Chapter Summary: The Monkees prepare for a Christmas Party.
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It is December 21st and the weather has grown cool once again. He is on the beach, dressed in jeans and a turtleneck sweater, and boots. He rarely wears boots. In fact, he rarely wears jeans anymore, but today he doesn't quite feel like himself.
He is sitting alone, hugging his knees to his chest. The wind carries his hair in wild directions. He does nothing to fight it and watchs the waves rush in and out. Alone with him, he has brought a notebook and pen to jot down what ever thoughts might come to mind. Thoughts on the beach usually come in the form of song lyrics. Lately, however, his mind seems to be drawing a prolonged blank. He feels empty, like a car out of gas.
Aside from his hair, he is perfectly still. The ocean repeatedly races toward him, only to recoil seconds later. Everything in life seems to lately be following the same pattern. He remains motionless; so tuned into the visual image before him, that he doesn't hear the sounds of someone approaching from behind.
"Peter?"
And suddenly she is there, dressed in a yellow that reminds him of the sun. He averts his eyes shyly. "Hi, Elise."
She sits down beside him, adopting his position. He reaches for his notebook as if it is a shield and hugs it close to his chest. Or perhaps he doesn't want to chance the wind exposing the lines he's scribbled and scratched out about her. He's filled pages and pages, but nothing seems to fit.
"Up to anything interesting?" she asks. Give me a reason to spend time with you.
"No...just getting some sun," he replies. I have no idea how to talk to you, but please stay here a little while.
"Tanning?" You say such odd things and I think it's painfully adorable.
He looks down and realizes how completely his clothing covers him. "Oh..." Why do I say such stupid things?
She sighs. She can tell he is uncomfortable. He alwys seems off whenever she's around. She isn't sure if she should be offended or take it as a compliment.
He listens to her sigh, too afraid it will make her uncomfortable if he looks at her directly. And there is always the chance that Davy is standing by the window, watching them. He flinches and twists around to get a good look at the Pad. The balcony is empty.
"Everything okay?" she asks. I know you're looking for Davy. Please don't. Give me a chance to be just with you.
"Fine. Fine," he replies. It is now that he notices she is holding a book of her own. Two books, actually: A Midsummer Night's Dream, and something else beneath it, a title he can't quite see. You like to read? What's your favorite book? Who's your favorite author? I promise you they're my favorite, too. I'm positive they always have been.
She sees him squinting at the book. "Pride and Prejudice," she says.
"What's it about?"
She hands him the book. He accepts it as though she is giving him a precious piece of jewelry. Now, that her eyes are distracted, he sneaks a look. She looks like Audrey Hepburn, he's decided: it's the hair, the point of her chin, the fact that everything fits together perfectly...He gulps. He opens to the center of the book and admires the small type. The pages are still warm from her hands.
"It's about these two people who are in love with each other... but never fall into step. They can't admit it. They keep pushing each other away." What do you think of that?
"They never get it right?" he asks. "What happens in the end?"
"I haven't finished it."
He flips to the end of the book and reads the final, very long sentence. He mouths the final words silently "...had been the means of uniting them," and wonders what it means. Reluctantly closing the book, he hands it back to her. He swallows, once again unsure of what to say. He wonders why she is here at all, sitting beside him of all possible people, on this of all patches of sand. After all, every time she is near, he seems to embarrass himself beyond mending.
"Are you coming to the party?" he finally asks. His mouth is dry from hanging open for so long. He is referring to the Christmas party he and the others are planning for the following evening. In fact, he already knows she is coming, because Davy has invited her.
And she knows he already knows, but she answers anyway. She's already told a lie herself, because she has finished the book. She knows how the story ends, how, against all hope, everything falls into place, how the heroine makes a triumphantly happy ending for herself. And she knows how every personality trait she'd assigned to her lover: the pride, the cowardice, the confusion; in the end, it is all proven false. Now, she looks at Peter and sighs.
Someone is calling her name. That someone is Davy Jones. It's him she was supposed to visit in the first place. Catching the aversion in Peter's eyes, she knows he knows this as well. She stands. "I should probably go." Kicking up a little sand, she starts off.
"Elise?"
The voice is not Davy welcoming her, but Peter calling her back. She turns a little too quickly, unsure if she's been caught off guard or if she'd been anticipating it. He is twisted in the sand, his legs still pointed towards the sea, but his torso turned to face her. His hands are pressing into the sand to keep him steady. Their eyes meet.
...I don't want you to go.
Tell me you want me to stay.
...Davy's watching us from the balcony.
Why are you so afraid to say something?
...
Why can't I say anything either?
"I guess I'll see you tomorrow," he says.
"Yeah, I guess I'll see you tomorrow."
