Pickle sat amidst the pages of music, various clothes and burnt-out sticks of incense on the floor of Gypsy's room. He pushed a chunk of his thick, blonde hair behind an ear as he watched the boy who had been his best friend for as long as he could remember play guitar while perched on his bed.

Gypsy nibbled slightly on his full, lower lip as he worked out the chords. Pickle leaned in, a smile on his face. Gypsy looked almost otherworldly. The bed was set against the window and the late afternoon sunshine was glowing in, lighting his near-black curls up as it filtered through the opium incense smoke, casting an almost halo around his head. He lifted his face up from the guitar and propped his saucer-sized, Joplin-like shades atop his head, grinning madly, a stark contrast to The Velvet Underground poster behind him. Gypsy rarely ever grinned like that unless Pickle was around. He was always cool and collected in public.

"It's not that good yet," he admitted. "But I did write it myself so I suppose it's something."

"It was brilliant!" Pickle enthused. "I liked it. I still think you should be in our band. We need a killer guitarist like you."

Pickle, Heck and occasionally Star—when Heck brought up his dreams to be the next Ringo—were always talking about forming a band but Heck couldn't play a note and they had no guitarist or drummer. It had started as a simple fanband so Pickle could monopolize on his love for The Monkees. However, discussion—and the fact that none of them even bared the closest resemblance to them except sometimes Heck—had led them to decide to make an actual band and to play the songs Gypsy had been writing since he could hold a pencil, practically. He knew, though, that Gypsy had been for a fun, fanband playing cover songs. The fact that it was to become an actual band made him shiver. Something only he saw and heard when the others weren't around.

He sighed. "I'm not ready to play out. I'm no good. I mean, you're killer on a bass, Pick, but I'm just not that good at guitar."

It was his turn to sigh. "But you are good. You just don't have any…"

Pickle paused and rubbed under his nose. He had meant to say 'confidence' but it had sounded almost mean in his mouth. Instead he fiddled with his shaggy hair and smiled shakily.

"You know," he mustered lamely.

Gypsy shrugged and got that far-away look in his eyes that he almost always had. Pickle extended his too-long legs and jumped to his feet before bouncing onto the bed.

"You're a slamming cool guitarist," he assured him. "Join our band."

Gypsy glanced at him and, for a moment, Pickle didn't see the boy he had grown up with, tumbling around the yard and painting on, but a different creature entirely. A nearly predatory look was in his eyes. He felt as though he were going to reach out and grab him and the thought alone made the blonde's heart race.

"You can help," he said finally, his voice a low rumble and the normal look having returned to his face. "Help me, you know?"

Gypsy spoke in the same, mysterious way he always spoke, not referring to anything in particular.

"Play with us at the reunion," he urged. "Come on. You already said you would. We'd only play mostly covers anyway. Like those guys wanna hear our stuff."

A half-smile appeared on his face. "Will you never mention it again if I do?"

"Promise."

"Alright."

--

"Josh seems nice," Michael observed, placing his napkin on his lap.

David beamed. "He really is. Funny too."

"Snitch won't like him," he warned.

"Why not?"

Michael shook his head.

"He didn't even get a Dawson's Creek reference. And Snitch's entire humor is based on pop culture references."

"Well, Snitch isn't the one dating him," David reminded him. "I am. And I love him."

"Right," Michael said, nodding and hoping his words sounded convincing. In all honesty, he thought Josh was just an easy replacement for Jack—being the exact opposite—with whom he could tell David still jonesed for like a crack-whore for their fix.

David furrowed his brow. "What?"

"What do you mean 'what'?" He asked innocently. "I was agreeing with you."

"No, you weren't. Your voice caught. I do love him. We've been dating for two years."

He held up his hands. "I'm sorry, honestly. I barely observed things. And two years, long time and all that. But you went eight years without being with anyone else did you not?"

"Yeah, so?"

He smiled wryly. "Just wondering."

"Alright," David said. "I always thought Jack would come and visit me but I gave up that dream…you know, after eight years of being ridiculously pathetic."

"Eight whole years?"

"I was in love."

Was, sure. Michael thought but, for once, didn't vocalize his opinion.

"Do you have feelings for him?"

"Of course I do. We've been going out for two years," David said quickly, avoiding Michael's eyes.

"That's not who I meant and you know it."

He sighed and glanced at him, his shoulders slumped.

"I do…"

--

Jester and Wart were seated at the antique, mahogany table in their large, sky-lit kitchen. Inez, a maid, was filling glasses and placing down plates of food.

"It's all wonderful, thank you," Ben said, smiling at her.

