It should have been a time for celebration, but after Mike's tirade on stage, the entire world seemed like a much more bittersweet place than ever before. In many ways, Davy was proud of the Monkees' leader for standing up for Micky. People should stand up for their mates, no matter what, even in front of a sea of hundreds of unfamiliar faces. They were all nameless watchers, who had no vested interest in any of the bands on stage, let alone any single member. It shouldn't have mattered what Micky did or didn't do, but to them, because of things set in motion by the pen of one anonymous writer, it did.

If no one brought their personal trials to light, no one would have cared. Micky would have gone on stage, and the public may have gone on to be none the wiser. Whether they won or lost, the victory would have been complete; as it stood, the whole thing just seemed empty.

But if Mike's anger brought out reason, it also brought out a certain wrath, unique to the tall young man from Texas, which lit up his eyes with intensity. As Mike stood, staring at the front door, Davy saw it - a temper that still burned just below the surface.

"You've said it all before," Davy warned.

Mike's eye twitched.

"You're not really angry at Micky. You know that."

He closed his eyes, offering a sniff in response. Davy really didn't want to interfere, but every once in a while, he felt it necessary to become the voice of reason. As patient and unflappable as Michael was, sometimes he found something worth fighting for, and igniting that passion in someone normally so even-keel was dangerous. He had no idea how to go about things, kind of like an awkward foal taking its first steps.

His heart, though, was always in the right place.

Sighing, Michael opened the door, stepped inside, and made a beeline for the spiral stairs. Without another word, he ascended as quick as he could, stepped across the upstairs landing and into the bedroom, and slammed the door.

"…I guess that means you didn't make it," Micky said glumly, from across the room. He sat at the drum kit, arms down at his sides, sticks held loosely in his fingers.

Davy watched up the stairs for another moment, almost expecting Mike to get over the whole thing and come back down. He knew what had Mike so upset, though - something they'd all been dancing around for some time. By disappearing, Mike was essentially telling Davy, 'you deal with it, because I can't.' That was probably all for the best, though, considering how badly his temper snapped earlier. "That's just the thing," Davy said. "We did. We made it through to the next round."

Quirking an eyebrow, Micky gestured up the stairs with one drumstick.

"He's just…" Davy scratched his head, trying to make his mind come up with something, anything, to adequately explain the whole thing. They'd all let Micky deal with his injury in his own way for so long, that things were bound to break sooner or later. Davy sensed the change in Mike as soon as Micky insisted that he wouldn't play in the competition. Mike's reaction was quietly, subtly snappish; it wasn't like their leader to just give up on any one of them, but he had, allowing Micky to shirk his duties as the Monkees drummer, and all over a reason which held no water.

Excuses. It was a good one. Micky even believed it. But he was selling himself short.

Speaking quietly, Davy asked, "It wasn't really all about integrity, was it?"

"Not about— What do you mean?"

"I dunno, maybe it was, in a way. I mean, you're right. You being blind, well, it does kinda change the game a little. But I know you, Micky. When you set your mind on somethin', you do whatever it takes to get it done. And whatever resources that people throw at you, you use 'em, whether they're legitimate or not. It's always a means to an end with you." Davy climbed the steps, standing just in front of the drums. "And that's why Mike's mad, 'cuz he knew right from the start that you lied to him. Told him exactly what you thought he wanted to hear, just to get 'im off your back. But I'm vain as hell, Micky, so I know vanity when I see it. It wasn't all about winning for the right reasons, you just didn't want all those people to see you helpless."

"Davy, don't…"

"And Mike went along with it, because he knew it bothered you. I knew it bothered you. But when the crowd saw us there, only three of us, they almost booed us off stage. And there's only a limit to how much he can take before he snaps, you know?"

"'Snaps'?" Micky repeated. "What d'you mean, 'snaps'?"

"Oh, he went to town on that audience. After we did our set, Mike lost it. Totally shamed 'em for making you feel so bad. It was brutal. I mean, I can't recall it all, but he said that without you, we're not the Monkees. Me and Peter dragged him off the stage, but he kept goin' on, even without the mic in front of 'im. All shouty. Totally unlike him. It was great. Though I thought he'd disqualified us."

As Micky sat there staring, Davy asked, "You okay?"

"Mike did that?"

"Yeah, he's really upset for you, you know?"

Micky nodded, looking down. "The whole audience?"

