iandeverything

The studio was loud.

Voices everywhere, people moving around constantly, cameras flashing every few seconds, celebrities laughing across the room while production staff hurried back and forth trying to keep everything organized.

And somehow, through all of it, Michael still only seemed focused on you.

“You okay?” he asked softly for probably the fifth time in the last twenty minutes.

You looked up from where you were fixing the collar of his jacket, trying not to laugh. “Michael, baby, I’m fine.”

“Mhm,” he mumbled, unconvinced.

His hands settled automatically on your waist while he watched you straighten the fabric near his shoulders. Even surrounded by half of Hollywood, Michael stayed attached to you like he physically couldn’t help himself.

And

You didn’t mind at all.

Especially not tonight.

Because every time a certain somebody drifted a little too close to him, suddenly you felt extra affectionate.

Your fingers slid carefully through the curls near Michael’s forehead, fixing a few loose strands while he stood there staring at you all soft and shy like he always did whenever you touched him too much in public.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” you teased quietly.

Michael smiled immediately, ducking his head a little. “Can’t help it.”

Lord.

He was adorable.

You leaned up without hesitation and kissed his cheek slowly, purposely lingering for a second longer than necessary.

The reaction was immediate.

Michael’s entire face went pink.

“Oh my God,” he muttered under his breath while smiling hard, trying to hide it.

You just laughed softly and smoothed your thumb against his jaw.

“Cute,” you whispered teasingly.

Michael immediately hid his face near your shoulder. “Stop.”

“No,” you said instantly, grinning.

Across the room, a few people noticed immediately.

Lionel started grinning.

Quincy looked exhausted already.

And Randy burst out laughing from one of the couches nearby. “Man, she got you BAD.”

Michael rolled his eyes instantly, though he still looked ridiculously happy.

“Leave me alone,” he mumbled.

“You was not this clingy before her,” Jermaine added loudly.

“That’s what I’m sayin’!” Marlon laughed. “He follow her around like a lost puppy now.”

You started laughing before you could stop yourself, and Michael immediately turned toward you with the most offended expression imaginable.

“Baby, don’t encourage them.”

“Oh, but I’m encouraging this REAL bad,” Marlon said.

Michael groaned dramatically and pulled you closer against his side, burying his face near your shoulder for a second while everybody laughed at him.

Which honestly only made you more affectionate.

You turned your head slightly and pressed another kiss against the side of his neck this time.

That shut him up instantly.

“…girl,” he whispered weakly.

You felt him tighten his grip around your waist.

“Now you shy?” you teased softly near his ear.

Michael looked at you like you were trying to kill him.

And somewhere across the room, Diana noticed.

You noticed too.

So did Michael, judging by the way he suddenly got quieter beside you.

Your expression softened immediately.

Without even thinking about it, you reached up and fixed the curls near his face again before kissing his forehead gently this time.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

Michael looked at you for a second before smiling in that shy little way he did whenever he got overwhelmed.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I am now.”

God.

You loved him bad.

And judging by the way he looked at you?

Everybody else could tell he loved you even worse.

At one point while Quincy was talking to a group nearby, you casually walked over to Michael again and adjusted the chains resting against his jacket.

Michael blinked down at you immediately.

“You keep fixin’ my clothes,” he said softly.

“Because you keep lettin’ people mess ‘em up,” you teased.

He smiled again. That soft, stupidly pretty smile that always made you want to kiss him.

So you did.

Quick little kiss right near the corner of his mouth.

Michael froze instantly.

Jermaine nearly screamed.

“Oh my GOD,” he yelled dramatically. “Can y’all act normal for FIVE minutes?”

You burst out laughing while Michael tried hiding his face again.

“Nope,” you answered for him.

Michael looked absolutely gone.

Like genuinely gone.

Especially when you casually slid into his lap later during one of the breaks like it was the most natural thing in the world.

One of his arms wrapped tightly around your waist immediately while the other rested across your thigh.

Comfortable.

Automatically.

You leaned back against his chest comfortably while he rested his chin near your shoulder.

“You know people keep starin’ at us?” you whispered jokingly.

Michael shrugged against you without a single ounce of shame.

“Let ‘em stare.”

You turned slightly just to look at him properly because honestly? That confidence coming from him was rare.

Michael noticed immediately and smiled shyly again.

“What?”

“Nothin’,” you mumbled, grinning.

A few seconds later he leaned closer toward your ear quietly enough that almost nobody else could hear him.

“…I just like when you’re close to me.”

Your entire expression softened.

You turned your head and kissed him again, slower this time.

The room around you practically disappeared for a second.

And when you finally pulled away, Michael was smiling so hard it looked painful.

“There he go,” Marlon muttered dramatically from across the room. “That’s that look again.”

“You mean the look he get every time she breathe near him?” Randy added.

Everybody started laughing again.

Michael just rolled his eyes and tightened his arms around you even more while resting his face against your neck.

Like he needed everybody in the room to know exactly who you belonged to.

And maybe

Just maybe

You liked that a little too much.

Yes i was listening to micheal's music while making this

taglist: @simply-lovley44 @cocomilaa

just comment or send me a message if you wanna be added as well and make sure to check out my other works on michael and other characters. just check my pinned masterlist on my page, and if you have a request, please check my do’s and don’ts first. thank you 🫶🏽

also, i’m a new and young writer, and i just wanna say thank you for all the likes, reblogs, and follows. they really go a long way in showing me that the work i put a lot of time and effort into is appreciated.

Your house with Michael sits with a stunning view at the edge of a hill in California, secluded from the rest of the scenic neighborhood.

When you both purchased the place and moved in together, you took the liberty of renovating the place inside and out. The roof, windows, walls, floors, kitchen, bathroom. All of it. It’s a house filled to the brim with your favorite belongings, pictures, and memories, now officially mixed in with his.

Stepping out of the car arranged for you, you lift your sunglasses from your face to drink in the sight of home. Bees buzz about in the dozens of fresh flowers you’ve planted, and glancing up, you catch the view of the curtains flowing inside the house through the open window. You smile.

Turning to your chauffeur, you stuff your sunglasses in your purse. “Thanks, Fran!” You shout.

“You’re welcome, sweetie! You get inside safe, now.”

You chuckle lightly as you walk down the front steps, finding it sweet that your driver refuses to leave until she knows you’re inside. The place smells like a floral shop and bakery combined into one when you open the front door, the scent of cookies and daisies attacking your nose.

You take your work heels off and toss them to the side. “Mikey! I’m home!” You call.

Traveling into the kitchen, you await his response as you take a peek at a tray of freshly baked desserts on the counter. It has chocolate chip cookies, muffins, red velvet cupcakes, and cheesecakes. You lick your lips as you try to decide which you’ll try first.

Your personal chef walks out of the pantry and into the kitchen, wiping at her apron. She sees you eyeing the sweets and nods encouragingly. “Like the desserts?” She asks, her French accent thick.

“They look incredible!" You praise. "Did Michael have you make all these?”

"Uh," The chef blinks slowly at you. “Pardon?”

“…Michael? Did he ask you to make these?”

You furrow your eyebrows, unsure as to why she didn’t understand your question. She looks around the kitchen for a moment before gazing back at you like you've got three heads.

“Michael is in Europe, madame.”

Your body stills to the point where you look like you’re a photograph, and the stutter that’s suddenly taking over the way you speak doesn’t go unnoticed by the chef, who frowns. “What do you mean, Europe? Like… like the- wait,” You press your fingers to your temples, shock coursing through you. “The continent? Michael is in Europe?”

“Yes,” The chef mutters cautiously. She looks petrified.

You open and close your mouth so much you look like a fish struggling to breathe. You almost feel like a joke is being played on you.

“Right now?” You ask.

“Yes, madame.”

You narrow your eyes. “As we speak?”

“...Yes, madame.”

“Which country?” You question.

“Germany, madame.” The chef nods once, like she's sure of it.

You laugh bitterly, the sound of it bouncing right off the high ceiling and spacious walls. “Well, he didn’t let me know!" You complain.

The chef’s frown deepens. “I’m very sorry, madame, he told me to tell you- I just- you were at work and I started baking and--”

You shake your head and sigh, waving a dismissive hand. “No, it’s not your fault. He should have told me himself that he was leaving. Not just… up and go like…” You trail off, not wanting to continue your sentence.

