaze, steady and locked on his was the only thing that kept him going. "If I want something out there," he said, "well, it's not like I can – like I can just reach out and take it."

He stared at Peter, willing him to understand.

"Why not?" he said, very softly.

"Why not?" Mike repeated. "Why not? Because...because it's not the way civilized people act, and I can't just drag you into closets any time I feel like it."

"Sure you can," Peter said.

Mike could feel his mouth hanging open.

Peter crawled forward a little, hands on either side of Mike's legs. He didn't break eye-contact. "Whatever you want – you can take it. Because – it's yours." He tilted his head and said, "Look, it's easy. I'll show you."

He reached forward and brushed his lips against Mike's. He moved so slowly and carefully that it would've been easy for Mike to stop him. But he didn't. He just sat with his back up against the wall of some girl's dressing room, and let Peter kiss him.

It didn't last very long. Peter pulled back a couple of seconds later. "See?" he said. "It's easy." Melody moaned in seeming agreement. He didn't move any further back, just stayed a bare breath away from Mike, and said, "Now it's your turn," and waited.

Mike didn't move, but then neither did Peter, and for a long moment, they held their positions, eyes locked, until finally, very slowly, Mike's hands came up to cup Peter's face, and he leaned forward, and kissed him.

It was strange, because as intrusive as Melody and Joey's love game had been, the sounds echoing through the dressing room and scratching Mike's ears...they seemed to melt away into nothingness at the touch of Peter's mouth on his. So he kept doing it, kissing Peter, losing himself in the sensation of lips and tongues and the warmth of Peter's hand on his knee.

For once, he didn't call a halt, just kept taking and taking – and strangely, miraculously, just as he seemed to have an unending pull of want, Peter seemed to have a likewise inexhaustible supply of give.

It was a very long time later that Peter sat back and said, "I think they've gone."

Mike stared at him, suddenly realizing the significance of the silence inside the dressing room.

"I guess that means we can go home," Peter said.

"I guess so," Mike said, because Peter seemed to expect some kind of reply. He suddenly felt bereft as Peter got to his feet. The world outside the dressing room seemed uninviting and confusing – in spite of their conversation, he still wasn't sure how to navigate it and make it square with what had just happened between himself and Peter. He wasn't even entirely sure what had been agreed between them...or whether anything had been agreed at all.

Mike braced his hands against the floor, readying himself to stand. Then he stopped.

Peter was standing in front of him, holding out his hand. "Are you ready?" he asked. The question seemed to amplify in Mike's mind, taking on a meaning he didn't expect Peter intended. Still, his hand didn't move, stayed extended toward Mike.

Mike didn't move.

See, the plain fact of the matter was – sometimes things just happened, for no real reason Mike could think of. And, most of the time, those things weren't important. Most of the time, they didn't mean anything at all.

But then, some of the time, they did.

Peter's hand remained, palm patiently held out, waiting for Mike to grasp it.

Slowly, he reached out.