The holiday had begun well and Micky's happiness had reached its peak. He had his friends, he had his music, and he had his love. What more did he need? But obviously, it wasn't meant to be. It had all started back in England and since then, everything seemed to be spiralling downwards. Micky sat with his legs out, resting his ankle that he pulled recently. It was getting better, but it still stung a little. As the sun stretched her legs over the earth, Micky laid his head back in the dewy grass and recapped everything, all the way down to the slightest pain, the smallest tear.

It was April, and England was suffering its famed 'April Showers' as the Monkees arrived at Manchester airport, cold, lost and confused. Davy seemed to take over immediately, showing off his knowledge of the area and accepting the role of tour guide with amazing ease.

Within forty minutes of landing, the quartet found themselves standing outside Davy's grandfather's house, luggage scattered around them as the sky opened and the water poured down in torrents. The clouds were a deep grey and Micky couldn't tell where the earth stopped and the sky began. As he stood gaping skywards, Mike ambled over and gently extended his coat, sheltering Micky's head. Little things. That's what mattered, and that's what everything seemed to be based on…those little things that made life worthwhile. Micky gave Mike a glowing smile in return and, as usual, they were lost to their own little world where all they could see was each other.

Davy's grandfather found them outside after twenty minutes or so; four longhaired young men who more resembled drowned rats than boys. The old gentlemen led them inside and all huddled round the fire, Micky finding himself securely locked in Mike's arms as they nestled by the welcoming warmth.

It was Davy's sister's wedding, and his grandfather had paid especially for all four of them to come and attend. The old man may be eccentric but he certainly wasn't stupid and he knew that if he had just invited Davy, the singer would have been miserable all the while he was away from the sun, sea, sand…and his friends. The old man was rich enough anyway and he would pay anything for a little peace and quiet.

All had seemed well at first. The guys would spend their time looking around the local town, sampling the English vibes that were buzzing with the excitement of the current music scene and just spending time for thought and relaxation. In these quiet moments, Micky would sneak away with Mike to some remote part of the nearby wood and there they would share everything. Thinking back, Micky could still taste the sweetness of Mike's lips, the warmth of his mouth as his urgency brought Micky into submission. Everything was right with the world.

It was April 19th when Micky first noticed something amiss. The Texan that he had loved for so long seemed tense, too quiet, a scowl instead of a smile played with his mouth. Mike's moods weren't unusual, but Micky usually knew the reason behind them…but this one amazed him. Mike's whole demeanour had changed over night, he was insular and rejected Micky as soon as the drummer wandered into the room.

It was the little things that made Micky's life so good, and it was also the little things that hurt him the most. Mike ignored him, and when he did speak to him it was in a tone that made Micky feel like an idiot, a piece of shit that had got stuck to Mike's shoe. And why? Micky didn't know, and Mike certainly wouldn't tell him.

By the 22nd, all Micky felt was rejection and punishment for something he hadn't done. When he plagued Mike for answers, all he gained was a growl and a look that ordered Micky to retreat. But as always, Micky couldn’t let go. He wasn't prepared to give up that easily and in the evening he pestered Mike continuously until the inevitable happened.

During his reminiscing of the event, Micky absently touched his cheek where the slap had sent a scolding sensation across his face. Mike had hit him; lashed out as if Micky was no more than a broken toy and all Micky could in his defence was turn and leave.

And now where were they? Ireland, land of the free, or was that Scotland? Who cared? They had stopped off in Davy's grandfather's Irish cottage for an extra week, just the four of them on holiday. Micky sat and looked out at the sea, pondering his very existence, listening as the thudding of horse's hooves got louder, shaking the earth and forcing small pebbles to bounce of their own accord.

"Are you still sulking?" Davy asked insensitively, peering over the mare's head and shading his eyes from the sun.

"No." Micky lied and went back to picking up clumps of soil to watch it pass through his fingers.

"Looks that way to me."

"So?"

Davy shook his head at how immature Micky was acting; just because he and Mike had had an argument didn’t mean they had to spoil it for everyone else. Davy was fed up with Mike's bear-like mood and now Micky was getting that way too. He felt like just pushing them off a cliff and have done with it.

"Why don't you make yourself useful and fetch some wood for the fire. That way we won't run out in the middle of the night."

