Attending is weird. And old-man Cherry said it best; the brain's ability to detect some stimuli whilst filtering out the rest was truly just spectacular, and perhaps one of the only things you can attribute your maintained sanity to amid the stone world chaos – chaos that only seemed to be expanding. “Habituation” as Thomas and Spencer coined it.

Oh! Write that one down… 

The human brain was just so exhilarating, truly the most complexly crafted mechanism in the known universe, and you would be damned if you’d ever let the centuries worth of experiments, and knowledge, and science, and theories, and sacrifices, and what-have-you become obsolete to the clock-hands of time. The moment you awoke from the depths of stone-bound consciousness – bright red eyes glaring down at you, wide and yet weary despite a beaming smile, you finally understood what you had been placed on this earth to do. 

It’s a daunting feeling every person has to face come time, the choice of deciding what craft they deem important enough to dedicate a single lifetime to. Important enough to leave a life's worth of a mark on the earth for, an imprint etched intricately by the thinning skin of two aging hands. And in that fluorescent moment, as your eyes squinted against light absent for three millennia, you glanced left to see green where your desk once stood, and right to see the bare parts of the boy that made your cheeks flush in science club (and god, did your cheeks flush again). Yes, in that moment it dawned on you that your purpose on this impossibly green earth was to ensure none of the most brilliant minds of psychological science would be lost to stone. 

So you wrote. You wrote for every weary moment that passed and embedded itself on the rocks of the mountains that formed in its wake, because nothing better had yet been reinvented. You wrote as the population of two grew to a population of four, then four to five, and five back down to just the two of you. And you wrote into the moment you realised modern minds weren't the only ones left inhabiting the desolate planet you once saw skyscrapers adorn, and that primitive ones prevailed too.

You wrote in your little hut by candlelight, after a day's work of winter prep had been put to rest. And eventually you wrote in Chrome’s lab while Senku sat sketching blueprints beside you and the kingdom of science laboured at the collective ideas the two of you deemed worthy of fabrication. 

And when said kingdom finally acquired proper writing materials, Senku made sure they reached you in that weird silent display of affection he does, and once again, you wrote into what you deemed to be the official, contemporary (but not very modern), psycho-encyclopedia. And you’d be sure that every drop of knowledge from your mind bled into the pages of fibre darkened with soot-stained ink. 

This was your life’s work. A weird thing to deem by 20, but you were sure this was what your purpose was; this frayed, stained, and crinkled leather-back book – only yet half full – scribbled with knowledge of a time long gone, but definitely not forgotten. 

“Attending,” god, it really was weird — because despite all those complexly drawn out thoughts hidden behind your eyes trained on said book, it suddenly occurred to you that you were sitting in the midst of one of the busiest moments the stone world had surely ever seen.

Out in the open, you leaned over a glass table as levers and pulleys strained every which way at incomprehensibly large planks of wood, with dozens of people bustling around you ensuring Senku’s newest idea came to fruition. A boat- no, a ship – and god, was it loud. “Habituation,” thank everything for it, because you’d have written jack-all today without it. Probably would have forgotten your idea. 

Your idea that lingered — a cognitive thread that refused to loosen its hold. It had been needling at you for days, itching at you enough that you’d finally raised it with Senku the night before, hoping for something resembling an answer. Just as he always confided his outlandish ideas in you for psychological perspective, you hoped his biological expertise could return the favour. 

You knew he was an unhelpful prick when he stuck his pinky in his ear and shrugged blankly with that dumb look that made you exhale through your nose.

“How would I know? You’re the Neuroscientist.” 

You almost kicked him to sleep on the pebbles outside. Alas you didn’t.

And science said if no one had an answer, then it was worth exploring. So, when your eyes finally cracked open after a near-sleepless night, you teetered quietly out towards the glass table overlooking the kingdom of sciences newest project, careful not to wake Senku in the faint hope that he’d actually rest, and the others in heavier hope of a little goddamn quiet. 

Thus you sat from the early break of dawn, eyes fighting their own heaviness as the day remained still, through to the beaming heat of the afternoon – where the primitive world finally remembered just how loud it liked to be. All the while, you jotted down your newest theory in the ratty leather-back book Senku made you years ago.

If Loftus describes memories as fallible, and recollection as constructive rather than chronicle, and yet so many people describe the events of the petrification in such detail, then the preservative qualities of the petrification process must not be pertinent just physiologically, but also be applicable to the brain cells and neural pathways necessary for memory recall. Perhaps, I should collect self-report data on individualistic petrification experiences, that way I can assess the hypothesis scientifically. A significance test might be the most efficient way to test this- Pearsons, maybe?

“Y/n!”

White lines turned to multicoloured configs as your eyes snapped to the owner of the voice. 

That's right, “Attending.” Weird, how the brain does that. The cocktail party effect, as Cherry said- oh, you should remember to write that one down too- 

“-Y/n!”

“Huh?” 

“Did you even hear a word I said?” Gen’s voice carried thick through the air, despite all the clashing voices contending for a hold in place. Your eyebrows shot down in a furrow of confusion and a twinge of irritation, before one arched sharply in recognition. 

“I heard my name.” You retorted. 

“Your name is not a word,” Gen countered dryly, “so, I’ll take that as a no.”

Through his tone you noticed the hitch of his breath as he puffed on his words. It was only then you noticed just how tired he sounded. Through the breathiness, and the beading sweat. He was working on Perseus today.  

“Sorry,” you muttered, already turning back to the page, pining to get back to your writing. “Thinking.”

Gen snorted. “Typical scientist habits. We ought to get you genuises a handler.”

You didn’t rise to his bait. Instead, your pencil hovered for a moment before scratching the thought down anyway, your fear of losing the thought trumping your interpersonal attraction to the group.

Festinger’s Group Cohesion Theory, another one you couldn’t forget to write about…

“-huh, Y/n?”

“What?” Your eyes snapped up again, sharper this time, agitation leaking through before you could stop it. You didn’t mean to be so short-tempered, but you were working against the clock here, and there was much else Senku needed from you despite it. Couldn’t they see you were working? Just as they had their job, you had yours, and you weren’t privy to being interrupted so often. Gen was a mentalist, he knew that attention, once broken, was never so easily reclaimed.

This time Ginro stepped forward, imitating a similar breathlessness to Gen, with that typical helpless Ginro-desperation leaking through his tone. 

“Y/n, we're stuck on the instructions and don’t know what to do! It says something about accounting for… uh- testicle stress?” Ginro’s eyes glanced down at the wrinkled blueprints, with irrationally fearful eyes, “It’s one of those science-y words Senku uses when he wants to scare people and it makes no sense! What does it mean?!” 

Your pencil stilled, eyes blinking slow as you finally digested the full scope of the scene. Your attention finally shifted as you took note of the many weary eyes glancing at you with hopeful expectation. Hope that you would relieve them of their stress. Expectation that you would clear up their gaps in knowledge and aid them on their journey to task completion, and their eventual next meal break, one you could smell simmering away somewhere inland.

However, hope, you learned, was a feeble thing, because misplacing it meant the inevitable disillusion of optimism. It was truly unfortunate that you knew their hope was exceptionally misplaced, and it almost made your blood boil over that they had interrupted your expertise for something so obviously out of your field.

