TooTired

Michael had gone through all the modes of communication from the past four decades.

Sometimes technology amazes him at how advanced everything is now but still wished some of the more traditional ways of contacting someone were still popular.

Letters were his absolute go to for expressing himself when he has the time to sit down but now he has to hold this tiny, round edged piece of metal and plastic to type out how much he misses you.

Michael hated texting. More importantly, he hated trying to type out everything he wanted to say because his thoughts went faster than his fingers tapping each letter.

Sure, he could call, but with how busy the both of you are and sometimes not even in the same timezone, he'd do the next best thing. Everytime he thinks of you, he pulls out the device that looked twice as small in his large hands, and types out a message to you.

Your inbox would be full of his messages by the time you wake up. They would vary from cute, sweet words to whole love letters chopped down into separate texts because he hit character limit

I miss you baby.

Japan looks so beautiful I wish we could explore it together. Go into the mountains and find a private villa we'd stay at and look at the stars all night. I just want to hold you. I can't wait to come home. Please get enough rest when ypu I can ad I promise to do the same.

I saw the cutest baby today and held her in my arms. Her face was absolutely round as a ball. Every time she smiled, all you could see was her tiny little lashes squished under her eyes. She smiles just like you.

I bought us matching kimonos. I cant wait to see how you'd look in it.

Baby, the sunset looks so beautiful, but the bed is so much colder without you next to me. Call me when you wake up.

Australia is too hot even in December. I wish we could go to the beach and listen to the waves. I wanna hold you and smell the ocean breeze.

Someone walked by wearing your perfume. I almost fell to my knees. I need to call you soon.

I have a bunch of German chocolate for you when I get back. They are delicious but nothing compares to your taste, baby. I miss you.

bonus: your wallpaper

“What are you doing over there?” Michael peered at you over the top of the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

You didn’t answer, nearly doubled over with silent, hysterical laughter. 

He had been sitting in his chair reading a book while you sat on the couch, absorbed in a video on your iPhone. The volume was too low for Michael to hear, but apparently, it was hilarious.

“C’mon. I like to laugh.” Michael closed the book and put it down on the coffee table. 

“‘s nothing.” You giggled without looking up.

He frowned, getting up and walking towards the couch, holding out his hand like he expected him to give you the phone. 

“No way.” You shook your head, holding it tight to your chest so he couldn’t see what was on the screen, like a kid who’d been caught watching something they shouldn’t.

“Let me see.” He was getting whiny, which only tickled you more.

From your phone, a small, familiar voice kept talking: “Go on, sit down!” 

Michael’s eyes widened first in recognition, then his brows furrowed in confusion. “Is that me?”

When you didn’t answer, he finally snatched the phone from you, revealing the video you had been watching. “The Jackson Five Interview, 1970.”

On the screen, little Michael was sitting in a yellow chair almost the exact same color as his shirt, cup of orange juice next to him, flipping through a Playboy magazine. 

“Michael, they filming you!” One of his brothers called from the background, and little Michael sheepishly snapped the magazine shut. In front of you, the look on grown-up Michael’s face sent you from silent laughter into a full blown cackle.

“How did you get this?!” He looked so flabbergasted that tears started to form in the corners of your eyes. “YouTube, Michael.” 

“What is Youtube?” 

You reached for your phone and grabbed it back, straightening up on the couch and patting the spot next to you. 

“This one is my favorite.” You grinned, clicking on a twenty-five minute video: Michael Jackson Unauthorized Interview, 1983.

“Oh, God.” Michael groaned when he saw the thumbnail, burying his face in your shoulder. He looked adorable even in the preview, with his curly hair and pearly-white smile. He was wearing a plaid shirt underneath a red sweater (red had always been his color), and his arms were stretched wide, his mouth open like he was in the middle of singing something positively gleeful. 

“Do you remember this one?” You asked, and he nodded, still hiding his face against your shoulder. “Then what’s the matter? It’s cute.” You nudged him playfully with your elbow.

“It’s embarrassing. And I’m shy.” He grumbled, his voice muffled by your upper arm.

“No, it’s cute.” You doubled down. “You’re cute. Watch.” You pressed play on the video, and a young Michael appeared on the small screen, leading a llama into the frame. “This is my llama, Louie.”

Beside you, your Michael sank further into the couch. “Can we turn it off, please?” 

You shook your head, already absolutely enamored with what you were watching. You’d seen it countless times already, but you wouldn’t tell him that. “No way. And sit up. I have questions.” You nudged him until he was sitting mostly upright next to you, and he covered his face with his hands instead. “I don’t wanna.”