“Like you mean nothing?” The chef finishes for you. You sigh sadly.

Grabbing a cookie from the tray, you hold it up to her in both a 'thank you' and a ‘see you later’ kind of way. You head off towards the main bedroom, tossing your purse onto the floor in frustration.

How could he do something like that?

In what world was it normal for someone to get up, leave to another country, and not say anything to their loved ones? To leave it to the chef? He’s just packed up and taken off to another continent without so much as a letter or note! Maybe that was something that was casual in Michael’s world, but it wasn’t in yours.

Fury laces through you. Your feet start carrying you in laps around the front of the bed, and during a particularly rough stomp, your eyes fall to the corded phone on the dresser.

You’re calling Michael’s personal line before you can even think about it, hand crushing the wire.

“Hello?” He answers casually.

“Germany?” You snarl, not even bothering to return the greeting. “You’re in Germany?”

Michael fumbles on the other end as he tries to process who he’s talking to. “I- uh- Baby?”

“Are you in Germany right now, Michael Jackson?” You angrily grunt, too impatient to establish what’s going on. You feel like a nuke that’s a couple of seconds away from exploding.

The use of his full name has him sucking in a sharp breath, the sound filling your ear. He responds with a careful, gentle, “Yes…”

You stare at the wall in front of you, a sick feeling curdling in your veins. “And you didn’t think to tell me about it beforehand? You think it’s okay to just not talk to me and leave without a trace?”

Your voice is calm and cold, the noises of what sounds like a business meeting fading on the other line as Michael walks to a more quiet area. “N-no, baby, of course not--”

You start to walk in laps again as you reorganize your thoughts, however the phone cord doesn’t let you go far.

“You left it to the chef to tell me, like I’m some… employee of yours or an assistant or something!”

“Wait, hold on, mama--”

“How long are you going to be there?” You snap.

“I’m coming back in three days,” he hesitantly replies.

Well.

If Michael doesn’t think it’s necessary to talk to you about things, why should you talk to him?

You hang up the phone right then and there with no goodbye, a bad taste in your mouth. You feel blindsided and abandoned, even if that wasn’t Michael’s intention. It’s not even like you would have been annoyed or upset with him leaving the country! You understand that his job requires a lot of traveling from him, but a simple note or call would have sufficed!

But he left you behind, without a hug or kiss goodbye. No warning, no care.

Tears well up in your eyes as your anger morphs into something melancholy. When you walk out the bedroom and down the hallway, you hear the phone beginning to ring.

You let it. For three whole days, in fact.

The rest of Michael’s trip is spent by you dodging his calls, fixated on making him feel as ignored as you did. He tries to have other people relay messages to you after realizing you purposefully aren’t answering, but you ignore each one. It’s clear that nothing is getting across until he gets back.

It doesn’t help that you’ve been keeping an eye on him through the media, either. All the photos of him having a great time, the videos of fans cheering at him, it all makes you even more miserable. Not only has he left you without a word, it appears that he’s enjoying himself.

It’s around 8 PM when Michael finally returns home, and after three whole days of trying to gather your words and feelings, you’re certain that sometimes silence is louder than words.

Michael enters your guys’ home delicately, opening the front door and peeking his head in like he’s worried a lion will pounce on him the moment he steps inside. He’s wearing a black jacket and his signature shades, which don’t do well in concealing his nerves.

“Baby?”

In the living room, out of sight from the front door, you clench your eyes shut. With how loving his voice sounds, you know this is going to be hard.

The door shuts and your heart quickens when you hear his footsteps nearing. He enters the living room and stops suddenly, blinking at you with an expression you’ve never seen on him before.

“Hi...” He says, guarded. You flip the page of the book you’re pretending to read. “Are you.. okay?”

You don’t answer. Through the open back yard door, the bark of a neighborhood dog is the thin membrane keeping the two of you from being in pure silence. Your quietness wildly throws Michael off, his face contorting into genuine bewilderment.

He slowly stalks over to stand beside you. “I missed you," he purrs.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from impulsively lashing out. You missed me but didn’t bother to tell me you were leaving, you think to yourself. Crossing one leg over the other, you make yourself comfortable on the couch without removing your eyes from the book pages. Michael takes off his shades and lowers warily to sit an arm-length away from you.

“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” He asks softly. When you still don’t respond, he leans over to try and catch your eye. “Hello?”

You flip to the next page. Chapter 12, it says. What chapter 11 contained, you have absolutely no idea. You’ve been skimming over sentences and occasionally flipping pages for the last hour whilst your brain’s been going haywire. The past three days have been the worst of your life, and though you hate fighting with your man, his lack of communication and care for you is something you can’t let slide.

Michael moves his fingers to brush over the top of your hand, trying to take ahold of it. You shake him off, your eyebrows furrowing in irritation.

He sulks. “You still mad at me, mama?”

You turn your head away, trying to avoid the smell of his cologne and the way the musky scent makes your mouth water. You feel an ache in your bones. There’s no denying that you missed him.

“Can you talk to me please?”

He tries to caress your lower thigh, a touch he knows you love, but grunts in frustration when you tilt your leg away.

“Baby, come on,” He pleads. “You called me so upset but hung up so fast I barely had time to think, and then you refused to take my calls after and I- I’m just so--”

You huff audibly, the first noise he’s heard from you in three days. He freezes, cutting himself off as he waits for more. He waits for a roll of your eyes, or a lecture, or something. Anything.

“Will you look at me?” He pleads weakly.

You don’t, not even bothering to pretend to read your book anymore. “Please, pretty girl, just once?” He pleads again.

You snap your book shut, squeezing the spine. If you want to keep this up, you've got to get the hell out of here. Slowly, you stand, walking off towards the kitchen.

Michael follows you like a lost puppy. “I told the house staff to let you know I was leaving,” He explains, like you didn’t already know that. He’s following your every move as you stride over and whip the fridge open, examining its contents.

There’s nothing in there that you want. With how sensitive you've been feeling, everything in the fridge looks like too much.

Michael runs both hands down his exasperated face. “I don’t get it, baby! I had a meeting, and I had to go! And you were fine before I left!”

The last word of his sentence hangs in the air. He almost looks taken aback, like he’s just figured something out. His eyes are wide.

You slam the fridge shut, looking to try and take off again, but before you can take a single step he slips in front of you and takes your face into his hands. “Hey,” He says sternly. His face is up close to yours, after so long of missing him and craving him and feeling so hurt by him. Tears well up in your eyes, balancing on your lower lash line, and you know your resolve is starting to break. You look up to try and hold it together.

“Is it ‘cause I didn’t tell you myself?” He questions tenderly, regretful eyes boring into yours.

Your bottom lip quivers and your eyelids start to feel hot. Shit, you think in your head, this sucks.

Michael leans in and positions his head so that you’re forced to make eye contact with him, his curls falling over his forehead in that way you love so much. “Yeah?” He whispers, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “Is that it, baby?”

You close your eyes, allowing your tears to overflow. They glide down your face as you start to sniffle, but you still don’t answer him. Your chest is tight with the grudge you’ve been holding.

He wipes your tears with his hands, pressing delicate kisses to your cheeks. “I’m sorry, gorgeous. I didn’t think it was something so serious. I hate seein’ you like this,” He sighs out.

The kitchen lights are dim, the house quiet in the light aftermath of the night. It’s like the world has paused for a second, just to let you both figure yourselves out. You absentmindedly stand in front of the soft lights, not realizing how insanely beautiful he finds you when you’re backlit.

The energy between you starts to crackle like lightning, and he presses his face into your shoulder.

"Say something, please."

You don't. He groans. “Please, I’m begging you, just talk to me. Look at me. Something, baby, please. I miss you. God, I miss you, mama.”

You flatten your hand over your chest as he begs you, your throat closing. Your breaths are coming out uneven and shallow, but they somehow sound the same as his. It sounds like he’s in despair. Your guilt hits you like a bullet.

Before you can open your mouth to speak, however, he sinks to his knees in front of you out of nowhere. It effectively steals away what you were about to say.