“I-I don’t know.” You deadpanned in utter disbelief, “I’m a neuroscientist not an engineer.” 

You watched with perplexity as the faces scattered around the half-built ship dropped in despair, and hopeful eyes shifted into ones completely lacking faith. You could almost see the black cloud that had settled over the top of them, gloomy and dreary with resignation.  

For half a second, you stared at the slumped shoulders, the exaggerated sighs, the way despair settled far too heavily for a problem that had such an obvious solution. The scene bordered on near absurdity in their reactions, as if their stone aspirations of a modern world had been macerated with just a few timid words. As if there wasn't a very loud… very capable… very obvious answer pacing somewhere just beyond the hull.

That realization cut clean through your confusion, compelling it to settle into a regretful twinge of irritation that left a tick forming in your right eye. Maybe it was just the exhaustion assuming its place, but alas you felt it twitch. All as the moment festered into the recognition that they were now wasting a lot of time, a lot of cognitive load, and a very valuable thought pattern for something that wasn’t nearly a catastrophe. Let alone something that was even your problem.

You sighed, rubbing at the migrating headache that had begun pulsing at your temple, as if stimulating the skin would coax the synapses to fire in successive order again. “Guys,” you said, tone flattening as patience thinned, “this isn’t that hard.”

A few heads lifted, the prospect of a brilliant mind coming to their aid on the horizon.

“I study brains,” you deadpanned, attention already drifting back to the page. “Not boats. If you want to know what torsional stress is-” you eyed Ginro as you enunciated the word slowly before glancing back at your book, then pointed over your shoulder without glancing, “-go ask Senku. That’s literally what he’s here for.”

Taiju was the next to step up with a strained frown pulling at his lips, a cue you were familiar enough to recognise as the precursor to a complaint. It was a gesture that made you oddly reminiscent of your days back in school, where he’d do just so before nagging Senku and you both to no end, a giggling Yuziruha somewhere nearby. You always feigned annoyance in that moment, though you wouldn’t admit it was charming in the particular way Taiju could be. You would just sip your strawberry milk and catch the smirk Senku pretended not to wear as he silently admired the scene. Though, while on the topic of things never to be admitted, Senku would deny this vehemently too. 

Nostalgia theory, be sure to write that too…

“-But, Y/n!” Taiju protested suddenly, the frown returning in full force. “Senku told us to stop bothering him.”

You barely had time to register the implication before Yuzuriha had chimed in, leaning in from behind him with an apologetic smile that softened the complaint immediately.

“He actually told everyone to stop bothering him,” she clarified lightly. “Very explicitly.”

Kohaku was next to join the conversation, one you had already deemed trivial on a day so scarce of time, though, at this rate you discerned that it wasn’t ending any time soon so you leant back with a huff. 

Her arms folded over her chest, posture already mirroring a scolding she’d likely endured firsthand and a bite in her tone that unveiled her disapproval of Senku’s preferred work-ethic. At this rate, however, you were starting to understand why he demanded the quiet.

“He’s working with Kaseki on the “rudder.’” Kohaku said flatly, directing her words with air quotes. “Said it was important, then got pissed when we asked too many questions. If you ask me, he could stand to explain things better instead of barking orders.” 

“Its a good thing no one asked you, then.” Chrome muttered under his breath, a comment that earned him a stern fist to the side and a snarl from the owner of said fist. 

“Since you’re feeling so confident today, why don’t you go ask Senku for his help?”

Chrome frowned with a wince, “No way!” He spoke as he rubbed a soothing hand to his ribs. “He yelled at Suika today. That’s how I know he’s pissed, he’s never yelled at Suika. If I went up to him, I think I’d become an example.”

You were well aware that Senku had been a little on edge recently, with the piling stress of the ship's construction, and the constant need to be the most decisive, and quick-thinking person in the room. You could see the pressure settling heavier on his shoulders with each passing day the ship wasn’t completed – not exactly in the way he spoke, but in the rare moments where he didn’t. In the moments where it was just the two of you at the end of a long day and he didn’t feel pertinent to small-talk. When he would let you ramble about your interest and theories without contributing or competing in the playful way he usually would. In the silences he let linger a second too long because his brain never quite stilled.

You tried to make up for it when it counted. By fielding the questions he didn’t have time to answer and redirecting the noise away from him when it grew too insistent but you were only so knowledgeable in chemistry, and had your own load to bear. It was no wonder he snapped when he had prepared the construction team as best as he could, only to be bombarded by questions regardless. You suppose it was inevitable, but still.

Your thoughts lingered longer than they should have and you were halfway through reconciling when movement sliced violently through your peripheral vision.

Ginro's flailing arms abruptly overtook your field of view, a descending shadow made up of pale and frantic limbs cast against the sunlit shipyard, snapping you out as it loomed far too close. For a fraction of a second, your mind lagged behind your eyes until recognition struck.

He was about to slam the messily sketched blueprints onto the glass table. The same table where your book sat open. Your very precious, still-wet-with-ink book.

Your arms reacted before conscious thought had time to intervene and it was one of the few moments you found yourself grateful that your body had outpaced your brain. Your hands snapped back, hugging the book tight to your beating chest, with a finger pinched between the still-wet pages to keep them from bleeding into an inky abyss. A heartbeat later, Ginro’s hands came down with a clatter forceful enough to jolt the contents of the table a few millimeters airborne. 

A heaving Ginro unveiled tense and sweaty beside you, and if looks could kill, Ginro may as well have dug his little grave with the glare you sent him. He realised the mistake he made far too late and froze beside you, shoulders rigid, eyes darting first to the blueprints now splayed innocently across the glass, and then up to your face.

His lips wobbled with apprehension as his voice shakily vibrated, “I-I-” He smiled wearily. “Sorry?”

That twitch in your eyes was almost a second heartbeat at this point, and with the prospect of nearly losing an entire day's worth of work over- over-... Ginro, you had finally felt that final gear spinning that indicated you had reached your wits end. 

“Okay,” voice cutting low and level in a way that carried far more weight than shouting ever could. “That’s enough.” 

The sound of wood against dirt pierced through the air, dense with unease, as your feet shoved the rickety chair backwards. Your arms came down in a swift motion as you settled the book gently over the blueprints, and with hands now free, you gripped the table's edge hard enough to feel the imperfections in the grooves, attempting to ground your irate nerves. You weren't angry, these people were your closest friends, but their irrational panic was bordering absurdity, too close to theatrical. You were already overworked as it was, and now too petty to deal with this spectacle alone.

You inhaled once and heaved with a shout. “Senku!” Cutting through the dense air like a bell.

And like that, the once bustling shipyard stilled as if a switch had been flipped. What once had started with you drowning out the blaring scene to centre your own focus, had turned into a scene in which you had become the center of everyone else's. Habituation was long gone, replaced by your need to go back to that peaceful, productive state you’d been in earlier this morning. The eyes of confusion had evolved into ones of apprehensive fear, and the hiss Gen pushed through his teeth told you just how unnerved they were with your decision.

It was quiet for a beat, quiet enough to hear the tide hit the rocky shore twice before footsteps crunched against the pebbled dirt just a ways in the distance. The array of people besides you tensed in agonized anticipation of a lecture that was patently soon to come, but you just stood biting your lip, ticked off and bored, already tired of waiting for a response. 

