Notes: This is part two of my previous ficlet, The End of the World. Again, I wish to say that this story was inspired by the death of Micky's real-life father in 1963, but is not based off of it.

There is lots of angst in this chapter, and lots of crying, but don't worry, by the end, things are looking up. I also want to say, it was very hard writing this chapter, for many reasons.

Ventura, California, three years prior:

Micky opened his eyes slowly. He hadn't slept very much last night, but he hadn't wanted to get out of bed, either. He looked over to the window, where the sun was shining through the curtains. Micky almost felt cheated. It was supposed to rain on funeral days.

He sighed and rolled over, staring at Peter's empty bed. He wasn't sure why, but Peter had insisted on sleeping in the basement for the past few nights since the phone call. He hadn't questioned him. It was better not to question Peter when he had one of his strange ideas.

Groaning, Micky climbed out of bed and glared at the sunny window for a few moments before getting changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved green shirt. He slipped his boots on over his feet and ran a brush through his hair before leaving the room and heading down to the kitchen for breakfast.

"Good morning, Micky," Aunt Franny said quietly as he came in. She handed him a bowl of oatmeal with chocolate ice cream in it. He took it wordlessly and went over to the table and sat down.

Aunt Franny was trying to cheer him up by making his favorite breakfast, and she had done so every morning for the past five days, but he didn't want to be cheered up.

He wanted to be miserable. What good was it for him to be happy when his dad was dead? So he pretended not to notice, and Aunt Franny went about her work as usual, not saying a word past her annual "good morning" she insisted on repeating every rotten day.

About halfway through breakfast, Peter came into the kitchen. He was still wearing the clothes he'd worn the day before, and his hair was messy. He had dark circles under his eyes that matched the ones Micky had ignored when he'd looked in the mirror that morning.

"Morning, Aunt Franny," Peter said tiredly. "Morning, Micky."

Micky took another bite of oatmeal and stared down at his bowl. "Morning, dear," Aunt Franny replied as she handed a bowl of oatmeal without the ice cream to Peter, who had tried the way Micky ate his, but hadn't cared for the taste, preferring to eat his with brown sugar and milk.

Micky pretended not to notice as Aunt Franny glanced towards the table, obviously at him. If Peter had noticed, than he also pretended not to as he walked over and sat across from Micky. He stirred his oatmeal for a moment, mixing in the brown sugar and milk, and then he set his spoon down and stared at it.

"Well, aren't you gonna eat it?" Micky asked quietly. Peter glanced up at Micky, looking almost surprised, and then he picked up the spoon again and began eating.

Micky finished his oatmeal hurriedly and then went back upstairs to their room. He sat on the couch and stared at the wall for awhile.

After about ten minutes, Peter came in. He looked like he was about to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and instead just walked to the closet and pulled out a black suit. He'd bought it especially for the occasion. It wasn't anything fancy, it wasn't even new, he'd got it at a second-hand store.

Turning towards Micky and opening his mouth again to talk, Peter stood there for an awkward moment and then shut his mouth, turning and walking to the bathroom to get ready.

Micky didn't move from his spot until Peter came out, all dressed for the funeral. He looked at Micky and finally said something. "Um... the service is in an hour," he said quietly. "We're supposed to get there early, so you might wanna start getting ready..."

"What are you talking about, I'm ready now!" Micky said. Peter blinked. "But..." He said, looking down at Micky's boots, jeans, and green shirt. Micky glared at him, daring him to comment.

Peter just frowned in confusion, however, and shut his mouth. Micky sighed. Sometimes Peter's refusal to argue things could be a real drag. "Let's go," he snapped, standing up and passing Peter as he stalked into the hallway.

To say that his mother was less than pleased to see him show up for his father's funeral in jeans, boots, and a green shirt would have been a major understatement. He wasn't expecting the tears, however. As soon as she saw him, she started crying, and Micky couldn't help but feel guilty, which, in turn, made him even more angry.

She didn't say anything, however, and that sort of defeated the purpose of him wearing those clothes anyway. Couldn't anybody tell that he wanted to pick a fight with somebody!?

"Micky Dolenz, what on earth are you wearing!?" Jenna demanded, running up to where they stood. Micky focused his anger in her direction. "What?" He asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Jenna scowled. "Don't play dumb with me," she said. "You know that what you're wearing is unacceptable!" "Yeah, well, maybe I don't care!" Micky snapped. Jenna narrowed her eyes.

"Micky Dolenz," she said quietly. "You are walking on dangerous ground. Go home and change into something decent right now!" Micky sat down in a nearby chair. "No," he said defiantly. "I'm wearing this, and there's nothing you can do about it!"

Jenna stood there, fuming, but Micky was right. He was 16. She was almost 14. He was bigger, stronger, and when he put his mind to it, there was no force on earth that could move him.

