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Tipsy Mike is Contemplative Mike. It’s not that he isn’t contemplative when sober--he's always in his head, it's causing problems-but drinking makes him flushed and soft and content, and most importantly, pensive. And why not? He loves his music and he loves his friends. He loves this party. The lights are all coloured and everything is hazy but vibrant; if he weren’t wearing sunglasses inside he would have a headache from the sheer amount of colour. He loves sitting on a couch and not having to move. He loves Micky.
Tipsy Micky is the same as Sober Micky: cheerful, almost giddy, talking a mile a minute with the sunniest of dispositions. Right now he’s talking someone’s ear off on the couch across from Mike, and Mike is watching him through his tinted glasses and smiling absently.
“I forgot you get like this,” says the voice of a certain short bastard from behind him.
“Like what?”
“All soft,” Davy says, and climbs over the back of the couch, in what is probably a frustratingly graceful manner, to sit down next to him. Davy is sober and tired from wearing the heels of his Beatle boots down on the dance floor. “Like you’re in love with the whole world. Like Peter sober.”
“Where is Peter?”
“Talking to some chick from Anaheim or something, she has a weird name. I think he’s ready to leave soon.”
“Mm.” He hums. Floating.
“Good party though, right?”
“A real groove,” Mike says, but he’s only half listening. Micky is sitting cross legged and showing the stranger the finer details of his tablecloth poncho, which everyone seems to love. They’re not even humouring him, either. Everyone loves Micky.
Davy sighs. It’s probably passive aggressive, a cue to leave, but Mike is too distracted. He doesn’t want to tear Micky away from the party. He’s now talking to three people, and shifting his gaze to make eye contact with them each in turn. It’s so sweet how he does that, to make sure everyone feels included. Sometimes his being-all-over-the-place-ness stresses Mike out, but he knows he can’t help it. There are a lot of things happening in Micky Dolenz’s mind.
“Mike?” Goddamnit.
“Yeah?”
“We’re good to go now, yeah? Peter and I are going to grab everyone’s stuff, can you tear Micky away from his following over there?”
Following, funny. Mike looks back at Davy; and Peter, who just appeared, wearing an absolutely abrasive patterned shirt and pleasant smile. It makes him smile too--Peter can always do that.
“Sure thing.” He turns back to Micky, who is already looking at him from across the coffee table.
“Are we going?” Micky shouts, grinning.
“Sure are.”
“Come help me!” He makes grabbing motions until Mike is pulling him off the couch by the hand. Then he brushes some invisible dust off his poncho for comedic effect. “Thanks, babe.” He grabs Mike’s hand again and starts the Long and Treacherous Journey to the car.
They’re weaving through bodies together, and maybe Mike is more drunk than he realized, because the warmth of the party makes everything feel all the more groovy and he’s really, really enjoying holding Micky’s hand. Not in the normal way, not because he needs to keep his balance or he needs someone to guide him through the dark. Like, if they were outside, in the plainest of circumstances, he would still want to be holding his hand. Mike files this thought under “Breakfast Panic: Do Not Remember Until Caffeinated”.
Eventually someone is driving them home (Davy? He isn’t supposed to touch the car after That Thing That Happened, but Mike is inebriated and probably shouldn’t be behind the wheel, so Davy can have it tonight). Micky is still holding Mike’s hand in the back seat, and tipping his head back so he can watch the stars while they glide down Malibu streets. His face is soft in the muggy glow of the streetlights; his hair is blowing in the wind, he’s smiling and occasionally laughing at nothing, or whatever Peter is saying in the passenger seat. Mike doesn’t mean to watch--doesn’t want to. Except that he does, a little bit. Because Micky looks so soft, so pleasant, and Mike is tipsy so he can think about this now and then act shocked and be repulsed at himself in the morning. A man? A real-life human man, soft and pleasant? Micky Dolenz, charming and oh so pretty in the moonlight? No way, that must be someone else. Mike would never. It must have been that he was so drunk--three shots at the most--so drunk--and they’re wearing off quick--that anybody would look good in the back seat of that car. Tomorrow morning, he will be feeling normal, healthy, platonic feelings towards his average-looking--very cute--roommate.
As much as he wishes for tomorrow morning to come, he really just isn’t tired. He makes his way to his and Micky’s bedroom, lies down on his bed, closes his eyes, and waits, and then. Nothing. Not a thing. Zilch. So when Micky comes in after him, singing cheerfully to himself, and absolutely ready to talk, Mike complies.