Senku rounded the corner with a painfully ordinary slouch. Goggles, recently discarded, dangling loosely around his neck with nothing but a slight twitch of his lip to indicate the miniscule amount of irritation he bore. His hands smudged with lingering grease stains crossed loosely over his chest as he cocked a brow, red eyes boring directly at you. “What?”

The group stood unmoving, already dumbfounded by the flatness of his tone. 

The gears in Chrome's brain couldn’t begin to comprehend the difference in reactions so shortly spanned. The first and last time he approached Senku earlier that day, the man had snapped so sharply Chrome could swear he felt a glimpse of Sulferina’s ghost peeking through. Senku was a near walking reaction waiting to go critical today. 

He understood why – the man had a lot of work to be done in a very short amount of time. But yet, here he strolled so casually around the helm, voice steady and unremarkable, just mildly annoyed at an interruption he had close to bit a head off over an hour ago.

And you just glanced at him as if his question was unfounded, as if he was foolish for even questioning your intentions, “Come here.” As if it were obvious.

And he did. He just did. No arguments to mimic the handful of ones he put up against the others, no scolding to demand they stop bothering him, or flat palms pointed up to ask if they could see how busy he was. He just walked over like you held a rune to turn time itself into stone, like you had already made the decision for him.  

Senku’s feet carried him directly beside you, stopping close enough that the edge of his boot brushed the table leg. He planted two fists firmly on each hip and leaned forward, expression flat and condescending. “What is it?”

“Your inability to write coherently is becoming my problem. Come fix it.” The words landed so unceremoniously, stripped of all caution. You spoke to him as if the man was just a childhood friend, and not some otherworldly genius so far out of your reach that they barely knew how to approach him sometimes. 

Oh… 

They realised. 

Because that was exactly what he was. 

To them, he was the crazed polymath scientist who rebuilt the world in a frantic swirl of ideas. But in that moment, they had almost forgotten that you were the mad neuro-psych scientist who helped him do it. Because, to you, he was just the childhood best friend who matched your sporadically manic ideas. 

To you, he was just your boyfriend.

Gen let out a slow breath, the confusion finally wilting as it clicked into place. He knit his brows together through a self-deprecating smile, feeling a little foolish now that he thought about it, because really, it hadn’t been subtle at all. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“Right,” he muttered. “Of course.”

“What?!” Suika gulped.

Gen waved a hand vaguely, still smiling. “I feeear I may be a little slow on the mark today,” he said, the humour creeping back into his tone now that the tension had deflated. 

There was a beat. Then Chrome, who had been watching with cautious attention up until now, puffed up slightly as the realisation finally landed.

Oh.

How could he have missed it? The two of you who turned up at his lab door with stacks of wilting papers in your hands and paper cuts on Senku’s, already talking over each other in a language Chrome had to learn to keep pace wth. The way you argued sometimes, sharp and relentless and oddly in sync, like a married- …oh. Right.

Well, in his defense, he wasn’t stunned by the oversight itself. Nor by the being-together part because everyone knew that already. Every newly unpetrified friend arrived at the same conclusion sooner or later, that you liked Senku and more astonishingly, that he was even capable of normal people emotions. The revelation usually earned a horribly concealed snicker from you and an overextended eyeroll from Senku.

Chrome wasn’t shocked about what everyone already knew. No, what shocked Chrome was something else entirely.

It was the way Senku was acting with you, that Senku would ever act like that with you. 

He had snapped at everyone else without forethought, barked orders and bared teeth like it was today's motto. And yet the second you called his name, he softened like Cesium and appeared by your side at beck and call despite having made it abundantly clear how busy he was.

Senku was being… soft.

Soft.

Chrome’s lips twitched, the thought settling somewhere between disbelief and amusement. And as if the air itself carried the same conclusion, Gen’s smile beside him sharpened with a similar realization too.  

Chrome leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief now that the connection had finally been made. Just a half hour ago, Chrome feared nothing would ever bring this partner down from his enduring stress, and yet, here he now realized the solution had been sat, scribbling away into the book he had crafted just for her. “Is that mark you missed related to her?”

Gen grinned. “Yes, call it a mentalist blind ot-spay.”

Catching the drift of thoughts the two boys had collectively found, your eyes darted sideways, a gleam of warning conveyed behind a tilted eyebrow as you murmured, “Mentalist mind your usiness-bay. I’m doing this for you.”

Senku was ticked off as is, the last thing you needed was an all out argument because Gen couldn't help narrating his emotional state like a party trick. God, you’d never hear the end of that one. 

Senku – either none the wiser, or more likely opting to ignore the provocation, followed your outstretched finger down to the wrinkled blueprints he’d scribbled up haphazardly late a few nights ago. His focus sharpened almost instantly. 

“These aren’t incoherent,” he muttered. “They’re just unfinished.”

“Unfinished?” You echoed.

“Yeah,” His shoulder loosened as if the rest of the world had quietly fallen out of priority the moment you asked, “The diagram’s garbage.”

In an attempt to get a better look, Senku reached forward and pushed your book aside, the leather cover dragging softly across the glass as he cleared space. Around you, several people stilled, breath catching in one collective gasp, eyes following the course of the book as if it had been tossed into the ocean, because it may as well have been. This was the same book Ginro had nearly been buried for so much as brushing against, and here Senku was, haphazardly dragging it around as if you hadn’t considered committing a stone-aged crime over it.

You didn’t even blink. 

Your attention, baited and steady over a topic you hadn’t cared any less over a mere 10 minutes ago, remained fixed on the blueprints, finger already tracing the flaw he’d just pointed too.

Senku glanced past you, eyes flicking briefly over the rigid postures and baited breaths, and he couldn’t help the eyeroll he sent the group at their theatrics. 

“…Huh,” you said as if it were old news. “That’s inefficient.”

At the pull of your voice, Senku turned back without hesitation. He reached for your pencil, flipping it eraser-side down, and began scrubbing at the graphite with quick hands.

“The load is redistributed here. If it was torsional failure, you’d hear it before you saw it.”

“…Hear it?” Ginro croaked.

“Like screaming metal,” Senku dragged his voice as if the thought alone delighted him. Ginro perked up straight as a board, and let out a strangled squeak with fists clenched tight to his sides. 

Your hand shot up and flicked Senku on the head, “Stop being mean.” Senku replied with a chuckle before flipping the pencil once more to the graphite end. 

“They’re following the load-bearing assumption too literally. It needs redistribution here-” he tapped the page once, then again, “-and here.”

As if the concept had just been transmitted into your mind, you perked up with a sudden breath as the explanation clicked. “Ooh!” You dragged the word. “So if you mirror the brace here, the torsional load dissipates instead of-”

“-concentrating at the joint,” Senku finished, already nodding. “Exactly.”

Just a few feet away, Chrome and Gen shared a very quiet, very exasperated glance, because no matter how often you two did it, they would never comprehend what in the orld-way you too were babbling about and why it always ended with the literal completion of each others sentences.

“But,” you continued, already reaching for the pencil again, “that only works if the secondary supports aren’t rigid.”

Senku paused as the implication fell on him. It wasn’t a long pause, but long enough for the watching eyes to tense. 