"Everyone," Davy said. "Then the crowd cheered. We couldn't understand it then, but I do now. It means there's more people out there who agree with Mike than who agree with that letter in the paper."

"Yeah, but, if he knew I was lying the whole time…" Micky started.

"Oh, I think he's been wanting to yell and scream for some time now," Davy said. "Besides, what he said was still all true, technically speaking. You were doin' so good, then one idiot with a pen ruined it for you. It wasn't fair. It set you back. Before we came in, I reminded him that he's really not mad at you."

Micky slumped a little, turning his face away. "Honestly, it kinda flip-flops between integrity and not wanting people to see me. There's no one reason." He started to say something else, a soft 'eh' issuing from his lips, but he shook his head and waved it off.

"Micky…" Davy said, drawing out the last syllable.

"Okay, okay," Micky muttered, running his hands through his hair. "You're right, though. Mostly. I don't want people staring at me."

"You love when people stare at you," Davy said, confused. "In fact, if they made an Olympic sport out of getting people to stare, you'd win the gold medal. You're good at it." He could recall many times when Micky did things just to get attention. His ability to make weird expressions in inappropriate situations was, hands down, one of his very best skills. He could do almost any voice imaginable, with any accent he wanted. When he imitated Michael's southern drawl, he'd have everyone cracking up, Mike included. "Besides…" He paused, reaching out to take Micky's chin in his hand, giving it a light shake. "With a face like this, people can't help staring."

Smiling weakly, Micky pushed him away.

"It's different," Micky continued. "I dunno what it is. People'll make a big deal out of it. They already are. I don't want the attention to be on that. I don't want them to see… that. I want them to see me, and what I want them to see. My music, my sense of humor - or lack thereof, according to some." His eyebrows lowered and he bit his lip, before adding, very quietly, "I mean, Davy, you're the one who told me my eyes looked weird in the first place."

Davy stared. The drummer's strange eyes were fixed and dilated, with a certain dark quality to them that made Davy uneasy. Once upon a time, he made a verbal attack on Micky in a moment of temper, but regretted it from the moment he let it tumble from his lips. After all that time, it appeared that the one slip-up - those horrible, angry words - stuck with Micky even more than the heartfelt apology that came afterward. Realizing that "I'm sorry" couldn't undo all that insecurity, Davy, feeling a heavy weight on his shoulders, sat down on the step and rested his elbows on his knees. "You said we were okay."

"Well, if we're talking about lying…" Micky muttered.

"I think I said 'empty,' besides."

"Oh. Well that's much better. That changes everything."

Having no reply, Davy could only continue sitting on the step in silence, as his friend quietly tapped out a cadence on one of the floor toms. Things meant so much coming from the people you loved, even more than the words from strangers or random acquaintances off the street. It made sense that all this might have stemmed from one thing that Davy said, which he barely remembered.

Struck with an idea, Davy asked, "Hey, Mick, has anyone actually told you what your eyes look like? I mean, really sat there and described them?"

Frowning, Micky shook his head. "And… I'm kinda afraid to ask. I keep thinking… thinking about what you meant. That they must be pretty bad…"

"They're not, though," Davy said. He turned on the step and looked back, but finding that he couldn't get a close enough look at Micky's eyes, he stood up and took the other man by the shoulders. "They're just not focusing. Still — I dunno, some sort of lightish brown? Greenish a bit. A little crossed. Your pupils are really big, though, that's all. That's why I said they look empty. From a distance, they just look black. But from a really far distance, I bet you wouldn't even be able to tell."

"Like on stage."

"Yeah, like on stage."

Micky's smile of relief broke through the mask of stress he'd been wearing since he decided to sit out the second phase of the competition. "Oh, man, the way you guys were acting, I thought they were red or something. Yellow. Black. All scarred and gross — "

"How would they be scarred? You got hit on the head!"

"I dunno, no one ever said."

"You filled in the blanks."

"Well. Yeah."

Davy leaned over and hugged his friend. "They're just normal, really. You don't exactly look at people the same anymore, but they're still just normal. I promise."

—-

It was chilly, and Peter was tired.

Sitting on the bench, still in the same clothes he wore to the elimination round on stage in Santa Monica, he wrapped his arms around himself. In the span of a single night, he sang in front of an audience for the first time, left his friends behind him without a word, and hitch-hiked for the first time ever, in his whole life. Worn out both emotionally and physically, Peter couldn't help letting the wind get to him. At least this place had a few walls scattered about, though, which shut out the strongest, coldest breezes. He figured if he stayed here all night, he'd be okay come morning.

