a musical fan fiction | 18+ | slash
Freddie Mercury/Michael Jackson
Half a step to the right, half a step to the left. Turn, a few steps backwards, spin. Shoulders left, then right. His hips swayed in time with every movement. His eyes were closed — no need to see what was happening around him, he could feel it. He danced the way other people breathed. The music flowed through him, and he simply couldn't keep still... It was his whole life...
"Ooh, you make me live... Whatever this world can give to me, it's you, you're all I see..."
He sang along under his breath, absent-mindedly conducting himself with one hand. This was the best thing in his life. Beautiful music, the voice pouring from the speakers, rich with feeling — and dancing. He simply couldn't help dancing.
"You're the best friend that I ever had. I've been with you such a long time. You're my sunshine. And I want you to know that my feelings are true. I really love you. You're my best friend..."
Startled, he stumbled and immediately lunged for the record player to switch it off. He should have put his headphones on... But then he wouldn't have been able to dance properly! And now father was going to be angry again...
"Michael, for fuck's sake!"
The door flew open with a crash. Holding his breath without even realising it, Michael backed against the shelving unit where the record player stood, staring fearfully at his father.
"What the hell are you doing in here? Everyone's waiting for you at rehearsal! Been listening to this rubbish again?"
Rehearsal? They weren't supposed to rehearse until later that evening. Father must have heard the music, got angry, and decided on the spot that all of them needed something "useful" to do instead.
"But we weren't..." The words had barely left his mouth before he regretted speaking at all.
"You're arguing with me?" Joseph crossed the room in two strides, grabbed him by the hair and yanked him towards the door. "Come on!"
"Ow! That hurts! Let go! Let go! I'll walk! I said let go!" Tears sprang to Michael's eyes, but his father either couldn't hear him... or simply didn't care.
Joseph dragged him into the sitting room by his hair, where the rest of the brothers were already waiting. Before finally letting go, he landed a heavy smack on the back of Michael's head; darkness flashed across his vision. God, how humiliating... He was already seventeen years old, and his father still treated him as though he was ten. Choking back tears, Michael stumbled and collapsed onto the sofa beneath the indifferent gazes of his brothers. Perhaps they were too frightened of their father to argue with him; perhaps they genuinely agreed with him. Michael honestly didn't care which. They were never on his side, never — and somehow that hurt even more than his father's blows.
"Right! On your feet, all of you! And none of that dancing about! You hear me, Michael? It's bad enough you've ruined half our studio recordings with all that nonsense already!"
God... God... why? Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why couldn't they let him live the way he wanted? Why wasn't he allowed to move when he heard music? What was so wrong with it?
It was well past midnight, yet Michael was still awake despite father's threat of an early start for yet another rehearsal. This time he had put his headphones on, so no one would hear what he was listening to. The cable restricted his movements, and he wasn't in the mood to dance anyway; even so, he couldn't suppress the urge completely. Sitting on the floor beside the shelving unit, he still found himself moving in time with the music as best he could.
As always, Queen were magnificent. Nothing else sounded remotely like them: abrupt changes of tempo, key, rhythm — and somehow it all remained perfectly harmonious. Absolute freedom, as though there were no rules at all. "Bohemian Rhapsody", "The Prophet's Song" — songs so long that nothing like them had existed before.
For hours now Michael had been playing the record over and over, trying to imagine what those songs looked like live. How would Freddie move during each one? Which songs would have him commanding every inch of the stage? Which would leave him almost perfectly still?
The opening notes of "Love of My Life" began again, and this time Michael couldn't hold himself together — he burst into tears, like a kid. He wanted someone to sing something like that to him. He wanted someone to hold him, to tell him they were proud of him. To tell him they loved him — not because he was a Jackson, not because he was the lead singer of a famous group — just because he was Michael. He wanted someone to tell him he was doing all right, even if he wasn't...
And more than anything, he wanted to meet Freddie. Just to stand beside him for a couple of minutes, maybe exchange a few words, ask for an autograph. That was all! Was he asking for so much? He wasn't even asking for... No, that was the one thing he absolutely wasn't asking for. He couldn't even allow himself to think about it. No, no, no! He's normal, he's normal!
His body, however, had other ideas. It responded to Freddie's voice in exactly the way a normal person's body wasn't supposed to. Ripping the headphones off without even bothering to stop the record, Michael threw himself onto the bed. He buried his head beneath the pillow and pressed himself desperately against the mattress, willing it to stop. It didn't. Whimpering miserably and hating himself for his weakness, he shifted helplessly across the bed, trying to find a position that would somehow make it easier.
Freddie's voice still pulsed through his mind: so low, so warm, so achingly intimate, so tempting... And a few moments later, Michael came apart. The filthy, shameful pleasure spread through his body like liquid weakness — and left its own humiliating stain across the sheet. A muffled sob escaped him as he pressed the pillow harder over his head. This was horrible... If anyone ever found out, they would kill him. Father certainly would. And Freddie would hate him. They all would...
"Jehovah, my heavenly Father..."
Sobbing so hard he could barely breathe, Michael struck himself on the head through the pillow with his fist.
"P-please... I don't want this! I don't! Please make me normal!Please let it go away! I-in Jesus Christ's name... Please..."
They never heard him. Either he wasn't praying properly, or he had already fallen so far that Heaven had simply given up on him. Whatever the reason, his unhealthy obsession refused to disappear, and no amount of willpower made the slightest difference. No matter how desperately he tried to stop, Michael always found himself coming back to that cursed music that turned his soul inside out while his own body betrayed him, tempting him into sin. Afterwards he would spend nights in tears, praying to be forgiven for his weakness — and then almost gratefully accepting his father's beatings, repeating to himself that he deserved every single blow.