“…Yeah,” he said, as if the thought had never occurred to him. You suddenly leaned forward, right arm brushing against his left as you tugged the pencil from his fingers and bent over the blueprints. Senku didn’t resist or comment, only shifted closer to watch as you sketched in the adjustment, red eyes following black graphite lines materializing with every stroke your hand made.

“You’re just relocating the stress,” you added quietly. “It’ll collapse somewhere else.”

Senku hummed in thought and leant forward to study your markings clearly. And in an act Gen deemed to be unconscious, the group watched as Senku’s arm slid up your side and rested just in the dip of your back, almost as if using your body to steady his own. “Flexible coupling,” he muttered. “I assumed they’d compensate.”

“It won’t.” The words weren’t sharp, just simply pointing out a fact. “Same thing that happened with the footbridge model we made for physics A3, remember.”

“You mean the one that collapsed because you insisted on testing it during science club,” Senku replied without missing a beat.

“I was proving a point.”

“You proved several,” he said. “Most of which ended with us being banned from the lab for a week.”

A sly, and yet oddly reminiscent smile slowly crept up to adorn your lips as the memory flashed in your brain. Senku’s wide eyes as the model collapsed, the splintering sound of balsa through the room and the chorus of gasps as fragments skidded onto the active bunsen burner, sending the accompanying beaker flying from the bench to shatter across the tiles. You swear you would have walked away with a mere slap on the wrist if the lesson of the day hadn’t been “safe handling of erosive waste.” 

Whoops.

“Semantics.” You laughed. “Like I said, I study brains, not bridges.”

Gen leaned in close to Chrome as he registered the words, one arm crossed and the other rose to block the left side of his mouth, which pulled to the right, “Coulda fooled me.” 

You didn’t dignify Gen’s comment with a response, just huffed softly through your nose and leaned back over the table, already dragging the blueprints closer.

“Alright,” Senku said, eyes narrowing as they tracked the altered lines. “If we redistribute the brace like that, we’ll need to adjust the support angles or the whole thing’ll sag under the weight.”

You nodded once, “Okay, then we alter it here.” Senku reached for the pencil, missed, and smirked when he realised you’d already claimed it. 

“Fine. Draw it.”

And you did. Your hands sketched quickly, mouths moving quicker as the two of you spoke over each other in barely-finished thoughts that evolved into barely-comprehended ones to the untrained ears of your friends.

“If we widen the base-”

“-we can increase the load.”

“Only if the hull flexes.”

“It won’t with Kaseki’s framing.”

“Then we’re good.”

By the end of the exchange, the lines on the page had turned into intersecting spirals of formulas that almost resembled the inside of a brain. For a moment, the shipyard faded from attention, no pulleys, no shouting, no clatter of wood and stone. Just the quiet hum of thought passing cleanly between two minds and it was in that moment you realised you had reached  that peaceful, productive state you were so desperately aiming for once again.

You leaned back first, scanning the final configuration. “That’ll hold.” 

And Senku followed not a beat later, eyes sweeping the diagram with a sharp nod. “Yeah. That’ll hold.”

He glanced at you first, finding himself admiring you in the silent way he always did. Your ability to keep up, your intelligence, your glimmering eyes. He’d never admit it when he did it, of course but he didn’t have to, because that prick-in-his-side mentalist had already made mental note of it for teasing purposes later. For when the scientist was being just that little bit too cocky.

You were the next to look up, catching the familiar set of his shoulders and that oddly calming presence that coaxed your anxiety into retreat, if only for a moment. And then that strange thing happened where for an instant you felt twelve years old, giggling beneath Senku’s linen covers with a dim flashlight pressed to yellowed pages decidedly not written for eighth graders, both of you whispering theories in the dark and hoping Byakuya wouldn’t scold you for being awake past bedtime again.

You remembered that one time you had gotten too excited. 

Senku pieced together some absurdly complex chemical concept that prompted you to connect invisible dots about the neuro-chemistry of the brain. You jumped in exhilaration at the discovery – you couldn’t help it of course, you were a twelve year old kid giddy by the possibilities in a world yet to be explored. But you had accidentally knocked the flashlight in Senku's hand in the process, sending the metal flying against the fabric, and rolling down to the floorboards with a traitorous bang. 

You remembered the way your eyes locked with his, wide and glassy and fearful with anticipation at the silence that followed. Then the footsteps began. 

The clock began and the neural pathways fired. You were first to shove the manuscript under his pillow, Senku was next to roll the flashlight as far under his bed as he could manage, and you were last to send a jolting kick to his side that sent him clambering to the floor with a muffled yelp, just as the door flung open and you rubbed at your eyes, already mid-performance.

“What did I say about-...?” Byakuya's voice trailed off.

“What happened?” You murmured through a feigned yawn.

Senku sat up and rubbed his head, the white strands shifting against his fingers, “I must have fallen in my sleep.” 

Byakuya stared at the two of you for a long moment, eyes flicking from Senku on the floor to the suspiciously rumpled bed, then back again once more. All culminating into the moment where, at last, he sighed. 

“…You’re hopeless,” he rubbed at his temples. “Both of you. Go to sleep.”

The door shut. And you waited three seconds. Then four, before Senku’s head popped up from the floor, eyes bright and feral with that malevolent look of victory he did.

“See?” he whispered, still rubbing at his head with a slight moan. “Perfect execution.”

You remembered the way you had bit your lip to keep from laughing, shoulders shaking as you fell back onto the mattress with more force than necessary. “Good catching on.” you whispered back. “I’d say we always do our best work under pressure.”

Senku crawled back up beside you, careful now, movements precise as if the danger might still hear you breathing. And you watched, in the dark as he paused, then held out his fist, small and barely visible in his room absent of light now that the flashlight was a goner. It wasn’t a question, he had already made your mind up for you. 

So, you found it without looking, your knuckles met his just as quietly as he raised it, before twisting sideways in a pinky looping hold.

Strange, you noted, how you found yourself pulled back to that memory after more than three millennia of its formation. Your scientifically trained brain couldn’t help but reach for a solution. Habituation theory explained how it was possible, even amid a room full of onlookers and noise. Nostalgia theory accounted for the sudden vividness, the way memories, when anchored to emotion could collapse time into something juvenile. And now the cocktail effect, the only thing to explain your sudden pull from the warm embrace of nostalgia at the simple call of your name.

“Y/n.”

It cut cleanly through the haze, sharper than any clang of shipyard metal or shouted instruction lost to the wind ever could. You blinked once as the construction yard snapped back into place around you, the heat and noise settling over you like it had just materialized from nothing.

And when you looked up, Senku was already there, like he always was – gaze flicking from the corrected diagram to you, then back again. The satisfaction in his expression settled into his posture in that subtle way only you ever seemed to notice, and it spoke more comprehensively to you than any words of a theorist ever could. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak. But you knew what came next.

Because he had already begun lifting his fist at the exact same moment. Because it was never a question, he’d already decided, and somehow you’d agreed before the thought had fully formed. 

Conditioning! Write that down later!

Senku huffed a quiet laugh at the blank look on your face, clearly clocking the delay. “You’re ten billion percent too smart for your own good.”

Your knuckles met his, quietly before twisting into a pinky interlocked loop. 