Just after he pulled his arms out of his sleeves and into his shirt, an older gentleman stopped in front of him, glanced at him, then checked an old brass pocket watch. "What're you doin' out here, kid?" he asked.

"Waiting."

The man looked back at his watch again, his severe expression darkening. "Ain't even midnight yet. Why don't you go inside, over there?"

Peter looked toward the dark building, with its dark windows. It was a squat little place, with bare walls both inside and outside. Its nearly-featureless interior only contained a short counter, with a black bulletin board behind it that looked kind of like a menu. The whole place had, at some point, fallen into disrepair, with spiderwebs and roaches lurking in all the shadows. "I thought… I thought it was closed. It looks closed."

"Just ain't used that much. Go on inside."

Wishing he wasn't alone, Peter huddled closer against the arm of the bench and shook his head. The man pressed his lips into a thin line and sighed, putting the watch back into his pocket and going on his way.

—-

Something bothered Micky as he lay there in bed, listening to the sound of Davy snoring across the room. It wasn't that he told the truth, though. Actually, telling Davy how he felt about his eyes really took a weight off his chest, though admitting that to Mike would probably be a bit more difficult. The more he thought about the earlier conversation, though, the more he realized that something was missing…

So he lay there with his eyes open, going over his recollections with a fine-toothed comb.

In the past, all his memories were in color. He could everything play out in his mind's eye, whether it be from a month ago or from years and year ago. Every little minute detail in his environment had bright, blessed color in it. Things stood out in vivid reds and blues… And the motion! He was always drawn to movement and how everything worked together in an environment to produce a picture that he could remember.

His new memories, though, presented a problem.

He relied on his eyes for so long, then when he became trapped in the dark, he couldn't build a mental picture of anything. To see nothing, not even blackness, frightened him beyond words. He was so scared, that he continued trying to see through that void, just to picture any color or scrap of movement that he could. It always failed, though. Always.

Then, his other senses finally woke up. Sound, smell, touch… And even taste, at times, all worked together to allow him to form pictures in his mind. Those images were skewed, though… Sometimes in the wrong colors. Brighter than they should have been, but at least they existed in a way where he could piece things together in order to form some sort of valid memory. Of course, without sight, the other senses came in much more powerfully, and Micky wasn't used to that. He sometimes had trouble sorting them out in a way that made sense, when he thought about them later. In this case, he remembered the door opening and then closing when the other guys came home from the competition. Immediately, he heard Mike's booted feet stomp up the stairs, and Davy's softer footsteps approach the bay window. They spoke; he could form a picture of Davy's face, and from there, he pieced together the rest of the house, in an impossible array of greys and yellows and greens.

Mike and Davy.

Mike. Davy.

Sitting up, he asked the darkness, "Where's Peter?"

He went over the memories again, and only recalled two sets of footsteps. With his ears picking up everything around him, he surely would have remembered hearing another person in the pad. Yes, the more he thought about it, the more he realized that the thing missing was Peter. Davy would have said something if Peter was in trouble. And he definitely would have said something if Peter went out with a girl after they played.

Narrowing his eyes, he thought about the many circumstances in the past where he and his bandmates found themselves in borderline supernatural situations. This 'Monkee Magic' as they called it, could range from a simple, well-timed change of clothes, to the extraordinary, where Micky himself had become a werewolf. Maybe… Maybe something made Davy and Mike forget Peter!

Before he could ponder over the logic of this and come up with something a bit more rational, he leapt out of bed, and was immediately, painfully reminded about why he had to remember to pick up his clothes when he tripped over them on the floor. After untangling himself from his shirt, he crawled across the room, pulling himself up alongside Davy's bed. Violently shaking his friend awake, he shouted, "Where's Peter?!"

"Peter?" Davy asked.

Oh no. He really did forget!

"Peter! Taller than you, shorter than Mike, blue eyes, kinda dark-blond hair?"

"Yeah, I know! Peter. He went for a walk when we got home." Davy grunted, grouchy, and pulled the blankets over his head. "He was upset about Mike yellin' and such."

"Yelling?"

Davy turned. In an almost compulsory gesture, Micky reached out to touch, feeling his friend's face to determine that Davy was, indeed, looking at him. Not too long after, Davy sat up, taking Micky's wrist and gently guiding it away. "Yeah, at the audience. You remember."