After a moment, Jenna turned and ran away. Micky would have smiled at the victory, but he didn't feel very satisfied. "Oh dear," his mother said, giving Micky a "look" before running off after Jenna.

Peter stood a little ways back, speechless at what had just occurred. Micky turned to him. "Well, sit down!" He snapped. Peter blinked and sat down. Micky rolled his eyes at Peter's general geniality and they sat there together until after the service was over.

As they got up and began to walk toward the door, Jenna appeared out of nowhere and blocked their way.

"Oh no," she said, glaring at Micky. "You aren't going anywhere until I've had my say. I don't know what your problem is, but you seriously have some growing up to do. I know, it's been a hard week. I know, you're upset about dad. We all are. But that's no excuse for your behavior."

Micky was glaring too as she continued. "Do you have any idea what you looked like today, in those clothes? Do you know how many people looked at you today, shaking their heads because you showed up the way you did? I seriously cannot believe that you did that!"

She stopped and looked him straight in the eye. "Do you have any logical explanation for your outfit?" She demanded. "Did you like, wear your suit to breakfast and spill eggs on it or something?" Micky shook his head. "I just decided not to wear it," he said. "And it's not like it mattered to dad, he's dead!"

Jenna reached a hand up and slapped him, hard, without warning. Micky stood there, stunned into silence as Peter put his hand up to his mouth in surprise. Jenna had tears in her eyes as she continued to glare at Micky.

"You're right," she said quietly. "It didn't matter to dad. But you know what? It mattered to me. It mattered to dad's friends. And it mattered to mom. Did you ever stop to think about her, Micky?"

Jenna crossed her arms as she stood there. "She just lost her husband," she said. "You know how much she and dad loved each other. And she just lost him. She needs us to be understanding, she needs us to be there for her. And then you show up, at his funeral, looking like this and being a jerk. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Micky was getting angry again. Did Jenna think he didn't care? Did she think this was easy for him? He'd always hated funerals, and this one was just too much. At least he'd shown up. He hadn't even wanted to do that.

And here she was, yelling at him for not caring. The worst part about it was, he knew deep inside that she was right. He was acting selfishly, because of his own pain and heartbreak. He was rebelling, against what, he didn't know.

And one thing he hated was being told off by his little sister, and knowing she was right. It wasn't fair, he was the oldest, he was the big brother, she shouldn't be telling him off, even if she was right. It just wasn't the way things were supposed to work.

"I don't have to justify myself to you," he snapped. "Why don't you run off to mom and leave me alone? I don't need to have you tell me what to do. Come on, Peter. We're going home."

Micky pushed past Jenna and left the building, pausing when he reached the sidewalk. He glanced behind him to see if Peter was coming. Peter was hugging Jenna, and he whispered something that Micky couldn't make out. Jenna shook her head angrily. "No," she said. "I'm never going to forgive him for this! Ever!"

She turned and stomped off, Peter watching her for a second. Then he turned and ran after Micky, who quickly pretended that he hadn't been watching.

"Micky," Peter said as he hurried along to keep up with Micky. "Micky, please, slow down." Micky ignored him. Peter sighed and looked down at the ground as they walked.

"Micky, you weren't very nice to Jenna back there," Peter said reluctantly, as if the words were being dragged out of him. "I mean, I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through. I really don't know. But I do know that Jenna is feeling the same thing. And she's your sister. You don't have to go through this alone. She could help you get through this, and you could help her. That's what family's are for, right?"

Micky suddenly stopped in his tracks, and turned on Peter. He knew it wasn't fair, he knew Peter was right, just like Jenna had been right, but in that one instance, when he was absolutely broken and shattered inside, he didn't care.

"You know, Pete," He said furiously. "There's one thing you said right now that I believe whole-heartedly, and that was "I don't know!" You don't know anything about what I feel, and you don't know anything about Jenna, and you don't know what you're talking about! YOU NEVER KNOW! So stop pretending to be so smart, 'cause you're not fooling anyone!"

The instant, the second the words came out of his mouth, Micky regretted them. He hated himself for what he was doing, he hated himself for what he had said to Peter, and Jenna, and he hated himself for wearing these stupid clothes to his dad's funeral.

He was crying now, he could barely see Peter's shocked face through his tears. Turning, he ran the rest of the way to the hotel, not knowing or caring whether Peter was behind him or not.

He ran up to their room and threw himself onto the couch and sobbed. He sobbed because of his dad, he sobbed because of Jenna and Peter, and he sobbed because he was a monster who had probably just ruined his friendship with them both.

Micky woke up with a splitting headache. For a second, he didn't know why, and then it came rushing in on him. He had cried himself to sleep the night before, curled up into a ball on the couch. The tears plus the uncomfortable springy couch had created the headache.