“Oh- my god,” You stammer out, “Michael, get up.”

He shakes his head and grips your hips, smiling gently at the sound of your voice. “Not until you talk to me,” he demands.

You shake your head furiously, “Get up!”

“No!” He argues, his voice staying light. “Look, I was wrong, and I know that, pretty girl. I’ve never really- my whole life is flights and trips and tours and I just didn’t stop to think about how it would’ve felt to you because I thought it was normal,” He explains. His touch on your sides after so long without even speaking to him makes your knees and arms feel weak.

He continues. “I should’ve thought about you. Told you myself before I left instead of leaving it to the staff. You’re my girl, after all. You deserve better than that.”

The kitchen goes mute, save for the sound of the house’s AC working. You look down at him and his dark brown eyes, carding a hand through his curls. “You really made me feel like an afterthought,” You murmur quietly.

“An afterthought? God, no, baby, you’re all that’s ever on my mind. I couldn’t sleep without you in Germany. I can’t ever stop thinking ‘bout you,” Michael reassures you on his knees, kissing your abdomen. “I went about this like an idiot, mama, please let me make it up to you.”

Something blooms in your stomach at the way he’s talking to you, solidifying in your head that he’s genuinely sorry. You nod slowly, grabbing the collar of his shirt and tugging him.

“Okay, okay,” You weep. “Will you please get up now?”

Michael stands swiftly and bear hugs you. He cradles the back of your head as you bury your face into his chest and breathe in his scent. He presses a kiss to the top of your hair, his opposite arm wrapping across your back to enclose you in. “I’m sorry,” He apologizes again.

You paw at his muscular back, overcome with emotion. “'S okay. I’m sorry, too, I should’ve just communicated with you."

“No, you had every right to be upset,” He soothes.

“I was being petty.”

“Mhmm,” Michael hums with a flirty smile. “My petty girl.”

The tips of your ears turn red as you blush, the tiniest smile creeping over your face. "Shush," You grumble. He chuckles sweetly, his body like a furnace against yours.

"I mean it, gorgeous. You drove me up a wall not answerin' my calls, but I shouldn't have left you in the dark like that." He pulls your face from his chest and ghosts his lips over yours. Wrapping your arms over his shoulders, your eyelashes flutter against your cheek as you let your eyelids close.

The both of you sink into a kiss that's been long overdue. Michael starts tracing your silky skin all over, making tingles run down your back, and he kisses you with the utmost gentleness at first before it changes into something hungry and insatiable. Your foreheads bump together as he makes out with you like a starved man.

Both of his hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, and you moan into his mouth as he lifts you up and sits you on the island counter. "Missed you so much," You mumble on his lips, hugging him close as you kiss him.

"Mm," He pulls away and kisses at your jaw, "You're my everything. Future wife and all. I want the whole thing with you."

You pause, pushing back to look him in the face. Surely, he's not being serious.

"Really?" You ask him. He nods with a silly little smile, then widens his eyes.

"Not yet! Not- not right now, I- I wanna ask you properly," He rushes to say, his frantic tone making you giggle. He ducks his head as his face flushes, suddenly acting like a little boy with a crush. "But yeah. Really. Someday, if you want."

You smile happily at him. "Yeah, baby. I want."

He ends up kissing you well into the night, touching and caressing you in ways that make you feel like life's not real. It’s the perfect way to end the 3 day long hell-hole you've been undergoing.

All of the rage you've been building pours down an invisible drain as Michael keeps you close for the rest of the night.

The next day, and the days after that, he does the same; clinging to you like he never wants to let go.

“…Mama?”

You glanced up.

There he was in his favorite red, mickey cardigan, a white button-up underneath and a pair of black pants, damp curls still clinging to his forehead from his own shower.

His arms were folded across his chest as he watched you with the same expression he’d worn when you’d first taught him how to bake cookies—equal parts curiosity and concern.

“What’re you doin’?”

You smiled as you casually ripped off another strip without flinching or even blinking. “Waxing.”

“I know that…” he said, slowly stepping inside. “But…why?”

You blinked once. “…To get rid of hair?”

“But you’re already smooth, baby.”

“Well, I have to maintain that, honey.” You chuckled out, putting another strip of wax on your leg.

“You don’t have to though, your legs…” You looked at Michael and he did an ‘okay’ sign whilst nodding appreciatively.

You giggled at his silliness. “I just prefer to not have leg hair, Michael. I’ve been doing this for years now.”

RIIIP—

“Ohh, okay.” He crouched beside your leg, chin resting on one hand while he watched with genuine fascination.

“So…that stuff just…pulls all the hair out?”

“Mhm.”

“…Every single one?”

“Yep.”

“Doesn’t hurt?”

You paused. “…Baby.”

“What?”

“You know it hurts.”

He frowned dramatically.

“I’ve heard people say that but…” He shrugged confidently. “People exaggerate everything.”

You looked at him. “…Michael.”

“No, really!” he insisted, already smiling. “I mean, people screamed about getting tattoos too.”

“You don’t even have tattoos.” You raised an eyebrow.

“I know, but still.” He puffed out his chest like he was Popeye eating a can of spinach. “I’ve got a high pain tolerance.”

You stared at him with a straight, deadpan look. “Really? Do you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Mikey.”

“I do, (Name).”

“You cried because your tea was too hot.”

“That burned my tongue…!” He blinked his wide eyes and frowned a little.

“You cried because the dentist cleaned your teeth too hard.”

“They were rough….and it still hurts!” He huffed out, holding his cheek.

You couldn’t help but still coo and kiss his cheek, he immediately smiled. Your kisses always were the best cure.

“I still powered through it though mama, didn’t I?”

“Yes you did.”

He pointed dramatically at himself and grinned proudly.

“Then, I can handle pain.”

You stared for several long seconds before setting the wooden spatula down, exhaling.

“…You really wanna do this?”

“I do.”

“You sure?”

“I am.”

“You can’t get mad at me.”

“I won’t.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“…Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

———————

Michael now sat stiffly on the edge of the bathtub with one pant leg rolled nearly to his thigh while you carefully spread a smooth, even layer of warm wax across his shin.

His expression had changed entirely.

Gone was the fearless performer who had proudly announced his pain tolerance.

In his place sat your very nervous husband whose breathing had become noticeably quicker with every stroke of the wooden applicator.

His fingers gripped the edge of the tub so tightly his knuckles had turned pale. “…It…it’s supposed to be this warm?” he asked quietly.

“Mm-hmm.”

“It feels…strange.”

“That’s normal.”

“…Normal strange?”

“Yes.”

“…Or concerning strange?”

You couldn’t stop smiling. “Normal strange.”

He swallowed hard as you pressed the cloth strip firmly over the wax, smoothing it down several times.

His eyes followed every single movement of your hands. “You’re pressing awful hard.”

“It has to stick.”

“…Does it?”

“Yes.”

“…Maybe…” He laughed nervously. “…Maybe it already stuck enough.”

You ignored him, continuing to smooth the strip with practiced ease.

Michael stared at it in horrified silence before slowly lifting his gaze toward you. “Honey?”

“Yes Michael?”

“…When…when you pull…”

“Mm?”

“…Don’t…” He cleared his throat. “…Don’t pull too hard.”

You blinked. “Michael.”

“…Yeah?”

“That’s literally how the hair comes out.”

His face fell.

“…Oh.”

Silence.

“…Maybe…” he whispered hopefully, “…maybe just…ease it out?”

You burst into laughter.

“I’m serious!” He exclaimed.

“You can’t ease wax off.”

“Why not?”

“Because then it hurts more.”

His eyes widened so dramatically they looked ready to pop out of his head.

“…MORE?”

You nodded.

He immediately began shaking his head.

“No, no, no, no…” he muttered, already trying to slide backward off the tub. “You know what? I’ve thought about it, and body hair is natural. Hair protects us. Hair has feelings probably. We don’t need to do this—“

You gently grabbed his wrist before he could make his escape.

“You promised you’d prove me wrong.”

“I did…”

He looked at you with the expression of a man who had just realized he had signed a legally binding contract without reading it first.

“…Can we renegotiate?”

“No.”

“…Please?”

“No.”

“…What if I do the dishes for a month?”