"What do I look like? Your servant?"

"Well, its better than looking like a self-pitying bastard with nothing better to do than sit about sulking."

That hurt. Micky turned back to his soil and felt the sting of rejection twist its blade further into his heart. Davy saw his friend's expression and wished he hadn't said anything. Micky could be so sensitive sometimes.

"Look," He added, softer this time, "Mike'll come around. He'll knock himself out of it and you just gotta be there for him when he does. You know what he's like - bite now and regret it later. Don’t let him get to you Mick, a frown doesn't suit you."

And with that, Davy left. Micky sat back on his elbows and watched him go, thinking that, with all his faults, Davy was still one of the best friends a person could have.

Micky stacked the last armful of twigs and larger sticks in the woodshed and stood back to admire his work. He would be surprised if there was any of the forest left, he had collected so much. He found that once he began his task, he enjoyed letting his mind off and think about other things. His mood lifted with every log until he almost felt himself again. As he passed through the copse, he had met a cute Irish girl and her accent enthralled him. He had always had a thing for nice accents, maybe that was why he had fallen for Mike so easily. Ah, there he was again. Mike, that endless phantom that kept surfacing in Micky's thoughts. Well, he was just going to forget about him again. More wood perhaps.

"Do you think you left any for the birds to perch on?"

Micky jumped at the voice and turned to find Peter standing behind him, hands placed firmly on his hips, a dimpled smile spread broadly across his face. Micky returned the grin and looked back at his afternoon's work.

"Davy said we needed wood…I got wood."

"You did good, we shouldn't run out now." Peter laughed, stepping closer.

Micky gave a nervous laugh and stepped closer to his pile of sticks, his hands fidgeting by his side.

"You look tired Mick…"

"It was hard work," Micky interrupted.

"I know." Peter stepped closer again and absently brushed a curl from Micky's sweaty forehead.

Immediately Micky shivered. He felt it, and deep down, he wanted to feel it again. A touch that was so familiar, a gesture Mike had always offered him and Micky lapsed into a memory. He saw Mike standing there before him, not Peter, and Mike would step forward and gently brush his hair out of his way as he bent his head for a kiss.

Before Micky knew what was happening, a sickening sob escaped his lips and his hands went to his mouth to try and cover up the sound, but it was too late. Tears flooded his eyes and cascaded down his cheeks as another sob escaped. So long he had kept it in, so much that needed to come out. Arms encircled him and Micky felt his heart tug as for a moment he fooled himself that Mike had returned. But no. As Micky breathed deep he could sense Peter's smell, a mixture of incense and the smell of newly cut grass jumbled with a deep musky scent.

Micky let his tears flow but he gradually tried to escape Peter's embrace, if only for a sense of dignity.

"Ah Micky, you shouldn't let him get to you." Peter's baritone seemed strangely soothing, but for some reason all Micky could hear was Mike's soft southern voice in his ears and this prompted more tears.

"You know what you need." Peter held the drummer at arm's length and looked him firmly in the eye, "A good drink. Come on, the Irish bars are supposedly the best in the world."

There was no room for argument, and at that point Micky didn't care as long as he got out of that shed and into the fresh air where he could get himself under control. It was difficult but finally the tears stopped and Micky tried his hardest to smile.

The pub was quite empty as it was the slow hour of eight o'clock, too early for the party animals, too late for the elder locals. Micky sipped wearily at his scotch and coke while Peter helped himself to a pint of Guinness, claiming that he was sampling the local culture. A fire was roaring in the corner, even though the weather wasn't too cold. Coats and hats hung around the fireplace drying off and this prompted Micky to look outside, only to find that the rain was beating at the windows and turning the world a soupy grey. It had been over a week since Mike had stopped talking to him and Micky was beginning to think that they would never get back together again. If only he knew what he had done, but Mike just ignored him. Micky felt his stomach do a somersault. He didn’t want a drink, he just wanted to curl up in bed and sleep the rest of his life away. Some of the more statue-like customers were eyeing them suspiciously, and he realised how out of place they looked. If he had been with Mike, he wouldn’t have cared; all he would have seen was the Texan. But Mike wasn't here was he? He had to convince himself that this might be the end of the whole affair and that when they return to America Mike may well take off and leave.