Wart smiled and nodded before sipping his wine. In their lives—unlike those of their friends—things such as alcohol and cigarettes and drugs and sex weren't off-limits. As long as he and Jester maintained their grades and their appearances, they could partake in anything they'd like.

He lightly picked up a fork and dug into his food. Nero gazed at the array of forks before him, a look of confusion on his face. Wart's heart went out to him.

"We're at home," he stated. "You don't need proper etiquette."

"Yup!" Jester agreed, plopping his elbows onto the sleek wood of the table. "Improper etiquette is key here."

"Hester," the stern voice of their father, Corbin Waldorf II esq., broke in and his usually authority-deaf brother ducked his elbows back under the table.

Wart had been surprised to see their oft absent father when he had returned from school, sharing tea with their overly ecstatic mother.

Jester sighed. "Nobody knows what it's like to have these feelings like I do." He glanced at his father. "And I blame you."

Wart chuckled slightly but their father just sighed—a perfect, cultured sigh and the same one Jester had just uttered—and shook his head.

"Hester, no quoting The Who at the dinner table," their mother chirped sunnily, cutting into her duck.

"I thought you said that about the breakfast table." He had the audacity to slap a confused look on his face.

"It's the same table," Wart reminded him and felt his brother's booted foot come in contact with his shin under the table. "Ow!"

"Hester," their father warned again.

Jester sighed and crossed his arms. He was wearing a rather sprightly ensemble of tight, red-and-yellow-striped bell bottoms, a white linen shirt with some sort of silk, scarf thing tied about the neck and dangling over the front and a pair of brown, leather boots that looked almost pirate-like. As Wart predicted, their straight-laced father was less than pleased at the elder twin's new choice in fashion. Their father was as straight-laced as they came: impeccably tailored suits, slicked back, expensively cut hair and all the warmth of a winter's day in Siberia.

It was also no secret that their father heavily favored himself over Jester. To him, Jester was the 'bad son' with his openness about his sexuality, shaggy hair and barely average grades. Wart had begun to dread his visits home, brief though they were. There always just seemed to be an icy cloud hovering over the whole table when he was around, evident to all but their mother who was incessantly perky at all times.

"Well." Jester pushed away from the table. "As fun as this is, I have homework to do."

He rose from the table and strode away without another glance.

"Young man," their father called after him. "We have guests."

"It's alright," Ben assured. "Right?"

Nero nodded energetically. "Yeah, it's totally fine, Mr. W!"

Their father gave Nero a strange look and went back to eating.

"I have to do homework too," Wart put in. "And help Jester with his."

To him, their father smiled warmly. "Go ahead, Corbin."

He got up from his chair and walked into their bedroom just in time to see Jester loading a CD into their stereo.

"I want to play it loud," he explained. "And the record player I bought doesn't have the amount of decibels I require to fuck with dad's mind."

Wart chuckled slightly. Partly at his brother's complete disregard of their father's authority, that he often envied before he caught himself but mostly because of the cultured, Upper Eastside nuances in his voice as he said 'fuck with dad's mind.'

Before another word could be said, music began blasting from the speakers. Jester let out a war cry and began to bounce up and down repeatedly on their bed. Wart shook his head and laughed. His brother was a wonder.

--

"Is it an animal?" Heck asked, blowing a smoke ring up into the air. It widened as it rose to form a bit of a circle around Keith Moon's grinning face on Star's wall before dissipating into the air.

Star nodded. "Yeah."

"Is it a mammal?" Heck queried before taking another hit on the joint.

Another nod. "Yeah."

"Is it domesticled…domesticated?"

"Yeah."

"Is it a cat?"

"Yeah."

Heck sat up, grinning. "I got it?"

"No, it's JELLO."

Both boys found this immensely hilarious and cracked up to show just that. They were currently sitting on the cluttered floor of Star's room, under posters of the drummers he worshipped. The two rarely partook in the consumption of illegal substances but Heck had mentioned having a migraine and it took off from there.

"Bugger," Heck said, starting to wonder if Star's poster of Charlie Watts wasn't watching him. "Go again."

Star screwed up his immaculate features as he thought it through. Heck stared intently at his friend's face.

Heck's migraines and their herbal refreshment weren't the only reason the two boys had convened at Star's tiny apartment on the eighth floor of his walk-up. Star had expressed his boredom with his red hair and its ill-fitting contrast to his tanned skin. Heck had suggested dye.

Now his fiery red locks were dyed a deep brown, which Heck had said made him look like an emo Roger Daltrey. Star had hit him. Whether it was for the emo comment or the one about Roger, he couldn't be sure.

"Okay," he said, grinning widely. "Got one."