“No.”

“I’ll organize the pantry.”

“No.”

“I’ll even eat brussels sprouts.”

You smiled sweetly. “No.”

You laughed softly. “Michael, even if you do all that, you can’t just have that strip of wax on your leg forever.”

“I’ll wear pants forever, I don’t like wearing shorts anyway—“

“Michael Joseph Jackson.”

Michael sighed dramatically before squeezing his eyes shut so tightly tiny lines formed around them. “…Okay…” he whispered. “Let’s count, please mama?”

“Okay.” You nodded half-heartedly.

Michael inhaled and exhaled so rapidly like he was performing for Wembley in front of millions.

“One—“

RIIIIP.

The scream that erupted from him was so spectacularly loud that every bird resting peacefully on the roof exploded into the sky at once in a frantic cloud of flapping wings.

Somewhere outside, a squirrel bolted across the yard in terror and all the animals around the home looked at the house in confusion.

Outside, one of the gardeners jumped nearly three feet into the air.

“JESUS CHRIST!”

His hedge clippers lurched sideways and shaved the top off an innocent rose bush. “OH SHIT!”

Another gardener dropped his rake.

“What happened?!”

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?”

“SOUNDED LIKE A MOUNTAIN GOAT??”

“IN CALIFORNIA??”

Inside, Michael was still screaming.

“AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Michael lurched forward, clutching his shin with both hands as though you had just amputated it.

“MY LEG!”

You stared at him, the wax strip still pinched between your fingers.

“Michael.”

“IT’S GONE!”

“It’s still attached.”

“I FELT MY SOUL LEAVE MY BODY!”

“It was one strip.” You were already laughing.

Not loudly.

Not enough for him to hear.

But your shoulders had begun shaking uncontrollably.

“Mama!” he cried. “Don’t laugh!”

“I’m not—” You snorted. “I’m not laughing.”

“You are! What the—you’re smiling!”

He held his perfectly healthy shin as you covered your mouth.

“I can’t believe you let that happen!”

“You asked me to do it. I warned you.”

“I didn’t know!”

“I told you.”

“You didn’t tell me it was gonna feel like SATAN HIMSELF WAS RIPPIN’ MY SKIN OFF.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“WASN’T THAT BAD?!”

He looked down at the waxing strip you’d just removed.

His already big eyes grew enormous as he looked at his hair.

“…That’s…” He pointed sadly. “Those were mine.”

“Mhm.”

“They’re gone.”

“Mhm.”

“They died.”

You burst into laughter at his dramatic antics.

He immediately pointed toward the waxing kit sitting peacefully on the counter.

“You.” He narrowed his eyes at it. “…You evil little machine…”

Of course, the kit—being inanimate—didn’t respond.

“You hurt me.”

Another dramatic pause.

“…And you’ve been hurtin’ my wife all this time?!”

He gasped.

“Mama…” Michael looked at you with genuine heartbreak. “…How long you been sufferin’?”

You stared at him. “I’m not suffering.”

“You are!”

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“YES IT DO!”

“It doesn’t.”

“It HAS TO.”

He glared at the innocent container of wax like it had personally insulted him.

“…You oughta be ashamed of yourself!”

He smacked the container off the counter. “I let you into my home, and you hurt me and my wife!”

Then he slowly crawled across the floor, sitting down next to you until his head landed dramatically in your lap. “I’m never trustin’ that thing again.”

Your fingers immediately found his curls, gently scratching his scalp as you just shook your head. “There you go.”

He sniffled.

“My leg still hurts.”

“I know.”

“I think it’s throbbin’.”

“I know.”

“…Can you kiss it?”

You laughed.

“You are soo dramatic.”

“Mama…” He looked up at you with those eyes. Who could say no?

You leaned down and pressed a tiny kiss against the smooth strip on his shin.

“There.”

He sighed happily.

“…Better.”

Several quiet moments passed while your fingers combed gently through his damp curls.

Then—

“…Uhm…honey?”

“Mhm?”

“…Promise me somethin’.”

“What is it?”

“If anybody asks…”

He looked up with watery brown eyes.

“…Tell ’em I fell.”

You smiled softly. “You want me to lie?”

“…Please.”

“‘Thought lying was bad.”

“Just this once, (Name)!” He clasped his hands together.

“You don’t understand baby…my brothers will make fun of me for 20 centuries if they found out about this…” Michael begged.

You just stared at him for the umpteenth time this hour before exhaling.

“But baby, you have a whole smooth perfect strip on your skin, what am I supposed to say? That you fell on a wax strip?”

“Uh…make up something! I’ll just wear long pants for the whole month— just please…cover f’me?” He looked up at you.

You laughed so hard you had to wipe tears from your own eyes.

“Alright.”

He relaxed again as you kissed his temple.

“…Thank you, (Name).”

———————

A week later…

The Jackson brothers had gathered in the living room, talking over coffee while laughter echoed comfortably through Hayvenhurst.

Michael wandered in wearing athletic shorts and long white socks, carrying a bowl of popcorn.

He plopped onto the couch.

Halfway through adjusting one of his socks, his pant leg rode up.

Jackie froze. “Hold up.”

Michael looked up.

“What?”

Tito leaned forward. “…Mike.”

Jermaine narrowed his eyes. “…Is that…”

Marlon pointed. “…Why is there one perfectly smooth rectangle on your leg?”

Silence.

Michael slowly looked down.

“…Oh.”

He immediately tugged the fabric down.

“Nothin’.” His voice went up one octave.

“It ain’t nothin’,” Jackie narrowed his eyes.

Jermaine leaned closer.

“…Mike.”

A pause.

“…Did…”

He whispered dramatically as he looked around before leaning his head close to Michael.

“…Did she wax you?”

The room filled with the brothers fell quiet.

Michael stared at them.

Then sighed.

“…Maybe.”

He closed his eyes, expecting them to clown on him, for them to torment him with this for years at every family gathering but…

Nobody laughed.

Instead—

Jackie slowly nodded. “…Yeah.”

Michael blinked in confusion.

“…Yeah?”

Jackie rolled up his own pant leg.

A suspiciously smooth strip sat on his calf.

“My wife dared me…it hasn’t grown back in months.”

Tito immediately lifted his jeans.

“…Mine said it’d ‘only sting for a second.’”

Jermaine groaned, shuddering.

“They all say that.”

Marlon pointed at himself.

“…Thought it’d be relaxing….that people were just exaggerating…”

Michael gasped. “You too?”

Jackie sighed deeply.

“I screamed.”

Marlon touched his own pant leg.

“Carol counted to three.”

Michael looked hopeful.

“Did she actually count?”

“…No.”

Michael’s face crumpled.

“Mine too.”

Jermaine nodded solemnly.

“That’s how they get you.”

“They all do that?”

“They all do that.”

Michael looked utterly devastated.

“…It’s not just me then?”

“No.”

“You were tricked.”

“I was.”

Jackie placed a comforting hand on Michael’s shoulder. “You survived.”

“I did.”

Marlon wrapped an arm around both of them. “We all survived.”

Jermaine joined the hug.

“Brothers.”

Michael sniffed dramatically.

“…Survivors.”

“Survivors.” They all said in unison.

Meanwhile, you and the other wives just stared at your husbands with straight, deadpan expressions.

You all then looked at each other whilst sipping on your drinks, all of you wore the same look that said—

“Girl. Are they deadass?”

Michael looked over at you from the middle of the hug, lower lip still pouting.

“Mama?” He called to you.

“Yes, baby?”

“…Tell them I was brave.”

You smiled despite yourself, sighing.

“Michael was very brave.”

His chest puffed up immediately.

“You hear that?”

Jermaine nodded with utmost seriousness. “The bravest.”

Jackie wiped away an imaginary tear. “Our little brother.”

Tito solemnly patted his back. “A warrior.”

Marlon squeezed him again. “A true survivor.”

The wives simply exchanged one exhausted look before shaking their heads in perfect unison.

Honestly…men.

.

.

.

Note: This idea came to me when my stupid brother said that waxing wasn’t that bad—that 🥷🏾was deaddd wronggg 😂

He still looks at me like I threw away all his money in a treasure chest into the ocean 😒 what a drama queen 😂

Not in the scandalous way the tabloids desperately tried to paint it, nor in the passing admiration celebrities often exchanged through magazines.