The pub was dark, with low-beamed ceilings and horse brasses lining the walls. Pictures of hunting scenes blended with deep crimson curtains and dark oak furniture. Micky felt himself loosen as the alcohol worked its way into his limbs and soon he hardly noticed that the glasses were beginning to multiply and by the time Peter helped him stagger home, he had had eleven scotch and cokes.

The stairs seemed too much to take, especially as Micky couldn't find his feet, they had disappeared into darkness and his head seemed to be spinning. Peter mentioned something about staying in the downstairs bedroom but he couldn't quite hear. His eyes began to droop and all he could see were images of Mike and that day three months ago.

"Micky. You're trailing sand everywhere." Mike looked up from his book and watched the sandy footprints cross the floor.

"Sorry Mike." Micky pouted jokily and shook himself like a dog, sprinkling the Texan with a fine spray of salt water.

"You're asking for it." Mike pretended to be angry, giving Micky his best glare.

It didn’t last long and the guitarist broke a smile as he watched Micky in just his swimming trunks.

"You’re a tease, you know that don't you?" Mike smiled, resting his head back against the back of the couch, his eyes taking on a slightly dewy, relaxed expression.

Micky wiggled his ass in reply and started to climb the stairs. "I'm taking a shower." He announced and then paused, a thoughtful expression playing on his lips. "Of course, you know how lonely I get. You wouldn’t want me to take a shower all alone would you?"

Mike didn’t need asking twice and the pair almost fell into the bedroom, both attacking with eager kisses and fiercely ripping at clothing. Micky put on his biggest grin and wrapped his arms seductively around Mike's neck, pulling him into the shower cubicle underneath the powerful surge of water. Mike's ebony hair fell into his eyes and he smiled a soppy grin beneath it as Micky kissed his neck and chest, his hands venturing freely.

Mike's lily hands moved to stroke Micky's back and gently massage the base of his spine, forcing a moan past Micky's lips. The Texan took this opportunity to capture his lover's parted lips and kissed forcefully, while gently bringing his hands around to stroke Micky carefully and lovingly. The drummer moaned harder and leant his body against Mike's, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and burying his face in the curve of Mike's neck. Mike sighed gently as he felt Micky press against him and closed his eyes wistfully.

They both decided to continue in the bedroom and so they staggered out into the dark room, both dripping water everywhere. Micky lay down on the bed and Mike lay beside him, draping his arm over Micky's hip and kissing him carefully on the forehead. The Texan worked skilfully, pressing all the right buttons to make Micky moan.

Mike watched Micky's body, taunt and lean, and felt himself grow so aroused. But the feeling was stronger than just mere physical attraction. He found himself wishing that he could stay with Micky forever, that they could live together, making love day and night whenever they felt like it. And somewhere, deep inside, his heart screamed what his lips couldn't murmur: 'I love you Micky'.

Micky's body accepted Mike willingly as Mike entered him with a love that had grown tirelessly. Micky once again latched on to Mike's shoulders and they found a rhythm together, the pleasure building up inside forcing a heated cry from Micky's throat. Mike groaned, his eyes closed in concentration as he felt himself get nearer to the edge. He felt Micky stiffen below him and knew that neither of them could last much longer. With a final thrust, Micky came, his reaction pulling Mike over the edge as well.

The Texan lowered his head on his lover's shoulder and tried to catch his breath, feeling Micky's chest rise and fall just as rapidly as his own. Just as he was about to move, Micky gripped his arm and looked him sincerely in the eye.

"Don't." He whispered lowly, "Don't leave me."

Mike understood what Micky meant and stayed where he was, his head lowering back onto Micky's chest where the drummer played with his hair thoughtfully. And both fell asleep that way, Mike still inside Micky in what seemed like a never-ending bond.

Micky awoke, stiff and confused. His neck ached and he couldn't remember what had happened. He lay still in his bed, his eyes searching the walls for recognisable signs. Nothing. He had no idea where he was.

Micky decided he needed more sleep, and besides, he wanted to return to his dreams of Mike. He closed his eyes wearily and was just about to shut himself off in his subconscious when he heard a noise. Immediately his eyes flashed open and he slowly turned over to see what was there. What he saw made him immediately feel sick to his stomach and his brain thumped hard against his skull as he took in the sight before him. Lying in the bed next to him was Peter.