“Too bad.” You said, not unkindly, but in a firm, end of discussion sort of way. On the screen, the younger Michael was explaining what a charming, sweet animal Louie was. “He eats alfalfa. They’re originally from South America. And, uh… they originally come from the mountains in Peru. They’re from the breed of the alpaca, as well as the camel.” 

Michael had begrudgingly removed his hands from his face, but he looked pained as he watched himself drone on and on about the wonders of South American camelids. “Why did they let me talk about that for so long?!”

You grinned again, resting your head on his shoulder. “Shhh. My show is on.”

He talked about llamas for a solid two minutes before stopping to ask the interviewer, “Are there any questions?” That made you laugh hard enough to press pause.

“I thought they were supposed to be interviewing you.” You teased him. Michael rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched, a telltale sign that he was trying not to smile. “I was very passionate about my pets.” He shrugged.

“I wish I could have met Louie.” You admitted, pressing play again. At about the three minute mark, Michael walked him off screen, and a beautiful fountain appeared in his place. Mike sat on the edge of it, looking longingly into the distance for several seconds, like he didn’t realize the camera had begun rolling again. 

“Pardon?” He cleared his throat and sat up straight when someone offscreen asked him a question about his schedule. You pressed pause again. 

“How old were you here?” You asked curiously, glancing over at him. Michael quirked an eyebrow. “I was twenty-four. Maybe twenty-five? I don’t know, I don’t remember what month it was filmed.” 

“Just a baby.” You cooed, which earned you a gentle elbow to the side. But that’s what he looked like—a baby. Nothing like the grown man sitting next to you, although the gentle voice and sweet, shy personality were unmistakably Michael.

“This video is going to take us two hours to get through if you keep pausin’ it like that.” He reached over you to press play again, but he seemed to have relaxed a bit. He actually looked a little eager to see what was coming next.

You let the interview play uninterrupted for a while after that, but every cute noise, every nervous lip bite, and every random burst of song endeared this version of him (that you had never even met) to you even more.

“It’s a wonderful day!” You sang along to one of your favorite parts of the video, a dead giveaway that you’d seen it before. Whoops.

This time, Michael was the one to press pause. “You’ve already watched this.”

“Once or twice…” You admitted. (Okay, maybe a few more than that. But that was private information.)

Instead of looking annoyed, Michael just shook his head and laughed. “Why?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I like hearing you talk about how magical the world is. Kids. Animals. Nature. It makes me see everyday things in a different light.” His expression went soft at that, and he put his hand underneath your chin, tilting it upwards to give you a kiss.

“Plus, you were like, really hot back then.” You added cheekily, spoiling the tender moment. Michael rolled his eyes again. 

“I was? And what about now?” He asked, raising a brow. 

“Still hot. But in an old man sorta way.” You replied without hesitation, and he pretended to look offended, but he was secretly enjoying this just as much as you. He liked the way you looked when you were watching his old videos—like you absolutely adored him at any age or stage of life. And you did.

“Now pay attention! My favorite part is coming up.”

You started the video again just as his sister La Toya shouted to Bill to close a door somewhere off camera. “Your voice is very irritating.” Younger Michael said. “You sound like Carol Burnett.” 

Not because either of you didn't want date nights but becaussomewhere between school pickups, bedtime stories, and three little humans who had somehow become the center of your universe, nights alone together had become rare. You wouldn't trade your family for anything. The chaos, the noise, the sticky fingerprints on every surface it was your favorite life.

Still, when your mother arrived that morning and shooed the two of you out the door with strict instructions not to check your phones every five minutes, you felt almost giddy.

Michael looked ridiculously handsome standing by the front door, one hand in his pocket while he waited for you to finish getting ready. The same man you'd fallen in love with years ago. The same man who still kissed your forehead every morning before the kids woke up. The same man who carried sleeping toddlers upstairs without complaint and somehow never forgot your coffee order.

Tonight, though, he wasn't Dad. Tonight, he was just Michael.

And it was his birthday.

Birthdays hadn't meant much to him growing up. As a Jehovah's Witness, celebrations like that simply weren't part of his childhood. When you'd first met him, he'd shrugged off birthdays entirely, insisting they were just another day.

You'd spent years proving him wrong.

Not by forcing anything on him, but by showing him how much joy could exist in celebrating the people you loved. Every birthday cake, every Christmas morning, every holiday movie marathon with the kids piled on top of both of you had slowly chipped away at old beliefs and made room for new traditions.