No—this was the kind of admiration that quietly settled itself into every answer he gave, every compliment he offered, every conversation where your name somehow managed to appear despite nobody asking about you directly.

It had begun in 1979, shortly after Off the Wall was released.

Michael had only just begun to experience what true artistic freedom felt like. His interviews had become longer, more personal.

Journalists wanted to know everything about him now—not just the music, but his favorite foods, his hobbies, what kind of books he read, whether he wanted to marry someday.

One television host leaned forward in his chair with a grin that suggested he already knew the question would embarrass him.

"So, Michael," he began, folding his cue cards together. "Millions of girls want to know this. What's your type? What kind of woman catches your eye? Who would you wanna ask out?"

Michael, who had been smiling politely only a second earlier, visibly stiffened.

His fingers, which had been folded neatly in his lap, tightened around one another.

"Oh..." A bashful laugh escaped him before he looked down at his loafers, rocking them against the floor. "I... um..."

The audience chuckled softly. The host waited patiently.

Michael rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks already turning pink beneath the studio lights. "I don't really... think about it much."

"Oh, come on." The audience laughed again. "There has to be someone."

Michael bit the inside of his cheek. He really hadn't planned on saying it. It simply... came out.

"I think..." he murmured, a shy smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "someone like (Name)."

The room immediately erupted into delighted laughter, the host raised both eyebrows.

"Oh?"

Michael blinked, suddenly realizing what he'd admitted.

"I just—I mean—she..." He laughed nervously, waving both hands as if trying to erase the sentence from existence. "She's very sweet."

"So it's (Name)?"

"I—I didn't say—"

"You literally just did."

"I mean..." He ducked his head with a grin so embarrassed it became contagious. "She's just... really wonderful."

The interview aired the following week, nobody thought much of it.

Then another interviewer asked six months later.

"If you could take any celebrity out to dinner, who would it be?"

Michael smiled thoughtfully. "Oh..."

He didn't even hesitate this time.

"(Name)."

The interviewer burst into laughter. "So you weren't joking last time?"

Michael looked confused.

"What?"

"You said exactly the same thing in your last interview."

"I did?"

"You don't remember?"

He frowned. "No."

The interviewer held up an old magazine. "'Someone like (Name),' ring any bells?"

Michael stared at the page, then slowly buried his face behind both hands. "Oh no..." The audience howled.

The pattern only became worse. Every interview seemed to circle back to you somehow.

"What female artist inspires you?"

"(Name)."

"Who's your favorite vocalist working today?"

Michael didn't even pretend to think. "(Name)."

"What artist do you think deserves more recognition?"

"Oh, definitely (Name)." His entire expression softened the instant he said your name. "Her voice is... it's just beautiful."

"What makes it beautiful?"

Michael actually sat forward in his chair.

For the first time in the interview, he looked genuinely animated.

"Oh... everything." His eyes lit up with that familiar childlike excitement he always had whenever music became the topic. "It's so... effortless. She doesn't force anything. She lets the melody breathe."

He absentmindedly moved one hand through the air as though conducting invisible notes. "Sometimes singers think louder means better, but she doesn't have to do that. She knows exactly when to hold back. She knows when to whisper. She knows when to let one little note do all the work."

He smiled to himself, almost forgetting there were cameras pointed at him. "Her phrasing is unbelievable. You can hear every emotion in the way she finishes a sentence. Even if she sings something simple, she makes it feel... important."

The interviewer blinked.

"...You've really listened to her albums."

Michael looked surprised by the question. "Well... yes."

"How many times?"

He laughed sheepishly. "I don't know."

"Take a guess."

Michael scratched his eyebrow. "...A lot."

"How many is 'a lot'?"

"I... um..." He looked down with another embarrassed grin. "...I lost count."

It became increasingly difficult for journalists to ignore.

Especially because Michael never complimented you the way celebrities usually complimented one another. His praise was strangely... detailed. As though he'd studied every song you'd ever released.

One afternoon, during the filming of a European television special, a journalist asked, "Have you heard (Name)'s newest duet?"

Michael smiled immediately. "Oh, yes."

"What did you think?"

"I loved it."

"What did you like most?"

Without missing a beat, he answered, "Her harmonies."

The interviewer tilted his head. "Anything else?"

Michael nodded enthusiastically.

"The second verse was incredible. She changed the melody just enough to make it sound fresh without taking attention away from the lyrics. And the little run she does before the final chorus..." He gently snapped his fingers as if replaying the moment in his head.

"That's difficult to do because if you over-sing it, it loses its feeling. She didn't. She made it sound so natural."

The interviewer glanced down at his notes. "...What about her duet partner?"

Michael frowned slightly. "Oh."

He genuinely seemed to have forgotten another person had even been on the record.

"He was..." Michael searched for the right word. "Very good too."

"'Very good?'"

"Yes."

"Anything specific?"

Michael thought for several long seconds.

"...He stayed in key."

The cameraman snorted.

The interviewer had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.

Michael looked between them, confused.

"What?"

The more interviews he gave, the harder it became to deny the obvious. He simply loved talking about your music.

Not because he was trying to impress anyone. Not because he expected to meet you. But because whenever someone mentioned your name, his entire demeanor changed.

His shoulders relaxed, his smile became brighter, his voice grew warmer.

He stopped speaking like a carefully rehearsed celebrity and started speaking like someone discussing the artist who genuinely inspired him.

"You know," he said during one radio interview, "I think one of the hardest things in music is making people believe what you're singing. Lots of people have beautiful voices." He shrugged gently. "But not everyone can make you feel like they're telling you the truth."

The radio host nodded. "And (Name) does that?"

Michael smiled to himself. "Every time."

"You've never met her."

"No."

"But you're this confident?"

He nodded without hesitation. "I think you can tell a lot about someone's heart through the way they sing."

The room fell unusually quiet, even the host looked momentarily touched.

Michael noticed the silence and quickly became flustered. "I-I mean..." He laughed awkwardly. "As an artist."

The host couldn't help smiling. "Sure, Michael."

"I did mean artistically."

"Mhm."

"I did."

"If you say so."

Michael covered his face with one hand, laughing into his palm while everyone in the studio joined in.

Back at Hayvenhurst, one evening he was sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, absentmindedly humming along to your newest single while scribbling lyrics into a notebook.

He didn't even realize he was smiling until Janet quietly walked in, stopped beside the couch, and watched him for nearly a full minute.

Without saying a word, she reached for the remote wanting to watch a show.

Click. The television switched to another channel.

Michael looked up immediately. "...Hey."

Janet innocently shrugged. "What?"

"My song was on."

"Your song?"

"You know what I mean."

She folded her arms, struggling to keep a straight face. "Oh... you mean (Name)'s song."

Michael froze.

Jermaine chose that exact moment to walk into the room carrying a bowl of popcorn.

"What happened?"

Janet pointed toward Michael.

"I changed the channel."

Jermaine looked at his younger brother's expression and immediately burst into laughter. "You interrupted his daily concert."

"I was listening."

"No," Jermaine corrected with a grin. "You were studying."

Michael rolled his eyes, trying very hard not to smile. "I appreciate good music."

Jackie wandered in next, curiosity written all over his face. "What's so funny?"

Jermaine didn't even hesitate. "Janet changed the channel to another, Mike's mad that he can't watch his girlfriend."

Michael's head whipped around so fast his curls bounced. "She is not my girlfriend!"

The room erupted. Janet clutched the couch cushion against her stomach. Jackie pointed at him, laughing in his face.

"You got defensive way too fast."

Jermaine leaned against the wall, wiping tears from his eyes. "That's it."

"What?"

"You've got it bad."

Michael buried his burning face into one of the couch pillows. "I hate all of you."

The room only became louder with laughter.

———————

If there was one thing Michael Jackson believed with his entire heart, it was that fans deserved to be treated with kindness.

He had built his career on that belief.

He knew what it felt like to admire someone from afar, to save magazine clippings, to memorize lyrics, to wait outside venues hoping for just a glimpse of an artist who had unknowingly changed your life.