"So he didn't yell at Peter."

"No, why would he?" Davy asked. Micky heard the sound of hands rubbing against bare skin, and pictured Davy rubbing at his eyes. "And I'm sure Peter's okay. He just doesn't like people being angry. He'll be back by now, I'm sure, safe in his bed."

Micky still couldn't help a certain sense of worry that crept over him, as if something was still wrong. Davy must have seen the look on his face, because he asked, "D'you want to go check?"

Micky was just about to say that he did, when the door burst open. The suddenness of the crash when it struck the wall surprised Micky enough so that he jumped, falling backward to the floor, as Mike's voice reached his ears. "Peter's not here!"

"What? Where is he?" Davy asked.

"He's gone!" Mike replied. "Your shoutin' down here woke me up, and I happened to look over. He ain't in his bed, and he ain't out here. He never came home. Door's still unlocked — he woulda locked it up if he'd been here at all. He ain't the sharpest crayon in the box sometimes, but he ain't stupid, neither."

Micky righted himself, hands locating Davy's nightstand so he could pull himself to his feet. Still holding onto the bedside table, he felt around until found the bedside clock. Giving it a tug, and inadvertently freeing it from the wall plug with a quiet pop, he held it up so that the others could see it. "What time is it?"

"Almost two," Mike said. "It's not like Peter to be gone this long."

"You said to just let 'im go!" Davy spat. His tune was accusatory, and Micky sensed another fight creeping up on them. Davy liked to fight. He liked to push blame at other people when things got stressful, because it made him feel like he was doing something. They all felt helpless, though.

"I thought he'd just go around the block or somethin'!" Mike replied. "Or up the beach, or…"

Debating the point wouldn't solve anything.

"Guys!" Micky interrupted. "What are we gonna do?"

For a moment, the other two were silent, then Mike took control. "Well, he can'ta gone far, and he's probably okay. You know Peter. Doesn't matter if he keeps smilin'… Sometimes, things just bother him. Davy, you look around the neighborhood, I'll look up the beach, and…"

His voice grew quieter as he left the room. He heard Davy's footsteps travel after him, and Micky followed them both, with a bit more care. By the time he reached the living room, Mike was returning to him, and a moment later, Micky felt something pressed into his hands. Mike explained, "It's a flare gun. If Peter comes back, go out and fire it so we can come home."

"But… I'm blind," Micky said incredulously. It wasn't quite on the same level as asking him to drive a car, but still…

"Well, o' course y'are. Point it upward, not down. You'll be fine. The alternative is letting Peter handle a firearm. Flaregun or not, I'm not sure I'm ready to take that risk. And he prob'ly wouldn't want to touch a gun anyhow."

Oddly, he couldn't recall them ever having a flaregun in the house. Perhaps it just appeared as they needed it, which actually made a strange amount of sense, since that seemed to happen quite often, whether they had an explanation for it or not. He couldn't see the thing, but it felt solid and cold and metal, just like a real pistol of some sort, which meant he had to trust that his housemates were actually giving him something that didn't fire off live rounds. Relatedly, it said a lot of Mike's trust in him that he'd give Micky the flaregun in the first place.

He heard the door open, and quickly called, "Michael."

"Yeah, Mick?"

"I'm sorry I lied to you."

Soft footsteps neared him, and Michael laid a hand on his shoulder. "It's fine. I know you needed some time to sort things out, but you could have just told us why. Really. And Micky…"

"Mike, c'mon!" Davy called. From the sound of his voice, he was already halfway down the walkway.

"Er," Mike said. "Hold that thought. And hold down the fort. We'll be back, hopefully with Peter."

The weight of Mike's hand lifted, and just a few footsteps later, the door closed. Alone in the house, Micky carefully made his way over to the kitchen table, set the flaregun down, then perched himself on the couch to wait.

-

Author's Note: I just want to thank everyone who's been reading the story so far. This is one of the longest ones I've written on my own, and I'm enjoying the process, too. Thanks for all your reviews.

As I said in a previous A/N, which I've since deleted so I can phrase it better, I already have the end of the story written, so I know where it's going. I don't do particularly detailed outlines, so I can allow a little wiggle room for myself along the way, but I can say with certainty that there won't be any romance in this story. It's about friendship between the guys, which I enjoy writing a lot more than physical attraction or romantic love.

That said, I hope you still enjoy the rest of it!