"Is it an animal?"

"Yeah."

"Is it a plant?"

"Uh…yeah."

"Is it some sort of animal-plant hybrid like a chipmunk with grass for fur except the chipmunk's a robot with grass for fur and the grass is also a robot and if you touch it you'll die?"

"Ooh, Brit-boy, you're really close."

"Is it JELLO?"

"Yeah."

--

Claudia was not a squealing type of girl. She didn't giggle when she saw someone she liked or play that 'shhh, don't let them know you're looking!' game amidst sugar-hyped yelps while some hot piece strutted by. She had never done that even before she had discovered that it was girls and not guys that churned her butter.

However, for reasons unbeknownst to herself, she was doing it now.

Although, to be specific, Windy was doing it. She just happened to be there. The two girls were seated outside the separate garage behind her and Pickle's house in Queens. It was the first official practice of the currently unnamed band that was going to play. They were all there.

Windy was currently giggling and kicking her clog-shod feet whenever Wart walked by. Her crush on him was evident to Claudia but, apparently, to no one else as Windy quickly informed her upon her arrival.

Gypsy was sitting off in his own world, idly strumming his guitar. Pickle—much to Windy's apparent happiness—was seated next to him on the cement floor, just holding his bass and talking to him in a hushed voice.

The twins were off to the side giving the girls, as Claudia was immediately made aware by a bony elbow jamming its way into her side, a good view of Wart's ass in his more-expensive-than-her-entire-wardrobe khakis.

To be honest, she had never known Windy to swoon like this over a guy. She had always been more than a little spacey, kind of hyper at times and off on her own planet. Some sort of alien girl wearing hand-crocheted vests and brocade skirts over pants. Claudia also had noticed that she was actually quite pretty, in a pixie-Weetzie-Bat kind of way. And normally sweet. She just happened to be grinding on her very last nerve at this very moment.

Even moreso than Star who was making a horrible racket on his drum kit. He had dyed his hair and looked even more immaculate than before. For some reason, it made her stomach turn in a way she didn't entirely like. She was still simmering a little from their confrontation the other day and couldn't help but ponder his words.

If she had known anything about him, she would know he wasn't a homophobe. Meaning what? Could it be that he was secretly gay? She scoffed at the thought. Star, gay? Hardly.

"Are you two going to help?" Jester asked, a smirk evident on his Patrician features. "Or are you going to sit there like a couple of starfuckers."

Claudia glared at him and he glared right back. Pickle stood and zeroed in on Jester's blonde head.

"Don't call my sister a starfucker," he said in a low, even voice, the jolly, somewhat perpetually stone tone all gone from his voice.

Jester held his hands up. "I was joking, Pick, chill."

Gypsy put a hand on his friend's arm and the blonde sat back down. The two immediately started their conversation back up. The scene caused Windy to roll her eyes and look at her.

"See why I can't tell my brother about my crush?" she sighed. "He freaked out about Jester saying something and he's never serious."

Claudia had to nod her agreement.

"His hippie-give-peace-a-chance-make-love-not-war vibe would totally go out the window, am I right?"

Windy nodded and rolled her eyes again. "Yes. In the form of his fist hitting Wart's face…do you think he likes me back?"

Claudia glanced at the twins. Jester was holding this expensive-looking teardrop-shaped guitar as his latest obsession and obscene amount of practice—as those Upper Eastside princes don't do anything gauche as, say, working after school—had led him to his current spot as rhythm guitarist in the band. He was punching Wart lightly in the arm with his free hand and laughing while looking at the two girls. Wart was blushing a deep crimson color at whatever his brother had been saying. The fact that they were both looking at the girls made the answer to Windy's question the affirmative.

Not that she would say so as not to risk Pickle overhearing.

"I'm sure he does," she said instead, in a low voice.

This seemed to make Windy happy and a bubbly smile popped on her face. Much like when she saw Star, her stomach flipped in a confusing way. Claudia looked away.

"Anyway," she stated. "Let's go closer to the garage so we can tell them how much they suck."

Windy laughed. "Okay!"

--

A/N: first of all, big thanks to my beta (my first one!) Rustie73 for the help with mapping this chapter of the story as I had completely hit a wall. Also, yes, long time between updates but I had writer's block, was on vacation and then had band camp. By the way, I personally don't see why any guy would get pissed for being told he looked like Roger Daltrey…unless they were short. Silly Star. xD Also, not much of the characters from the original DAMY in it. However, most everyone else will be introduced and reunited at, of course, the reunion and storylines don't need to entirely advance until then. I also wanted to set up the plots I have in mind for after the reunion takes place. And I'll shut up now.