So perhaps it shouldn't have surprised anyone—not even himself—that when it came to you, he acted almost exactly the same way.

The only difference was that he happened to be Michael Jackson.

And Michael Jackson, despite being one of the most recognizable people on Earth, was convinced that a baseball cap, an oversized brown windbreaker, a pair of thick-framed glasses that magnified his eyes just a little too much, and an obviously fake mustache were enough to render him completely anonymous.

He stood across the street from one of the largest unofficial fan clubs dedicated entirely to your career, adjusting the brim of his cap lower over his face before looking up at the storefront.

Your name stretched proudly across the front window in elegant lettering.

The display windows were filled with framed album covers, imported vinyl records, glossy concert photographs, promotional posters, handwritten lyric books, fan-made scrapbooks, newspaper clippings, cassette tapes, keychains, buttons, oversized tour jackets, and shelves upon shelves of memorabilia that looked as though they'd been lovingly collected over years.

Michael's eyes widened behind his glasses. "...Wow." The word escaped him before he could stop it.

He looked exactly like a child standing outside a toy store on Christmas morning.

After glancing once over each shoulder—as though the FBI were monitoring his movements—he quickly crossed the street and slipped through the front door.

A tiny bell chimed overhead.

Immediately, the scent of old magazines, cardboard record sleeves, and fresh coffee greeted him.

Dozens of fans milled around the shop, quietly chatting while flipping through photo albums or browsing stacks of imported merchandise.

Nobody paid him much attention.

Michael released the breath he'd unknowingly been holding. "See?" he thought proudly. "The disguise works."

It did not.

The young woman working behind the register took exactly one look at him. She blinked. Looked again. Then slowly leaned toward the employee beside her.

"...Is that..."

The second employee glanced over, his shoulders immediately began shaking.

"...That's absolutely Michael Jackson."

Neither of them said anything—Instead, they exchanged amused smiles.

If Michael Jackson wanted to pretend to be an ordinary fan...

Well...

Who were they to ruin his afternoon?

Michael wandered through every aisle with quiet fascination, stopping every few steps to examine another piece of memorabilia with almost reverent care.

He carefully lifted a limited-edition concert booklet from its display stand, smiling to himself as he turned each page with the gentleness usually reserved for priceless museum artifacts.

A wall filled entirely with your magazine covers kept him occupied for nearly fifteen minutes as he studied each photograph, occasionally nodding to himself whenever he found one he particularly liked.

He eventually reached an entire shelf dedicated to your albums.

Every pressing. Every country. Every alternate cover. Every promotional release.

He slowly reached out and ran his fingertips across the collection.

"...They even have the rare Japanese release..."

His voice carried just enough for another customer nearby to hear.

"You noticed that too?"

Michael looked down.

A middle-aged woman smiled warmly at him while holding one of your lyric books against her chest. "The mastering's different," she said. "The vocals sound warmer."

Michael's entire face lit up. "They do!"

"You've listened to it?"

"Oh, dozens of times."

She laughed. "I knew I wasn't imagining it."

For the next hour...they talked.

Then another fan joined them.

Then another and before long, nearly eight people had gathered around one tiny listening station near the back of the shop, passionately discussing your albums with the enthusiasm only genuine fans possessed.

Michael completely forgot he was supposed to be hiding.

He animatedly gestured with his hands while talking about your vocal technique, occasionally humming tiny sections of songs to explain exactly what he meant.

"I think one of my favorite things she does," he said, carefully balancing an unopened vinyl beneath one arm, "is how she never sings exactly the same melody twice during live performances. Most people don't even notice it, but she'll change one note—just one—and suddenly the whole phrase feels brand new."

Several fans nodded immediately. "Exactly!" "I've been saying that!"

"And when she sings softly," Michael continued, becoming more excited with every sentence, "she doesn't lose any emotion. That's really difficult. Usually singers compensate by adding more volume, but she doesn't need to. She trusts the audience enough to lean in and listen."

A younger fan grinned. "You sound like you've analyzed every performance she's ever done."

Michael looked down sheepishly. "...Maybe."

The entire group laughed.

One elderly gentleman folded his arms. "So..."

Michael looked up.

"...what's her best song?"

Michael answered so quickly it was almost startling. The room erupted into another lively debate.

Nobody treated him like the King of Pop. Nobody asked for an autograph. Nobody interrupted him.

For nearly three hours, he wasn't Michael Jackson.

He was simply another person who adored your music as much as everyone else in the room. And strangely...

He loved it.

Eventually, he made his way toward the register carrying what could only be described as an alarming amount of merchandise.

Three oversized shopping baskets overflowed with tour books, imported records, promotional posters, fan-made photo collections, commemorative pins, cassette tapes he already owned, several duplicate albums "just in case," two sweatshirts, four T-shirts, calendars, magazines, and a stack of glossy photographs so tall he had to balance them carefully beneath one arm.

The cashier slowly scanned the mountain of items, sighing through her nose.

"...Big fan?"

Michael nodded with complete sincerity. "The biggest."

"I can tell." After everything had been bagged, she slid the last receipt across the counter before leaning forward ever so slightly. "You know..."

Michael looked up.

"...Your mustache is peeling."

His entire body froze. Slowly...very slowly...he reached up. Sure enough...one corner had come unstuck. Silence.

The cashier blinked, she then spoke dryly. "So... should I make the receipt out to 'Michael Jackson'?"

Michael stared at her for a full three seconds before letting out the most defeated little laugh. "...You knew?"

She looked around the shop. Every single fan looked back at him with identical amused smiles. One of them raised a hand. "We knew the second you walked in."

Another nodded, "The glasses didn't help."

"The mustache made it worse."

Michael covered his face with both hands. "Oh, my goodness..."

The room filled with affectionate laughter, one fan gently nudged his shoulder.

"Don't worry, we weren't going to bother you."

"We figured today..." another added with a grin, "...you deserved to just be one of us."

Michael lowered his hands and his smile softened. "...Thank you."

It was a simple sentence. Quiet. Completely genuine.

The room fell warmly silent for a moment before someone held up one of your newest posters. "So..."

Michael immediately smiled again.

"What about this photoshoot?" The discussion resumed as though nothing had happened. Unfortunately for Michael...

The paparazzi had much sharper eyes than he did, because the next morning, newspaper stands across Los Angeles displayed nearly identical headlines.

MICHAEL JACKSON SPOTTED IN MYSTERIOUS DISGUISE!

KING OF POP VISITS (NAME) FAN CLUB?

SECRET SHOPPING TRIP ENDS WITH ARMS FULL OF MERCHANDISE! KING OF POP OR PRESIDENT OF THE FANCLUB?!

Grainy photographs covered nearly every entertainment section.

One showed Michael standing outside the shop in his oversized coat, awkwardly tugging at the fake mustache that had already begun peeling away.

Another captured him leaving with so many shopping bags that they nearly reached his shoulders, forcing him to peek around them just to see where he was walking.

Perhaps the most humiliating picture of all showed him enthusiastically pointing at one of your posters while speaking to a circle of laughing fans, his hands moving animatedly as though he were giving an academic lecture instead of discussing his favorite artist.

Hayvenhurst was unusually quiet that morning. Michael sat at the breakfast table with the newspaper folded neatly beside his plate.

He hadn't touched it in ten minutes. He was pretending it didn't exist.

Unfortunately...His brothers had eyes.

Jermaine walked into the dining room first, coffee mug in hand. He noticed the newspaper immediately. He stopped. Looked at the front page. Looked at Michael. Looked back at the newspaper.

A grin slowly spread across his face. "Oh..."

Michael kept buttering his toast. "No."

Jermaine hadn't even said anything yet as Jackie wandered in next, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Morning—"

Jermaine silently turned the newspaper toward him. Jackie read the headline. Then doubled over laughing so hard he had to grab the back of a chair to stay upright.

"What?" Tito called from the hallway. Jermaine couldn't answer, he simply pointed. Tito picked up the paper.

Five seconds later, he burst into laughter loud enough to bring Marlon into the room. "What happened?"

Jackie wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. "Our little brother..." He could barely finish the sentence. "...joined a fan club."

Michael sighed deeply. "I did not join a fan club."