“That party was fun, wasn’t it? I get so bored around here. And did you see Davy dance? He really gets into it, man. He should always be dancing, I think.”
“Totally.” Mike watches Micky peel off his beloved tablecloth poncho and drop it onto the hardwood floor. “You tired?” Micky laughs.
“No! I’m buzzed! I could run the whole length of the beach and still not be ready for bed. But I’d rather stay here with you.” He says, kicking off his tennis shoes. Mike feels oddly touched. That heady, loving feeling still lingers--he wants him to want to stay. Is that bad?
“I’m sure I’m not that interesting.”
“Of course you are, and you know I hate when you sell yourself short like that. So what do you want to do?”
Mike looks at him for a moment. He’s half in shadow from the lamplight, and bouncing on his toes a little. Happy, sunny Micky. Happy, sunny Micky who’s wearing a worn white ringer tee, softened by late night drives and early afternoon practices. Hang on. “We could talk about you not stealing my clothes, again.”
Micky offers a sheepish grin and sits on the end of Mike’s bed. “Sorry,” he fiddles with the hem, “I just grabbed it on the way out, I needed to wear something under my poncho. It’s kind of a statement piece.”
“Mhm. People seemed to love it.”
“They did, didn’t they? At first I was like, wow, this is a bit much, but it is pretty groovy! And everyone wanted to hear about the band, too. Like our style and stuff. Which is kind of hard because we do all sorts of things, so I was telling them that we do country and rock n roll and Whatever Davy Does, and then they were like, who’s Davy? So then I was talking about all you guys. This was before you sat down.”
“Right.”
“I was just finishing up talking about Pete when you sat down, actually, because I had been talking with this guy who sells organs--like the instrument, not parts of people--and then I was like, that’s Mike, he’s my roommate and companion, he’s quiet at first but he’s very funny. Which is true. And then this chick asked if you were seeing anyone, and I said not necessarily, but then this guy came up and he seemed to be her guy? Which was interesting, and I thought maybe they’re of the fluid-free-love type, which makes sense for that crowd. And then you said we were leaving and we got in the car and all that, you remember.”
“Don’t I know it,” Mike can’t help but smile. “So you had fun?”
“Obviously!” Micky laughs. He glances around the room for a moment. “Do you wanna lie on the floor?”
Mike finds himself shrugging. “Sure.” It’s odd because he doesn’t really lie on the floor. He doesn’t often feel compelled to, considering there’s a bed in the room--it being a bedroom--and it’s not really something one does, unless one is Micky, who is now not only on the floor, but quite excited about it. Mike stands over him for a second, rolling up his sleeve while Micky wriggles around on the carpet. He looks high.
“It feels good down here,” he says.
“Are you high?”
Micky laughs, clear and bright as sunshine. “Yeah.” He frowns. “ ‘S that a problem?”
“ ‘Course not,” Mike says. He hates when Micky frowns. “Grass?”
Sunshine laughter. “Yeah.”
“I thought that was supposed to mellow you out.”
“Yeah, it isn’t working very well.”
They’re quiet for a moment while Mike works on his second sleeve.
“Mike, come here…” Micky’s cheery voice floats through the warm room. Is it always this warm? Mike feels tipsy again, soft and hazy, uptight, outta sight. He unbuttons his shirt a little. Is that weird? He looks back down at Micky, who smiles up at him from his Glorious New Carpeted Home. “Hurry up and lie down with me.”
“I--” God, why is he so awkward? It’s just Micky. High Micky, groovy Micky, sunshine-y golden California dreamin’ Micky.
“Come on, Mike! Mike Nesmith. Nez,” he’s smiling, bright, golden, California dreamin’ smile. “Come on, I’m not even that high anymore, honest.” As though that were the problem. Micky grabs Mike’s hand and tugs, and they’re on the floor together, in Micky’s Carpet Kingdom.
And maybe there is something to be said for Floor Life, because staring up at the ceiling, with Micky’s hand so close to his, and their two beds on either side creating a canyon of sorts, Mike does start to relax. Or maybe just feel good, as Micky put it. It’s worryingly comfortable down here. Micky starts to hum to himself, a small tune again and again. He grabs at Mike’s hand suddenly.
“What song is that?” He asks.
Mike turns the melody over in his mind a few times. “Straight Shooter?”