“One of us has to be,” you murmured with a quiet laugh. “Good work.”

neverland ranch, july 27th 1995

“michael you can’t be serious.” you say, watching the way your now fiancée is pacing right in front of you.

he stops his pacing, looking at you like you just told him to go fuck himself.

“i am serious, baby.” he starts, “what part of me askin’ for us to make our relationship public to the media and you moving in with me is a joke?”

you sigh. “mikey, i love you. and i want to marry you, i do. but im just not ready for my face to be revealed on every single newspaper or magazine yet. or for i don’t know,” you throw your hands in the air, “your crazy fans harassing me all because im getting married to their celebrity sweetheart.”

he pinches the bridge of his nose, like this whole talk you’re having with him is raising his blood pressure. “okay let me ask you this one thing.” he says.

you nod.

“you knew what you were getting into when we first started dating, right?”

“well yeah, but—”

“let me finish.” he snaps, holding up a singular finger.

you let out a scoff in disbelief, at the snappiness of his tone.

he’s never spoke to you like that before.

“when we started dating, i told you what it would be like dating someone like me. i even refused many many times because i never wanted you to have to deal with the media or the tabloids. but it was you that was persistent. it was you that wanted me so bad to the point you never cared about what anyone else thought. it was me who decided to keep the relationship secret because i didn’t want you to get hurt. i didn’t want you to have to deal with all of that pressure. and now because i’d rather let the world know who my wife is on my terms instead of the media leaking it, it’s a problem?”

“no, no of course it’s not baby, but—”

“but what?”

you close your mouth at his words, not even attempting to speak. michael is normally a calm and collected person who seems to have a lot of patience. but now at this moment, he’s giving you no grace at all.

“okay listen.” you start, speaking slowly. you’re trying not to say the wrong thing because one thing you’ll hate to do is make this situation even bigger than it needs to be. “i love you. i want to marry you. i hope to someday start a family with you, but when i said all those things about the media finding out about us, yes i still don’t care what they think because my love for you outweighs all of that worry. but it doesn’t erase the fact that im scared. im scared of what people will think because it’s not like im just a girl that you’re sleeping with, or your date to an award show. i’m going to become your wife soon and that’s, michael that’s a crazy jump. and damn me for wanting to enjoy the buildup of us getting married without the unnecessary stress of people finding out about us.”

you take in a lungful of air, after spilling out everything you’ve been bottling up since michael has made it known that he wanted to make you guys’ relationship public.

“mikey, please say something.” you whisper, when you see him take a seat at the other side of the couch. he rests his elbows on his knees, looking at the ground.

“there’s nothing to say.” he shrugs. “you’re not ready so im going to have to accept that.”

“what does that mean?” you ask.

“it means, come back to me when you’ve made up your mind.” he gets up from the couch, walking to the phone on the other side of the room.

“what do you mean, ‘come back to me’ like i work for you or something?” you snap, your tempter starting to rise.

you’ve been so calm throughout this whole conversation but now you just feel angry.

it’s like he can’t understand that you need time. you need time so you can mentally prepare yourself for your life to be completely turned around.

he stays silent, jamming his finger into the numbers before he lifts up the phone and puts it to his ear.

“michael are you even listening to me?” you stand up walking towards him so you two are face to face.

well not exactly face to face since he’s a couple inches taller than you.

he looks down at you and the look on his face makes you take in a deep breath without realising it.

it’s not the normal, loving look he gives you all the time. i mean of course, you can tell that he still loves you a lot because otherwise he would’ve never been so angry. but the look that is pointed right now at you is somehow distant. like he’s looking straight through you, and closing himself in a tiny box.

he’s secluding himself from you already and you both are still together in the same room, inches away from each other.

the person on the other side of the phone seems to pick up because he looks away from you and focuses on something above your head. “hi, yes i need you to send a car up, immediately.”

you gasp, grabbing his arm. he’s sending that car to come and get you.

“michael don’t do this.” you plead. tightening your hold on his wrist but he doesn’t even move an inch. he doesn’t even acknowledge your presence anymore.

he’s shut you out.

“baby we can talk about this. we’re engaged remember. all im asking for is some time to think but this is too much. don’t hide from me.” you beg, your lip starting to quiver at the thought of him dismissing you so quickly without giving you a chance.

“okay, thank you.” he says, hanging up the phone and placing it back where it was. “the car should be here in a second to take you home.” he mutters, shrugging off your hold on his wrist and walking past you towards the spacious kitchen.

you follow him, tears springing to your eyes. you ignore the chef who’s at the stove cooking, and go to michael who’s opening the fridge, and taking out a carton of orange juice.

“michael.” you whimper, your chest starting to feel tight.

he ignores you, opening the cabinet and taking out a fresh glass.

“michael why are you doing this?” you say. “what happened to talking about things? why can’t you have a civil conversation without shutting people out whenever they don’t agree with you?” at this point tears are already starting to fall freely down your face, messing up your makeup.

you’re hurt. you’re hurt that he’s angry at you all because you want to protect yourself.

he should be able to understand. he should be able to see how terrified you are about the world finding out about you.

“michael!” you shout, openly sobbing in the kitchen and not giving a fuck about the chef staring at you like you’re insane.

you hate it when he does this. he does this every time he’s upset or angry. he just stops talking, stops acknowledging your presence. it’s like in his world, you don’t exist.

and you hate that he’s doing this to you. the woman that he went down on one knee to propose to a couple days ago. the woman that he says everyday is the love of his life. the woman that he wants to have kids with.

at that thought, you put your hands over your face, sobbing into your palms.

“the car should be here now.” you hear him say over your sobs.

you sniff, wiping your tears with the back of your hand. “okay.” you whimper. you turn to leave, because no matter how much you plead, or beg for him to just listen to you, you know that he won’t. once he’s made up his mind, no one is changing it.

“i love you mikey. ill never stop loving you okay.” you stand there in the kitchen, waiting. waiting to see if there’s a change in his expression or even if he’s going to tell you that it’s all a big fat joke and you can still stay the night like you were meant to.

but no.

he says nothing, in fact he even turns his back on you so the only thing you can see is the back of his head.

with one final glance his way, you walk out of neverland ranch, hoping and praying that you’ll get to come back.

17th august, 1995

it’s been three weeks.

three weeks of voicemails, and you trying everything in your power to get michael to pick up the damn phone.

you never thought he’ll take it this far.

and to make matters worse, the times you’ve tried to visit the ranch, he hasn’t been there.

it’s like he’s actively, avoiding you.

the only times you’ve been able to catch a glimpse of him is from the screen of your television or from the tabloids.

and from the looks of it, he’s living his best life out there.

from the moments you’ve seen, he doesn’t look sad, he doesn’t look miserable. he looks… happy to mingle with his fans. and definitely happy to not be in your presence.

you feel sick. you feel absolutely disgusted with yourself for trying to grasp just a pinch of his attention just for him to prance around and act like you don’t exist.

this is the longest you guys have ever spent apart since you both started dating a year and a half ago.

it’s either you would spend a couple nights at the ranch with him or he’ll come and stay at your apartment.

even when he would go on his tours, you’ll always be there in the audience, making your appearance known.

hell, even his family know who you are, and they seem to love you.

you remember when you first started dating michael and you both tried to keep it under wraps but his family found out in mere weeks.

you’ve even been at their home in havenhurst a couple times.

just the thought, that you’ll probably never go back there and see sweet katherine again, has your stomach forming a knot.

but unfortunately you can’t let yourself go on like this. at the end of the day you are a woman before anything else and you can’t be sitting here being stringed along by a man.

even if that man is michael jackson.