Jermaine snorted. "No?"

He tapped one photograph.

"Then why are you buying enough merchandise to open your own museum?"

"I was supporting her."

"You bought four copies of the same album."

"They're different pressings."

"The article says you debated her bridge on track six with strangers for almost an hour."

"They understood what I meant."

"They called you 'Mike' by the end."

Michael muttered something unintelligible into his coffee as his brothers laughed.

From that day forward...an inside joke was born.

Whenever Michael entered a room, one of his brothers would immediately stand up, walk over with exaggerated seriousness, and extend a hand. "Welcome to the fan club."

Michael would groan before reluctantly shaking it.

Jermaine always followed with an overly formal nod. "Our president has arrived."

Marlon would clap dramatically before cackling.

Tito usually added, "Have you paid your membership dues this month?"

And Jackie—who somehow found the joke just as funny every single time—would lean over and ask with the straightest face imaginable, "Any new merchandise releases we should know about, Mike?"

The four of them would dissolve into laughter before Michael even had the chance to defend himself.

"I hate every single one of you," he'd mumble, unable to hide the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Jermaine would throw an arm around his shoulders, still chuckling.

"No, you don't."

Jackie nodded toward the newspaper still sitting on the table. "You know what the funniest part is?"

Michael sighed. "What?"

Jackie grinned.

"You never denied being her biggest fan."

Michael looked down at the photograph of himself leaving the fan club with his arms full of shopping bags. After a moment, the corner of his mouth lifted into a sheepish smile. "...Because it's true."

———————

The award show itself was spectacular.

Every seat in the auditorium glittered beneath golden lights that swept across the audience like slow-moving stars.

Crystal chandeliers reflected flashes from hundreds of cameras, while orchestral music drifted through the room between commercial breaks.

Conversations filled every corner of the theater as the biggest names in entertainment greeted one another with hugs, laughter, and handshakes.

Backstage was even more chaotic.

Stage managers hurried down hallways with clipboards tucked beneath their arms, assistants rushed costumes from one dressing room to another, makeup artists chased performers for last-minute touch-ups, and producers spoke urgently into headsets while counting down to the next live segment.

Michael had just stepped offstage after delivering one of the most electric performances of the evening. His breathing was still uneven from the choreography, tiny beads of perspiration clung to the curls framing his forehead.

An assistant gently draped a towel around his shoulders while another handed him a bottle of water. "You were incredible, Michael."

"Thank you."

"You can go back to your seat now." He nodded absently, barely listening.

His attention had already drifted somewhere else.

Down the hallway, standing near a cluster of dressing rooms...

Was you.

You were speaking with your manager, one hand wrapped loosely around a cup of tea while the other moved naturally as you laughed at something someone had said.

Even from several yards away, your smile carried easily through the busy corridor, warm enough that people passing by found themselves smiling back without realizing it.

Michael stopped walking. His fingers slowly lowered the water bottle. His shoulders straightened instinctively.

For just a moment, the bustling hallway seemed strangely quiet. He couldn't hear the stage crew anymore.

There was only one thought in his mind.

She's actually here.

Not on a television screen. Not on the cover of an album. Not across an arena.

Right there.

Only a few steps away.

His heartbeat picked up so suddenly that he instinctively pressed a hand against his sweaty chest. "Oh..."

A stagehand walking past noticed where he was looking and smiled to himself before continuing on.

Michael inhaled slowly, he smoothed the front of his blue polo. Ran a nervous hand through the curls at the back of his neck.

Then quietly muttered to himself, "Just say hello."

He took one step—stopped. Shook his head.

"No, that's weird."

Another step.

"What if she's busy?"

He took a third.

"What if she doesn't know who I am?"

An assistant passing by blinked at him. "...Michael." He looked over. "She definitely knows who you are."

"Oh." He laughed softly at himself. "Right."

He felt ridiculous but still...

He started walking again, one careful step after another. Trying very hard not to look like someone walking toward the person he'd admired for nearly a decade.

You happened to glance in his direction, your eyes met for the briefest instant.

You smiled politely.

Michael forgot how to function.

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. He managed exactly one tiny wave.

You returned it with a smile. The most beautiful smile he's ever seen.

He thought his heart might actually stop. He was close enough now that another few seconds would have been enough.

Enough to introduce himself, enough to tell you how much your music had inspired him, enough to finally have a conversation after years of only speaking about you in interviews and defending your artistry to anyone who would listen.

Then—

A familiar voice called your name.

You turned. Prince appeared from the opposite end of the hallway, already dressed for his upcoming performance.

He greeted you with an easy grin. You smiled back.

One of the producers hurried over. "There you two are!"

He clapped his hands together. "You're on in two minutes."

Michael's smile slowly disappeared.

He watched as Prince naturally fell into step beside you. The two of you exchanged a few words that he couldn't hear before disappearing behind the stage entrance together.

Michael remained exactly where he was, completely still.

His eye twitched.

A dancer from his crew approached cautiously. "...uh..Mike?"

Without taking his eyes off the curtains, Michael answered in an unusually flat, low voice. "They're performing together?"

"I... think so."

"They're doing a duet?"

"...Looks like it."

Michael slowly nodded once. "I see."

The dancer shifted awkwardly.

"You okay?"

Michael smiled. It was the tightest, most painfully forced smile anyone in the room had ever seen.

"I'm wonderful."

"You don't look wonderful."

———————

The moment the lights dimmed, the entire atmosphere of the award show shifted.

The endless chatter that had filled the room softened into anticipation as the stage transformed, the golden glow of the spotlights cutting through the darkness while the audience settled into their seats.

Michael had been expecting another performance—another impressive display from two of the biggest artists in the world, trying to put his jealousy aside—but he was not prepared for the sight that unfolded in front of him.

The opening notes echoed through the venue, smooth and dramatic, and then you stepped onto the stage beside Prince, immediately commanding the attention of everyone watching.

There was a confidence in the way you carried yourself, the kind that came from years of knowing exactly who you were as an artist. You didn't need to demand attention; the room naturally followed you.

Every movement was deliberate, every expression matching the emotion of the song perfectly.

The audience immediately reacted, cheers rising as you began the first verse, your voice filling the arena with a warmth and power that made people instinctively lean closer.

Michael, however, barely moved.

He had been sitting with the composed expression he always wore at award shows, one hand resting against his chin, the other tapping lightly against his armrest.

But the second your voice came through the speakers, that carefully controlled expression disappeared.

His eyes widened slightly, his head tilting forward as if he needed to make sure he was hearing every single note correctly.

He knew your voice better than most people did.

He had spent years listening to your albums, studying the choices you made, admiring the way you could turn a simple lyric into something emotional.

But hearing you live was always different. There was something raw about it that recordings could never completely capture.

He watched you move across the stage, watched the way you connected with the audience, watched the way you shaped every phrase with such effortless control, and despite himself, he found himself smiling.

A genuine smile, the kind he rarely showed in public unless he was truly impressed.

One of the people sitting near him noticed almost immediately.

Michael wasn't watching the performance like a fellow celebrity watching another celebrity. He was watching like a fan.

Then Prince joined in.

At first, Michael tried to remain neutral.

He really did.

Prince was talented. Michael knew that. He respected him as a musician and understood why audiences loved him.

But as soon as the two of you began harmonizing together, Michael's admiration for your part of the performance quickly became something much more complicated.

The two of you moved around each other effortlessly, trading lines back and forth with a chemistry that was impossible to ignore.

Prince played into the performance with his usual confidence, leaning into the dramatic energy of the song, and you responded naturally, smiling as the two of you sang together.

And Michael hated how much the audience loved it.

Not because you weren't incredible—you were.

That was the problem.

You were so incredible that he couldn't even convince himself he was annoyed at the performance itself. His frustration was entirely focused on one person standing beside you.

Prince.

Michael's expression slowly changed. The smile faded. His eyebrows drew together slightly. His fingers, which had been tapping along with the rhythm, stopped. He shifted in his seat.

Then shifted again.

At first, people around him thought he was simply enjoying the performance intensely, but anyone who knew Michael well could see the difference.

His eyes followed every single interaction between you and Prince. Every glance. Every smile. Every moment where the two of you stood closer than necessary.