~*~*~
Meanwhile, a few miles away, Mike Nesmith and Micky Dolenz were busy at the local grocery store, preparing for that very party. In an aisle that smelled vaguely like wood chips, Mike picked up two packages of napkins and compared their quality. Micky wandered down the aisle and examined the unit prices on various brands of toilet paper. Tossing the cheaper of the two napkins into the cart, Mike adjusted his sunglasses on his head and followed his friend.
He reached over Micky's head and grabbed a few rolls for the bathroom. "Do we need anything else from here?"
Micky looked around. "Tissues?" he asked, pointing.
Mike tilted his head in thought. "Naw, we'll just use the toilet paper."
"Saving Mother Earth by conserving paper?"
"That and this party's on a budget."
Which was one of the reasons why the cart was still mostly empty. Aside from the paper products, they'd invested in a new plastic punch bowl and a roll of red crepe-paper. The Christmas tree would serve as the centerpiece of the Pad, of course, but over the years the four had collected enough strings of lights to cover every corner of the house. They turned the corner and found themselves surrounded greeting cards. Mike shook his head and backed up, but not before Micky could grab a card with green glitter.
"I thought you did all your shopping," said Mike.
"You never know when you'll need an extra." He was lying. Micky just liked the glitter. He was attracted to shiny objects.
Mike, just like everyone else, was quite aware of this, but he bought it anyway and they continued through the store, picking up a few bottles of juice. Micky tried to sneak a third bag of cookies into the cart, but Mike caught him and made him put the extra one back.
Micky retaliated by bringing back four bags of potato chips. "We don't need all this," Mike said. "It's potluck."
"Well, it's not snackluck. Besides I'll eat whatever's leftover."
"You better watch it, or I'll hold you to that," Mike muttered to himself as they turned down another aisle, this one centered around hygiene. He paused to examine the razors, wondering how much longer his current blade would last and whether or not he should just pick up a pack of disposables to be safe.
Like an unattended child, Micky once again wandered away, this time attracted to the more embarrassing personal items. He was more interested in the feminine products than the adult diapers. He picked up a box of tampons and tilted his head in curiosity. Stifling a fiendish smile, he walked back to the cart and slipped it into the back. He whistled innocently and pretended to read shampoo bottles until Mike had made his own selection.
"What else do we need?" Mike asked.
Micky composed himself and shrugged. "Balloons?"
Mike shook his head. "No, we're good for decorations." Had it been a normal shopping day, Mike would have picked up a few real food items, but money was tight, as per usual. Besides, they could live off the leftovers from the party for a few days, provided a some people forgot to bring their dishes home.
They started toward the cashier. Micky went ahead and picked up a tabloid. It took him a little while to notice Mike abandon the cart and approach a stand of fresh cut flowers and potted plants. He folded the magazine under his arm and sneaked up behind him.
"I thought--" Micky paused, allowing Mike the required five seconds to come down from the frightened spasm that always occurred whenever someone startled him "--you said we were good for decorations."
Of course, he already knew why Mike had stopped. Micky smiled from over his friend's shoulder. "Why don't you get something for Christy," he suggested. It was kind of an odd sixth sense, and Micky knew he'd hit the mark, because Mike instantly went into denial. That and the fact that everyone and their mother had noticed Mike fawning over her at the dance club a week ago.
"I was just thinking it might spruce up the kitchen or something."
"The pink ones are pretty." Micky pressed onward, pointing to a display of roses.
Mike shook his head and returned to the cart. He lowered his sunglasses back onto his nose. They were just large enough to conceal the slightest blush. "Oh, go get yourself some flowers, Micky." He turned into the cashier line and started unloading.
Micky unrolled his magazine and dropped it onto the belt. "Or maybe we could get something for Peter to give to Elise."
This, Mike was more willing to acknowledge and consider. "Well, he does seem to need a little push." He looked back at the flowers and bit his lip in thought, but a second passed and Mike frowned and shook his head. "No, it'll make him feel worse if we start doing the work for him. You wouldn't like that and neither would I."
Micky sighed. "Yeah, you're probably right."
"Besides," Mike lifted a heavy bottle of juice with a grunt, "She spends a lot of time with Davy. If she liked Peter, I think she'd have said something by now."
"I don't know. Maybe she's just shy, too."
With another grunt, Mike placed another bottle of juice on the belt. He cracked his knuckles. "Besides-besides, sometimes you need to let people fight their own battles."
"Right!" Micky chirped.
As Mike reached into the cart for the final item, Micky was already hiding his face in his hands. Mike lifted the box of "watchamacallits"--as he referred to them in his head--and his shoulders dropped. He turned to Micky, at a complete loss for words.
He wasn't sure whether to laugh or throw the box in his friend's face. "Don't do that."