31st august, 1995

it’s been two more weeks and at this point you don’t give a single fuck.

a couple weeks ago, you were still calling his landline, crying when the machine told you to leave a message all because you missed him, and all you wanted was for him to hold you in his arms and tell you it’ll be okay.

but now… fuck him.

honestly, fuck michael jackson.

at first you were calling him so he could just hear you out, and so you guys could fix whatever problems you both seemed to have but now the calls starting turning more serious.

you’re calling him so he can come and take the ring back.

it’s been five weeks of him ignoring your calls, or him refusing to be home when you try and visit him and all you’ve been doing inbetween, apart from crying your eyes out, is looking down at your left hand and seeing the big, 10 carat ring that is sitting comfortably on your finger.

if ghosting his fiancée is the new thing for breaking off an engagement then so be it.

because you’re not going to be here looking so goddamn stupid, when he’s there enjoying his life without you.

and to think all of this was because you wanted to wait just a couple more months before exposing your relationship to the world.

and that’s why you decided to do what you’re about to do.

you never wanted to get his sister involved. or anyone else involved, but at this point you’re desperate.

you’ve even tried to reach out to bill, quincy and even some of the staff at neverland and they’ve all told you the same thing.

“michael is busy.”

busy.

busy doing what? torturing your whole being with his silence?

and now you’ve sought out his baby sister because if it’s anyone that can get michael to talk to you so he can take back the ring, it’ll be her.

“hello.” janet’s voice immediately flows through the phone.

you bite your lip, tears starting to form because for the past five weeks, all you’ve wanted was to hear the warmth of michael’s voice and janet, she just sounds so similar to him.

janet says your name, causing you to clear out your throat so she doesn’t know that you’re fighting back tears right now.

“sorry.” you sniff. “um i just wanted to ask if you know where i can find michael because he’s been ignoring me… for so long and i-i need to give him back the ring.”

silence.

just pure silence on the other side of the phone.

you didn’t hear the click to indicate that she hung up on you so she should still be on the phone. why isn’t she saying anything?

“janet?” you ask.

“im sorry.” she clears her throat. “what do you mean you need to give him back the ring? what on earth has happened?”

you start to tell janet about everything, from the beginning where you and michael started arguing at the ranch five weeks ago, till when he practically told you to leave his home and has been ignoring your calls and visits ever since. at this point you couldn’t even hide the fact that you were crying.

“…i didnt even realise he was going to go this far janet. all i-i wanted was for us to talk about it and come to some sort of conclusion, as couples should do.” you sob.

“oh honey, im so sorry. if he wasn’t in new york right now ill go and kick his fuckin’ ass.”

you laugh at her words, despite the fact your nose is all snotty and your mascara is damaged from your endless tears.

you’ve never cried so much in your life ever. these five weeks have made you feel like all you do is cry.

but then you realise what she actually just said. “wait he’s in new york?” you ask.

“yeah, he flew over there early for a couple of press conferences, and signings before the mtv awards. him and i both got nominations for our music video ‘scream’.”

“oh my god, congratulations!” you say.

you’re only congratulating janet, it’s just unfortunate that michael is nominated as well. it’s such a horrible thought since you can’t help but love him so very much. but you’re hurting. just the thought of him makes your heart clench in your chest.

“well i hope you win,” you smile, emphasising on her winning. “but whenever you see michael just tell him from me that he needs to come and get his ring back.” your smile drops, at that thought.

because giving him the ring back is the last thing you want to do.

but you’ve been waiting for weeks just to hear a simple ‘hi’ from him and you’ve got nothing.

and you have to have some sort of respect for yourself.

“why don’t you come to the award show?” janet says, causing your mouth to drop.

“oh no—”

“yes! you have to come. you can fly with me and i can easily get you a seat in the front row. you know what yes, you’re coming. let me add you onto my list right now.”

“janet—”

she cuts you off, saying your name in such a tone that has you clamping your lips shut.

“you’re coming. pack a couple of clothes, we will be flying out in a couple of days. ill send you a car to pick you up and take you to the private airport.”

“janet, you really don’t have to.” she scoffs on the other side of the phone.

“no but i want to. and also i want you to be there when i give my brother a piece of my mind. because one thing you’re not going to is disrespect a woman, not just any woman, his fiancée.”

you go to argue with her again but you stop yourself. you’re so tired, so fucking tired of battling this all by yourself that it feels so relieving having someone take your side. even if that person is his sister.

“thank you. janet, thank you so much.”

“you don’t have to thank me. we’re going to be sisters soon, see you in a couple days.” as soon as she uttered those words, she hangs up the phone.

you didn’t even have enough time to tell her that you’re still giving michael back his ring and there would be no wedding for you both to be sister in laws.

NYC, september 7th 1995

you feel like you’re about to be sick.

this is the first time you will be seeing michael in six goddamn weeks and you feel like you’re going to throw up in your seat.

and to make matters worse, you’re sitting next to some a lister celebrity that keeps on giving you looks and wondering how the hell you even got a ticket, and especially one for the first row.

you swallow, your eyes shifting to the empty seat beside you that michael will be sitting in after he finishes performing.

just the thought of you watching him on stage, knowing that you’re about to hand him back the ring afterwards is another reason why you just may throw up.

the night has already been going on for quite some time, and you’ve been shifting nervously wearing a beautiful black dress, with a slit in the thigh.

it just so happens that it was michael who bought you that dress, the night he proposed to you.

after the first half of awards were presented, the curtain starts to lower and the whole place goes pitch black. the audience starts to scream when the curtain starts to rise and michael. your michael, steps onto stage.

you gasp, because he just looks so beautiful and majestic, which he has no right to be because you’re so very mad at him.

and it’s so hard being mad, when the first thought that entered your mind after not seeing him for six weeks was that you can’t wait to fuck him. even though you know that you’re never going to feel him inside you again.

damn him for making you feel this way.

you look down at your left hand and play with your ring nervously, watching the way the mixtapes of his music hit and how he immediately came alive on stage.

you sit there, staring in admiration at the way he floats around the stage like he owns it.

after about five minutes of his performance, he stops and everyone claps, congratulating him.

i mean you may want to strangle him or fuck him or both. but you can’t deny that he did amazing on that stage tonight.

“thank you.” he says in the mic.

“thank you so much.”

“i love you.” he points to a screaming fan in the audience.

you clench your eyes shut when he says that, wishing that you could hear him say that to you just one more time.

“some of us… likes to play it safe. and take each day as it comes.” he starts. “some of us like to take that crazy walk on the wild side.” you hear a couple of people scream when he says that.