Now Michael secretly loved birthdays almost as much as you did. Though he'd never admit it. This year was special.

A fan-organized celebration was being held at the Orpheum where Michael was also being honored for his contributions and career. Officially, he planned to stop by for a few minutes, say hello, thank everyone, and leave.

That had been the plan.

The problem was that someone had handed the two of you drinks. Then someone else had handed you more drinks.

And somewhere between laughing with fans, dancing to music neither of you could remember choosing, and Michael pretending not to enjoy being celebrated, things had gotten... slightly out of hand.

Exactly how the two of you ended up standing on stage with a microphone while the crowd cheered your names was a story for another day.

The Orpheum Theater glowed under soft stage lights as Michael stood at the podium, his voice steady while he addressed the crowd. "We celebrate the imagination," he said, the words carrying warmly through the room.

You leaned into the microphone beside him and added, "Of me and you, Mike." The audience laughed and clapped. Michael’s face flushed pink, his shy smile breaking through as he looked down at his shoes and rubbed the back of the mic up his face giggling.

What mattered right now was the feeling of Michael's arm wrapped securely around your waist as you swayed beside him, both of you pleasantly tipsy. Because no matter how much either of you drank, Michael always had you. Always.

His hand never left yours in crowded rooms. His eyes always found you first. His instinct was still to pull you closer whenever someone bumped into you. And watching him grin at the crowd before immediately turning to make sure you were steady on your feet made your heart ache in the best way.Thirty-five years old. Three kids at home. A husband who looked at you like you hung the moon. Yeah. You were definitely still hopelessly in love with Michael.

The party moved to Neverland, the ballroom alive with music and dancing beneath enormous chandeliers. You went to your wardrobe and changed into a risqué brown top and jeans set. Michael had changed as well into all black shirt, trousers, jacket, his hair slightly messy, his smile relaxed from the drinks. You were drunker, flushed and grinning, one arm looped over his shoulder while your other hand rested on the back of his neck. You leaned against him, your cheek on his shoulder as you whispered close to his ear. "I can't wait until everyone leaves so I can get on my knees for you." Your breath warmed his skin while you added, "I want to taste you and make you feel good." You gave his chest a light touch, murmuring, "Just a little longer and it'll be only us."

"Thank you all for coming tonight," Michael began, trying to stay on track. The crowd cheered. You pressed a soft kiss against his neck. Michael stopped mid-sentence, his words lost. The audience noticed immediately and the cheering doubled.

"Oh, come on," someone shouted.

"Baby," he muttered.

"What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Loving my husband," you replied, perfectly innocent.

"You know exactly what you're doing," he whispered, but his voice was half laughter, half surrender.

"You are unbelievable," he muttered, the blush creeping across his cheeks.

"Am I?" you asked, your voice teasing and warm. "I’m just celebrating with you."

Michael wrapped an arm around your waist, steadying you, his hand sliding naturally to rest there. "Careful," he murmured.

"I'm okay," you said, brushing your hair back.

"I know you're okay."

Your eyes sparkled. "Then why do you look like you're plotting revenge?"

Michael could only grin. He loved that about you. Always mischievous. Always affectionate. Always him in trouble.

Several hours later the house had emptied. The kids were with the grandparents, the staff had gone home, and only security remained outside. You and Michael were alone in the main room. You climbed onto his lap on the couch, your mouths meeting in a heated, messy kiss. Your hips rolled slowly, grinding and bouncing against the growing bulge in his pants while his hands gripped your waist.

You slid off his lap and kissed down his chest, then his stomach, until you knelt between his spread legs. Your fingers worked his belt open and pulled his cock free. You wrapped your lips around the head, sucking gently at first before taking more of him with each bob of your head. Spit coated his shaft as you pushed deeper, your throat relaxing until your nose pressed against his skin. You held there, gagging softly around his length, eyes watering but locked on his face.

Michael’s hand rested on the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair. You pulled back just enough to breathe, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock, then sank down again, taking him fully into his throat. Your cheeks hollowed with each slow suck. You moaned around him, the sound wet and needy, completely lost in the rhythm.

"Happy birthday, baby," you mumbled around his cock, voice thick and sappy before you pushed down once more, swallowing him to the base and holding there as tears slipped from the corners of your eyes. Michael groaned above you, his hips twitching slightly while you stayed cock-drunk and happy on your knees, sucking him with steady, devoted strokes. Hell you could fall asleep down there.