Rolling over and falling to the floor, he laid there for about five minutes before standing up and looking at the window. It was sunny again. Maybe he would go for a walk, try to clear his head.

As he passed through the lobby, he glanced at the concierge desk, where Peter was getting ready to start his shift. It almost made Micky jealous. He was still on official leave, so he couldn't work to get his mind off everything that had happened.

He thought about stopping and apologizing to Peter for what he'd said the night before, but Peter hadn't noticed him, and shame overcrowded his other senses and he couldn't bring himself to do it.

He walked to the park and sat down on one of the benches, staring at all the happy people passing by. How could they still be happy when the world had ended? It didn't make any sense.

A pigeon flew over and landed in the grass a few feet away from him. Cooing, it picked at something in the grass and hopped around for a little while. Micky stuck his tongue out at it.

"How do you do it!?" He demanded. "What's your secret? You don't have any family, you're a bird, for heaven's sake! How do you stand it? I bet you didn't even know your dad! I bet you were your mothers least favorite! I bet she threw you out of the nest first!"

And now he was crazy, insulting birds like some kind of... crazy person...

Micky groaned. He couldn't even finish his own comparison of himself to some crazy person. He had to break out of this funk, it was killing him.

And more importantly, it was killing his relationships. He had made his mother cry, he had made his sister hate him, and he had yelled at Peter and called him stupid.

He glared up at the sky. If there was anyone up there, they sure must've hated him, to make his life fall apart like this. If you're so great and wonderful, He thought angrily. Then why haven't you fixed this yet?

The pigeon suddenly got up and flew away down the park, and as Micky turned to watch it go, a gentle breeze swept through the park, pushing his hair out of his face. He blinked in surprise. Just the simple feel of the wind on his face had made him feel a little bit better.

He looked down the walkway. The park was practically empty, which was surprising on such a nice day as this. Standing up slowly, Micky looked behind him real fast, just to make sure nobody was there. Then he took off.

He ran, he ran down the park walkway, he ran past the trees and the bushes, he ran past the benches and the nearby pond. He ran past an empty playground and then turned around and ran back to it.

He ran over to the swing set and sat down on a swing, pushing off with his legs and pumping, he soon was swinging as high as he possibly could.

The wind on his face was fantastic, and soon he was laughing with the euphoria of it. Whenever he reached the highest point of the arc, he truly felt weightless, and that included the weight of the sorrow he had carried ever since his dad had passed on.

He was still sad, of course. He still missed his dad terribly. But he felt like he could breathe again. He was alive, oh, he was so alive!

He jumped off of the swing and flew for an instant before gravity kicked in and he fell to the ground. He ripped a hole in the knee of his jeans and he scraped his knee up pretty bad, but he didn't care. He stood up from the ground and laughed.

The ground hadn't opened up when he landed, it hadn't crumbled away beneath his feet. The world hadn't quite ended after all. The sky was a beautiful shade of blue, with just enough clouds in the sky to give it character. The wind was blowing pretty steadily now, and a group of birds from a nearby tree chose that moment to fly away together, swarming through the sky into the sun.

Micky turned and ran all the way to his mom's house. He had something he needed to tell her.

She opened the door and took one look at Micky. "Goodness!" She said, opening the door all the way open and pulling him inside. "Micky, what happened!? You look like you got in some kind of wreck!"

"Huh?" Micky panted, before realizing that he really did look pretty bad. His jeans were torn, his knee was bleeding, and he had just run here from the park. "No, I'm fine," he said, laughing a little. "Mom, I just... I wanted to say that I'm sorry for the way I acted yesterday, it was selfish of me, and I shouldn't have done that to you."

"Oh, Micky..." His mom said, pulling him into the living room and sitting him down on the couch. "You don't have to apologize, I know how hard it was for you, and everybody grieves differently-"

"No, mom," Micky interrupted. "Don't try to justify what I did. It doesn't matter how much I was hurting, I shouldn't have taken it out on you and Jenna, and Peter. I should have put aside my anger and faced my problems with dignity, for dad's sake."

His mom sniffed and Micky could see she was about to cry. "Oh, mom, please don't cry!" He said. "Then, I'll start crying, and then we'll both be a big mess..." His mom nodded and wiped away the few tears that had already escaped.

"I'm okay," she said. "I'm just... I'm proud of you, Micky. I hope you know that. I'll always be proud of you, and I'll always love you. Even when you make mistakes, I'll love you, and what you just said reminds me of that, and it makes me even more proud of you than I've ever been before."

Now Micky was the one trying not to cry, as he suddenly jumped forward and hugged his mom. She hugged right back, and soon they were both blubbering like babies. But it didn't matter. It was a good kind of crying.