“so… for those of us who like living dangerously. this one’s for you.” and with that he runs to the back of the stage, as dancers start filtering on, distracting us from him switching outfits.

you shake your head, letting out a small laugh at the fact that you thought he was done performing. your laugh immediately stops when his dancers reveal him wearing a suit and tie, with a black hat on.

he starts performing this part of the performance and it’s honestly like he’s trying to seduce you from the stage.

you cross your legs over each other, squeezing your thighs to try and get some sort of friction because there’s no way he’s there humping the air, grabbing his crotch and running his hands down his chest with orgasm worthy expressions on his face, without you getting turned on.

you let out a breath when the music stops and he grabs a mic saying his thanks to the crowd. you don’t think you would’ve been able to take any more of his dirty dancing without at least losing your mind.

this whole time, he still hasn’t noticed you and you’re glad. you’ll probably burst into tears if he locks eyes with you and acknowledges your presence.

“thank you. and for those of you, who made this record number one, i dedicate this to you.”

when the music hits, and he starts unbuttoning his shirt, that’s when you knew it was a huge mistake coming to this award show.

you should’ve stood your ground and told janet no.

because this is your favourite song from michael and he loves to sing it to you all the time, so just hearing him singing this song on stage infront of thousands of people makes your heart lurch in your chest.

as the song goes on, there’s already tears swarming your vision. he walks to the edge of the stage, taking in the audience as he’s singing, and that’s when his eyes fall on you.

“though we’re far apart…” you let a few tears drop when you see him point straight at you when he sings the words with a raise of his brow and a small smirk.

you scoff, wiping your tears with the pad of your finger. how dare he find this amusing after he’s just literally broken your heart, and made you experience twenty different emotions in the span of his fifteen minute performance.

after that song finishes, everyone including you stand up to give him a round of applause.

he smiles on the stage, giving everyone a bow. his eyes lock with yours again, but this time instead of holding the eye contact, you look down at the ground.

you hate that he has you feeling this way. at this point you just may hate him.

the awards continue on as normal and you start to feel more comfortable, watching all these artists get their awards.

you were a bit too comfortable that you forgot about the empty seat beside you until you smelt that familiar cologne.

you look up, your eyes widening when you take in michael wearing a black leather biker jacket with his collars popped out, and a matching pair of black trousers. oh and let’s not forget the signature sunglasses that he always wears.

he sits down silently in the chair beside you, getting comfortable with his legs spread so wide, you’re surprised they didn’t bump into yours.

you clear your throat awkwardly, crossing your arms over your chest and focusing on the two celebrities who are making their way onto the stage.

they start to read out the award and the nominees and you hear ‘scream’ get mentioned. everyone starts to clap including you, and that’s when you see the camera pan to michael who you didn’t notice was staring right at you. he saves himself by pointing to the camera with a shit eating grin.

the camera was already able to catch your face but you still decide to look in the other direction.

“and the winner is,” the announcer calls, “michael jackson and janet jackson.” you start clapping hard when you hear janet’s name get mentioned.

yes you’re that petty.

michael gets up and starts walking to the stage, but stops and waits for janet who was sitting in the front row on the other side.

both of them walk onto the stage together and embrace in a hug. you see janet whisper something into michael’s ear which causes him to give her a terrified look.

they both take turns, saying their thanks to friends, family, producers etc, before they walk off stage holding their awards.

you can’t help but notice that michael is more rigid when he sits back down, instead of his laid back version that you saw before he got up to collect his award.

you still refuse to look at him, keeping your body pushed to the other side of your seat.

at this point, you have no interest in speaking to him at all tonight. at first you wanted to at least do the dramatic ring toss to the chest and then walk out on him but you feel like the only thing you’ll be able to do is cry and beg him to fuck you from the back.

maybe it’s possible to mail him the ring. yeah that sounds like a good idea.

you sigh, when there’s another commercial break and you decide to get up to go to the bathroom. this award show has been going on for hours.

you’re tired, heartbroken, horny and all you want to do is go home.

once you’ve finished in the bathroom, you fix your dress and start to make your walk back to the main room so you can sit back in your seat before the break is done, but you get interrupted by a hand on your arm.

you look up seeing michael, with his eyes still covered by his sunglasses.

“what are you doing?” you blurt out, when he starts to drag you down a long hallway.

“michael let go.” you hiss. trying to pull your arm out of his grip.

he ignores you, the same way he’s been doing for the last six weeks and just keeps on walking.

“michael joseph jackson, let me go before i scream.” you say, still trying to break his grip. but his hand is wrapped around your wrist so tight, that you won’t be surprised if there isn’t already a bruise forming.

you’re still trying to get him to let go of you when michael shoves open a door, that you’re assuming is his dressing room.

“what are you doing?” you yell. “are you— mmphh” your words are swallowed when michael crashes his lips against yours, pushing you up against the door.

at first you start to enjoy the feeling of his slightly chapped lips against yours, tasting just a hint of orange juice but then you remember how he had you leave neverland over a month ago, and didn’t speak to you since.

you push against his chest, panting.

“what. is. your. problem?” you shout, smacking him in the chest.

“you are actually more insane than i thought.” you scoff. “how dare you ignore me for six fucking weeks straight, and then have the audacity to drag me here just to kiss me? have you lost your damn mind?” you can’t stop shouting. after all these weeks of you bottling up your emotions, you can’t help but get it out.

“and,” you let out a dry laugh, “and it was all because i disagreed with you on one thing. not even disagreed, i just asked if we could wait a little more longer and you embarrassed me. you embarrassed me in front of your staff. you embarrassed me in front of quincy and bill when i asked them about you and you told them that you were too busy. yeah right, too fucking busy to check in on your fiancée!”

you didn’t even realise that the whole time you were shouting in his face, michael has been standing there with his hands behind his back with his head down.

he lifts his head up, removing his dark shades.

“you’re not breaking the engagement.” he says, his voice ten octaves deeper than his normal pitch.

you throw your hands up in frustration. “so after all i said, that’s what you have to say? after six fucking weeks of you not speaking to me, that’s what you decide to say to me?” you laugh, in disbelief. “michael i actually can’t believe you. but yes, yes we are done.” you start to twist your ring off of your finger but michael’s hand quickly reaches out to grab onto your wrist.

he pulls you towards him, so you’re flush against his chest.

you look up at him, your eyes filling with tears.

you blink them away, refusing to cry in front of him again.

“well i don’t want us to be done.” he mumbles, pushing your ring back down onto your finger. “i was mad. i was upset because i just wanted the world to see the amazing woman that i want to spend the rest of my life with. so im sorry for shutting you out, and im sorry that i took it out on you without communicating, but one thing i’m not going to allow you to do is walk away from me.”

you try and snatch yourself out of his grip because that was the most shittiest apology you’ve ever heard in your entire life.

“baby.” michael says, pulling you back into his chest. “i said i was sorry.”

“i don’t care. you hurt me. you hurt me in the worst way possible and you think that stupid apology is going to work?” you scoff at his ridiculousness.

“i was angry and i just needed time to think.” he says, his grip loosening which gives you a chance to step back from his hold.

“time?” you say, your eyes narrowing. “one night is considered ‘time’. maybe a couple days, but six weeks michael? i called you every single day and you refused to answer. i cried myself to sleep every night, thinking that you hated me. i even called you on your birthday.” your lip quivers at the thought, and nothing could’ve stopped the tears that now start to fall down your cheek.

you start to openly sob, your heart clenching so tight that you’re convinced death would be a better feeling than what you’re feeling right now.

michael steps forward to embrace you in his arms and you hate yourself for the way you clutch onto his jacket, crying into his chest.