“Yes!” Micky exclaims, and squeezes his hand quickly, then drops it so he can reach up to shoot an imaginary handgun at the ceiling. “Baby how you holdin’, holdin’ anything but me...we should do that one sometime.”
“Do what?”
“Like, add it to our set. Or replace something with it. For a gig.”
“Who would sing it?”
“I could, or you could. Or I could, doing my impression of you.”
“Oh, no--”
“Aw Mike, come on, it’s getting better!”
“No, it isn’t,” Mike says, and he’s laughing his floaty laugh, earnest and genuine, and their hands brush every so often, and Micky begins an intimate, Texas-flavoured performance of Straight Shooter. “Don’t make me mad, don’t tell no lie, don’t make me sad, don’t pass me by--” he sings prettily, normally, but switches to a high-pitched shriek for the harmony: “--byyyyyyy! Maybe Davy could do that high part.”
“Maybe he could.” Mike turns onto his side so he can look at Micky, who doesn’t seem to notice.
“Do you have an impression of me?” says Micky, now in profile.
Mike chuckles, and coolly slips into his best Californian; “Of course, babe, gosheroonie, I sure do.”
Sunshine laughter. “Hey, that’s pretty good.” He smiles, content. Mike watches. Notices. Lines and angles. Soft t-shirt, soft hair. Is it always that soft? Has it always been that soft? He hasn’t noticed. Why would he notice? What the hell is wrong with him?
But then Micky turns to face him and they lock eyes and Mike feels something very intense, feels like there’s something happening on the floor between their beds, something explosive, and he wants so badly to reach out and touch him, and...do what? Prove that he’s there? What would he do?
“What’s on your mind, Mike?”
Loaded question. He isn’t even quite sure. Something about Micky scares him--he’s too smart, too charming. He makes Mike too happy. He makes Mike look forward to grocery runs and drives to gigs and other things that would ordinarily be boring, that should be boring. He makes Mike excited to get up in the morning.
But that’s fine, right? Because yes, they love each other, but Mike also loves Peter, and he also loves Davy, except…
Except…
(Big moment here, he prays Micky can’t hear his thoughts)
Except he writes love songs about Micky. Not directly, not publicly, but he slips their interactions into his jacket pocket and revisits them later, when he has a pen and paper out. And he holds on extra tight when they’ve been forced into cramped spaces or are hugging with relief after some zany escapade. When Micky grabs his hand, he wants him to keep holding it. That’s a little out of the ordinary.
And right now, as they’re lying face to face on the carpet, Mike wants so badly to reach out and touch him. He wants to be this close forever and ever and this feels weird. This is not his territory, for several reasons. Micky is not a girl; definitely not, he’s too loud and wiry and jagged and shouldn’t that be scary? Shouldn’t he be scared of this moral low he’s hit, shouldn’t he wise up and find a girl to do this with? Because “this”--this thing where he cherishes and provides for his roommate and lovingly watches him run around in the sand and clang and clatter away on his drum kit--this is not normal young guy behaviour.
“You told that chick at the party that I wasn’t going out with anyone.” He says. What the fuck was that, Nesmith? That came out of nowhere.
“Well, yeah. I mean, I said you weren’t necessarily going out with anyone.” Micky has an unreadable look on his face.
“What does that mean?” They’re almost whispering. Davy and Peter must be asleep, or being really quiet. Mike can almost hear the ocean outside. Or maybe that’s the sound of him panicking.
Micky shrugs. “I dunno, I didn’t want to rule anything out.” He smiles sleepily.
“Alright.” Mike smiles back.
An indeterminable amount of time passes while Mike takes deep breaths and watches Micky think and try to stay awake. At first it feels like some forty minutes. No, that doesn’t make sense, surely he would know if forty minutes had passed; but then again, he is preoccupied. With Micky and his boundless energy, his boundless enthusiasm. Micky and his curls. Is he in love with him? God no, that’s crazy and bizarre and wrong and entirely too much.
Any kind of love is good though, right?
That’s what Peter keeps saying. Peter keeps sitting too close to Davy and giving him wildflowers and love beads, and Peter seems fine. As fine as Peter can be.
Maybe he is in love with Micky. Fuck.
He isn’t even remotely drunk anymore. He wishes he were, so he could have a scapegoat for this moment of clarity. It’s a gentle clarity, though; Mike always thought revelations were supposed to be intense and life changing. His life doesn’t feel changed. He feels a swell of affection.
Micky is asleep.