It wasn't the kind of crying Micky had done the night before, where you were crying because you felt like your heart was tearing into a million pieces and you were alone in the world. No, this was the kind of crying you did when yeah, you were sad. Yeah, you were hurting, but there was someone there who loved you and cared about you, and that somehow made you feel happier than you'd ever felt before.

Micky knocked on the door to Jenna's bedroom. "Come in!" She called. He opened the door and went inside. As soon as she saw him, her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?" She snapped. Micky put his hands up to show he had no tricks up his sleeve. It was something he and Jenna had done since they were kids. The sign of ultimate surrender.

"Jenna," he said. "I know you have every right to hate me, and I won't deny that. I was horrible to you last night, and I shouldn't have said or done anything that I did. I came here to apologize. I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I wore those clothes-" She glanced down at his shirt and he suddenly remembered that he was still wearing them.

"I'm sorry I wore these stupid clothes," he said. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk, I'm sorry for everything I said to you. You were right. You were so right, and I should have listened to you. Please forgive me, Jen."

He looked at her silently, hands still in the air, waiting for her to say something. Anything. She glared at him. "I needed you, Micky," she said quietly. "I needed you, and Mom needed you, and you turned your back on us. I went to the funeral to pay my respects to dad, and to say goodbye for the last time. Instead, I ended up fighting with my only brother. As far as I'm concerned, he died too. I'm done with you, Micky."

Micky gulped and slowly lowered his hands. He had really hoped that she would forgive him. But she was a Dolenz, and he knew from experience, the Dolenz family could hold a grudge.

"I understand..." He said quietly. "I wouldn't forgive me, either. But I won't give up. I promise you," He held his hands up again. No tricks, no lies. "I will never give up telling you how sorry I am for the way I acted. Not until you forgive me."

Jenna turned away. "Yeah, well, good luck with that," she said coldly. "Now, get out of my room."

Micky turned and left the room. Shutting the door, he called out "I'm sorry!" As a way of saying goodbye. He felt optimistic about the whole thing. It hadn't gone well, but it hadn't gone as bad as he'd thought it would. He had seriously expected her to throw a lamp at him or something.

"Peter!" Micky called out, running into the lobby. Peter didn't respond, and Micky saw that he had fallen asleep at the concierge desk. He ran up to him and ducked behind the desk. "PETER!" He shouted, causing Peter to jerk awake with a yell. As soon as he saw Micky, Peter smiled. "Oh, it's you," he said sleepily, rubbing his eyes. "I thought it was the fireman come to get the bunny."

Micky shook away the instant curiosity at Peter's words. "Never mind that," he said. "I want to apologize for what I said to you last night." Peter looked at him, baffled. "Why," he said. "What did you say to me last night?"

Micky rolled his eyes. "You know," he said. When Peter still looked confused, Micky sighed. "When I told you to... stop acting smart..." His voice was getting lower and he didn't want to say that last part, but Peter saved him the embarrassment.

"Oh yeah," he said, realization lighting up his eyes. "Don't worry, Micky, I knew you didn't mean anything by it. Besides," He smiled again. "It was true anyway. I never know what I'm talking about. You should have seen the notes my teachers sent me home with during school. They never knew quite what to do with me."

Micky laughed. "Well, true or not, I shouldn't have said it," he said. "Can you forgive me?" Peter nodded. "Of course I can," He said, smiling. "Gosh, it's sure good to have you back, Micky!"

Micky smiled. He sure was lucky to have a friend like Peter. "Say, Pete?" He asked. "Now that I'm "back" and all that, can you come back and sleep in the room again? I don't like you sleeping down in the basement. It's not healthy."

Peter nodded. "Sure, Micky," he said. "I'll come back in the room again." Micky frowned. "Hey, why were you sleeping in the basement anyway?" He asked. Peter shrugged. "Just in case," He answered.

Micky laughed. Peter was still as confusing as ever. He hadn't answered the question at all. Better to not even bother trying to understand, he reminded himself. You could get a headache trying to wrap your head around Peter's logic.

As Peter continued his shift, Micky drifted off to the basement. He hadn't played his drums in about a week, and he was suddenly struck by an overwhelming desire to hear them again, to feel the drumsticks in his hands as he played.

Life had changed drastically for Micky in the past week. But that didn't mean it was over. He still had his music. He still had his dream. He just had another reason to go on.

Now, he wasn't just playing for himself. He was playing for his dad. He would make sure that his dad's memory lived on in him, and every time he played his music, he would try to put a little of his dad into it.

People come into your life for a reason and a season, his mother always said. Now that his dad's season was over, it was time to remember the times they did have, it was time to remember the reason, and live his life accordingly.

Life would never be quite the same. It would be much different from now on, it would be much harder to get through without his dad's help. But it wasn't the end of the world.