Untitled Fic

It was after a blisteringly hot day, the sea had been a nasty cold contrast to the sizzling hot sand and the two Monkees had a less than comfortable walk back. Their fingers, noses and ears felt like they had frost bite while their feet were far too hot to allow for full steps as they walked. It wasn’t so bad for Peter Tork who was letting his torso dry in the heat of the sun, his bare chest with a few streams of salt water persisting to run down the pale skin but for a self-conscious guy, wrapping his icy arms around himself and making sure no one was looking at him, it wasn’t so easy. Mike Nesmith wasn’t so worried about his body to be hung up over it. He didn’t mind taking his shirt off once in a while when the beach was not so busy and he was distracted by his friends but it was pretty crowded out there that day. Also, he felt just a little inadequate next to Peter who looked as though he belonged in the sea or on the golden sands of the beach. He would rather walk, top body freezing, bottom body, warming with the tight fabric of a wetsuit clinging to him.

They both reached the Pad, glad to get into the warmth and out of their wetsuits. Mike stood in his room, he’d slipped in there so Peter (or any his other friends who might come come) wouldn’t see him undress. The only problem with that was the long strip attached to the zipper of his wetsuit had gotten lodged under the fabric, meaning he couldn’t reach it, nor get the suit off. He spent about three frustrating minutes bending his stick-like arms all which ways to at least pull the teeth of the zipper apart an inch so he could fit a thin finger though and fish out the strip. But it was all to waste.

And then, the touch of two palms on his back stopped him from moving. He was frozen leaning over to one side, left arm pushing the right above his head and reaching down along his spine. A gentle hand wandered up to intertwine itself with his fingers. In some sort of submission, he let his left hand drop, his body level without thinking twice to finding out who stood behind him. It didn’t really cross his mind until he realized what they were doing. An index finger and thumb fumbled clumsily at the top of his suit before dragging down the zip, a slither of pale flesh revealing itself.

“Hey!” Mike cried, jumping and turning around to see his blond friend, Peter dressed in a towel from the waist down. He caught Peter’s wrists and turned his head to the side, a stern look in his eyes. But Peter gazed back at him, innocently. Maybe he had only wanted to help and Mike didn’t see any other way of getting out of the suit.

“I know you don’t like people seeing you but… I won’t look.”  Peter promised, shutting his eyes tight.