“shhh.” michael whispers into your ear, his hand coming up to rest on the back of your head. “i’m so fucking sorry for leaving it this long.”

“you hurt me so bad.” you cry.

“i know.”

“i hate you.”

“i know.”

“i hate that i still miss you every single day. even when you hurt me.” you hiccup, pulling away from his hold so you’re looking straight into his eyes.

“i missed you too. it’s just, after i got over the fact that maybe you were right to wait a bit before we realised our relationship to the media, i just got told that me and janet got nominated for scream and… and i got so busy with the multiple interviews and the rehearsals for my performance that if i did try and reach out to you it would’ve gave us away.”

you shake your head, your makeup probably a hot mess from your tears. “if you really wanted to fix things with me you would’ve found a way to contact me without the media detecting us.” you sniff.

“i know. and ill make it up to you, i promise baby. it wasn’t meant to happen like this.”

you shrug, stepping back from his embrace again. “i’m still hurt mikey, and just because i love you that doesn’t mean the wounds aren’t still open.”

“i know.” he says softly, stepping forward. “but just give me this one chance to make it up to you. i don’t care if it takes a month, a year or ten years from now. i just don’t want us to be apart for that long again.”

you look up at him, taking in the utter beauty on his face. the tears that are threatening to fall from his eyes and his hands clenched tight like he’s trying to stop himself from grabbing onto you again.

you bite your lip, hating the fact that you’re about to fold after weeks of telling yourself that you’re going to hand him back the ring and move on with your life but you can’t help the way your heart yearns for michael.

“okay.” you nod.

“okay?” he questions, probably shocked that you didn’t try and argue with him.

“okay.” you shrug. “i forgive you but i sure as hell won’t forget and if you ever,” you take a step forward so you finger is pressed to his chest. “ignore me for that long again then i just may cut off your dick and feed it to you.”

michael’s hand instinctively goes to cover his groin.

“i won’t do that again, i promise.” he says, before letting out a loud sigh. “and also because janet basically threatened me when we were on stage.”

you laugh at his words. “good. you deserved it.”

“i know.” he sighs, dropping his head in defeat.

you grab the collar of his jacket. “now come here.” you say, before you pull his lips to yours.

michael doesn’t waste anytime, pushing you against the door and bunching your dress up around your waist.

“i missed this.” michael says against your lips, lifting your leg up so it’s wrapped around his waist.

“you could’ve had this if you didn’t ghost your fiancée.” he smashes his lips against yours as soon as the words leave your mouth. you moan when you feel his hand rub your cunt through your thong.

“im sorry. im so fuckin sorry baby.” he whispers, peppering kisses down your neck as he pushes your thong to the side and slips a finger inside of you.

“shitttt, you’re so fucking tight.” you hold the back of his head, letting out a whine at the thickness of his finger inside of you.

“it’s been so long.” you pant.

“i know. i need to stretch my baby out so ill be able to fit.” he pushes another finger inside of you, curling them so they hit that one sensitive spot.

“ahh— fuck. that feels so good.” you moan, pulling his lips back onto yours. you let out another high pitched moan, when you feel him add a third finger.

he uses his thumb to rub tight circles on your clit, causing you to throw your head back in pleasure.

“im gonna cum.” you grab onto his shoulder, not caring that you’re probably scrunching up the material of his expensive jacket.

“no.” you whine, when he pulls out his fingers and places them into his mouth. he groans at the taste, “fuck baby, you taste so good.”

you pout, undoing his pants just far enough so you can free his cock. “you didn’t let me cum.” you say, when he hitches your leg back around his waist and lines himself up with your entrance.

“baby i need to feel you cum around my cock.” he lets out a deep, guttural groan when he pushes inside of you.

“fuck. ive missed this. ive missed this so much.” he pulls down your dress just far enough so he can suck onto your boob.

you moan, when he starts moving his hips hard against yours.

“you’re so big.” you cry out, wrapping both of your arms around his neck.

“jump.” michael says, letting go of your leg. you jump, wrapping both legs around his waist as both of his hands settle on your ass. he pushes you against the wall, still pounding into you with quick, efficient thrusts.

at this point you’re a blubbering mess as you feel your orgasm build up low in your stomach.

“fuck fuck fuckkkk.” you scream, from the intense pleasure.

“tell me you’re going to cum.” he growls, his hands tightening on your ass so he can manhandle your body to drop you down onto his whole length.

you can’t form words so all you do is nod. you clench, feeling the overwhelming pleasure of your realise.

“shit, im about to cum baby.” michael moans, dropping you down even faster. you hide your face in his neck, as you just let him fuck you like you’re his own personal fuck toy. at this point, you’d love to be.

“godddd— fuckkkk.” you hear michael groan in your ear, pushing you down on his whole length as you feel his cock pulse inside you and the feeling of his seed filling your womb.

you both pant against each other, refusing to break apart.

“that was… the best sex… we’ve ever had.” you pant.

michael places his hand on the door, using it as an anchor to keep him standing.

he sets you down on the ground gently, as you immediately look around his dressing room for some tissues so you can clean yourself up.

you can’t believe you’ve just had sex when there’s literally celebrities right next door.

“i can’t believe we just had sex in public.” you laugh, wiping yourself with tissue and making sure that there’s no bodily fluids on your dress.

“neither can i.” michael scoffs, buttoning up his pants.

just as you two got yourself somewhat presentable, the door bursts open, revealing janet.

“oh my god, there you two are. i was looking for you everywhere.” she says.

you and michael stand there completely frozen. you have never been so grateful in your whole damn life, because if you and michael took any longer, his own sister would’ve walked into you guys having sex.

“are you guys okay? did you sort out everything?” she asks, leaning against the door.

you cover your face in embarrassment. janet has no idea that she is standing in the exact place, her brother just fucked you at.

“we’re fine.” michael says quickly.

“okay.” janet nods. “well just to tell you that the award show is over now and everyone’s starting to go to the after party.” she closes the door but not without giving you a weird glance.

oh she knows.

she definitely fucking knows.

“oh my god.” you say, looking up at michael with wide eyes. “we nearly got caught.”

michael lets out a loud laugh. “it’s okay. we didn’t get caught.”

“yeah but we nearly did.” you sigh, placing a hand on your beating heart.

“anyways,” you start. “i need to go to my hotel room and change so we can head to the after party.” you start to walk out, even though your legs are a bit shaky from the brutal fucking you just endured but you freeze when you realise michael is not behind you.

“what?” you ask.

“you want to go to the after party? together?”

you give him a smile, “yeah.” you nod. “i think it’s time to let all these women know that you’re a taken man.”

michael bites his lip, looking you up and down like he wants to fuck you again.

“i’m never letting you out of my sight again.” he says, grabbing you by the waist, and placing a sweet kiss on your lips.

“you better not.” you laugh. “because i won’t be so forgiving next time.”

and with that you both leave the dressing room hand in hand, preparing for your future of being in the spotlight as michael jackson’s soon to be wife.

sequel - running up that hill

extra AN: guys im sorry if the smut is shit or if i forgot to tag anyone. this is the longest fic ive ever done and mama is tired.