And still he listened, again and again. He bought every new Queen record he could find — both albums and singles — usually on the very first day they appeared in the shops. The woman at the record store already knew to put aside every new Queen release for Michael, no matter how quickly it sold out.
He kept them in a drawer of their own — not somewhere visible, but hidden beneath his bed, so his family wouldn't see the scale of his madness.
Perhaps he wasn't truly repentant? Or perhaps... had he ever repented at all?
The trembling in his hands refused to stop. Truth be told, his knees were shaking as well; it felt as though his whole body was trembling so violently that surely everyone around him had to notice. For one brief moment, Michael even thought he was about to faint...
"Michael, could you take your sunglasses off, please?" his manager said quietly. "We're indoors. It looks a little odd."
Any other day, just not on the day he was finally going to meet Freddie in person. Better for Freddie to think he was strange than...
"Michael!" his manager stopped and caught him gently by the shoulder, turning him around.
"What?" with an irritated sigh, Michael yanked the sunglasses off. "There. Happy now? I can't let him see me looking like this!"
He flexed his fingers, slipped the glasses back on, and strode down the record company's corridor without another word.
"Damn..." his manager hurried after him. "Michael, don't you think this has gone way too far? Why don't you sue Joseph?"
"Because he's my father, John. Things are difficult enough already. I don't want to make them worse."
"And letting him beat you isn't making them worse?"
Michael stopped dead. They had had this conversation countless times before, and every time Branca expected him to produce some sensible explanation for why he continued putting up with it. But Michael only had one answer — because he deserved it. But admitting that, admitting those unnatural desires... It would have been the same as signing his own death warrant.
His father usually tried to leave bruises where no one else could see them. That morning, however, he had lost his temper and struck Michael across the face after becoming furious that he was leaving for a meeting without telling anyone. Fortunately Bill, his bodyguard, had stepped in before things went any further. One punch had still been enough; a dark bruise had spread beneath Michael's eeye He had tried to cover it with foundation, but his hands shook too badly to do a proper job. In the end he'd resorted to sunglasses — they hid the bruise a little better. Unfortunately, they also drew attention to his face.
He had no answer for John. Instead, he pulled a cleaning cloth from his pocket, took the glasses off for a moment, and wiped away some inexplicable smudges on the lenses. At that exact moment, footsteps echoed around the corner ahead. He didn't have time to put the glasses back on.
Two men appeared: Freddie and another man beside him, presumably his manager.
Their eyes met. Michael's heart missed a beat. For a split second everything went black, but he somehow remained standing. Then, slowly, he put the sunglasses back on.
John was already shaking hands with Freddie's manager, then with Freddie himself; he was saying something... Michael couldn't hear a word; blood thundered in his ears. Freddie walked over and held out his hand. Michael took it automatically, but he never looked away.
Why had he ever agreed to this? Dreamed of meeting Freddie? Now he was convinced he was about to die of embarrassment before the conversation had even begun.
The meeting felt strange. Perhaps only to Michael. The managers did most of the talking, discussing how best to organise future collaborations, how to promote new material, and a dozen other business matters... Michael remained silent. He sat slumped in his chair, his cheek resting against one hand. He felt dreadful: the trembling hadn't stopped, the bruise beneath his eye throbbed painfully, and the ache had spread into the back of his head. He just wanted to die. He tried not to stare openly at Freddie, though every so often he stole another quick glance from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses.
Unlike Michael, Freddie hardly took his eyes off him, and that made him nervous. Most likely it was the bruise — perhaps Freddie was trying to get a better look at it; perhaps he was wondering what had happened. Whatever the reason, Michael felt deeply uncomfortable beneath such close scrutiny. As though he were doing something wrong. That kind of look was usually followed by a slap — from father, of course. He knew perfectly well no one here was about to hit him. Even so... Even so.
"Gentlemen, would you mind leaving us alone for a little while?" Freddie suddenly said, and Michael felt goosebumps race down his spine the instant he heard his voice. "I know you've got plenty of important things to discuss, but surely the two of you can manage that without us. Michael and I have a few things of our own to talk about. Creative things."
The two managers exchanged a glance, John shrugged. And a moment later they both stepped out into the corridor, leaving Michael and Freddie alone in the meeting room. As soon as the door clicked shut, Michael's pulse shot up again, his breathing became uneven, and he clenched his teeth so hard his jaw hurt, determined not to let any of it show. He had absolutely no idea how he was supposed to behave. Silence seemed the safest option.
"Take the sunglasses off. I've already seen everything."
Freddie's voice caused another shiver ran through Michael. Slowly he lifted his head, sat up a little straighter, and removed the glasses. They had never really hidden anything. Only given him the illusion that they had.
"So, who'd you get into a fight with?" Freddie chuckled, and Michael gave a vague shrug.
"Oh... It doesn't matter."
An awkward silence settled between them. Michael looked away again, afraid Freddie might misunderstand him.
'Actually, you'd understand the situation far too well. Better not,' flashed through his mind.
Freddie broke the silence once more.
"Well... I'm glad we finally met. It's about time."
"Mmm... Yes... I suppose so."
"Listen, I've got a few ideas I've been playing around with, but I haven't quite figured out what to do with them yet. We could try working something out together. And if you've got any unfinished songs or melodies lying around, we could have a look at those as well."
"Probably next year, though. Around spring, I think. I've got a few things to sort out first. You don't mind waiting?"
Michael did eventually lose consciousness that day — only after he and John had said goodbye to Freddie and his manager and stepped outside in the street.