When Prince stepped toward you during the final section of the song, Michael immediately straightened.

When you laughed at something Prince whispered during the performance, Michael's mouth pressed into a thin line.

And when the final chorus arrived, the entire audience erupted as the music built toward the ending.

The stage lights became brighter.

The crowd was already on their feet.

Then Prince took your hand.

Michael's eyes narrowed.

He watched as Prince spun you gracefully, catching you at exactly the right moment before lowering you into a dramatic dip.

You trusted him completely, your laughter blending with the cheers of the audience as the final note rang through the arena. It was a classic award-show ending—the kind designed to make people scream.

And people did.

Everyone except Michael.

Michael sat frozen, his jaw tightened and his eyes remained locked on the stage.

Then, as Prince held you there for the final pose, he looked out into the audience.

And his eyes landed directly on Michael. For one brief moment, neither of them looked away.

Prince's expression was subtle, but Michael understood immediately.

It was a challenge.

A playful one.

A smug one.

The kind that only made Michael's jealousy worse.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, almost offended.

His lips parted.

Then, barely audible beneath the roaring applause, he muttered to himself, "He's dead."

The person sitting beside him turned sharply.

Michael immediately realized what he had done.

"No, no, I mean—"

He quickly composed himself, forcing his expression back into something polite as the cameras swept across the audience.

"Congratulations to them," he said, much louder.

The problem was...

Nobody believed him.

The people around him exchanged amused looks.

They had heard exactly what he said.

And judging by Michael's expression as he clapped his large hands loudly with a lot of force—he knew they knew.

———————

When it was finally time for the award for Best Male Performer of the Year, the tension in the room had completely changed.

The earlier performances had set the stage, and now the audience waited as the presenter stepped forward with the envelope in hand. The nominees appeared one by one on the massive screens, each name receiving applause from the crowd.

Michael Jackson.

Prince.

Several other legendary performers.

The moment Michael's name appeared, the audience erupted.

He sat calmly, hands folded together, his face unreadable.

But those closest to him could see the tiny hint of confidence in his expression.

The presenter opened the envelope.

"And the winner is..."

The entire room became silent.

Michael leaned back slightly.

"...Michael Jackson!"

The crowd exploded. The applause was immediate and deafening.

Michael paused for a moment, allowing the reaction to wash over him. Then slowly, almost dramatically, he stood from his seat.

And there it was.

That smile.

The one that appeared whenever Michael knew he had something to prove.

He adjusted the front of his jacket, smoothed down his sleeve, and accepted congratulations from those around him before making his way toward the stage.

But as he walked past Prince, he couldn't resist.

He stopped.

Just for a second.

Prince looked up at him.

Michael smiled.

Not a rude smile.

Not openly.

But definitely smug.

The kind of smile that said remember earlier?

Prince's expression immediately hardened.

His jaw tightened.

He knew exactly what Michael was doing.

"You enjoy that too much," Prince muttered quietly.

Michael leaned slightly closer, pretending not to hear.

"What was that?"

Prince stared at him.

"Nothing."

Michael's smile widened.

"That's what I thought."

Then he continued toward the stage.

Prince watched him walk away with an expression of pure irritation.

The cameras didn't catch the quiet exchange.

But everyone close enough to see it were so shocked and knew that they would be sharing this story for years to come.

This was no longer about the award.

———————

Michael reached the microphone holding the award.

He looked down at the trophy in his hands before looking back at the audience, his voice soft and slightly nervous as he began,

"Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much. Um, honestly, I don't know what to say. This is such a great honor because there are so many incredible artists here tonight, so many people who inspire me and continue to push music forward..." He paused as he smiled shyly.

"I want to thank God, my family, especially my fans, everyone who has supported me throughout my career. I wouldn't be standing here without the people who believed in me when I was just a kid who loved to sing and dance. This award means more than I can really explain."

He paused, taking a breath as the applause continued. For a moment, he looked exactly like the shy Michael everyone knew—the humble artist who never wanted to appear too proud of himself. Then his eyes moved toward you in the audience. His expression softened.

"And I also want to say something about tonight's performances. There are moments when you watch someone perform and you remember why you love music in the first place. You remember why you started. And tonight, I had one of those moments watching (Name). She has one of the most incredible voices I've ever heard. The way she feels a song, the way she connects with people, the way she can take a simple melody and turn it into something that stays with you... that's a gift. That's something special."

The audience smiled, immediately understanding where his attention was. Michael's confidence grew as he continued, his shoulders relaxing, his famous playful side beginning to appear.

"And, uh, I also saw her duet tonight." He looked toward Prince who had an unreadable but obviously irritated expression briefly before smiling.

"Very interesting performance. Very entertaining. But I think everyone here knows when someone has a voice that can carry a song, they don't need much help."

Laughter immediately spread through the room. Michael smiled wider. "Sometimes one person just has that magic. And (Name), you definitely have that magic." He lifted the award slightly.

"So next time you want to do a duet, I think you should choose someone who can keep up with you a little better."

The audience erupted in gasps and shock. Michael laughed, now completely comfortable, the shy nerves gone.

"Maybe someone with a little more experience. Maybe someone who knows how to let that incredible voice shine."

He looked directly at you, blowing a kiss between his two fingers before adding with a playful wink, "I'm just saying, I'm available."

The entire theater exploded into laughter and applause.

Michael stepped back from the microphone, smiling proudly as you sat there completely stunned, your cheeks warm and your expression caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

You put your hand over your mouth in absolute shock. “What the hell just happened…?”

.

.

.

long before the world knew his name, michael knew the specific creak of your back porch steps. even as a child, your presence felt like a soft exhale in the middle of a scream. while the jackson house was a whirlwind of rehearsals, rhythmic thumping, and joseph’s booming voice, your porch was a place of stillness.

you were the girl with the gentle eyes who didn't ask anything of him. he’d slip out of his house, sometimes with a bruised ego, sometimes just exhausted from rehearsals, and find you sitting on your back steps.

you were always quiet, possessing that graceful stillness. you didn't demand he perform or dance, you’d simply move over to make room, offering him a piece of gum or a cool glass of water.

"is it loud over there today?" you’d ask softly, your voice a melodic contrast to the harshness of his world.

michael would just nod, his large, expressive eyes searching your face for any sign of judgment. "they’re just... practicing the same turn, over and over. i think my feet forgot how to walk normal," he’d whisper with a shy, tired smile. you’d nudge your shoulder against his and allow him sit in the safety of each other’s company until the sun dipped low.

for a few minutes, he wasn't a prodigy. he was just the boy next door who liked the way you smelled like lavender soap and sunshine.

those moments became his blueprint for peace. he learned early on that love wasn't just an applause, it was the way you looked at him and cared about him when he wasn't performing.

as the jackson 5 took off, the distance between your front doors grew into a breach of fame, but michael’s silent obsession began to root itself in that distance. you become the anchor he tries to hold onto through letters and late-night calls.

he develops a habit of memorizing you, not in a creepy way but more in a devotional way. the rhythm of your voice, the way you tilt your head when you listen, the quiet hum you make when you’re thinking. he carries those details with him everywhere, especially on the bad days.

when things get too harsh, too loud or too demanding, he closes his eyes and imagines your porch, your voice, the soft way you say his name. “michael…” like it’s something delicate, like it matters. he compares every woman he meets to the graceful, soft-spoken girl who used to hold his hand in the tall grass. but they were all too loud, too eager, too demanding.

he started keeping a small candid photo of you tucked into his jacket pocket, a reminder of the only person who knew the boy before the myth. he’d stare at it until the edges frayed, wondering if you were waiting for him or if he was chasing a ghost.

he becomes protective (possessive, even) of your memory. he hates the idea of you changing or, worse, finding someone else who might provide what he did for you.

he became a king, but in his mind, he was still that boy looking through your window. he started calling you from payphones in london, tokyo, and paris, his voice dropping into that breathless, shy register he only used with you.

"do you still have that old swing?" he asks, his voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and desperate longing. "i keep dreaming about it. i dream that i’m sitting there and you’re brushing the dust off my vest. everything is so shiny here, y/n. it’s too bright. i just want to sit in the dark with you for a little while. promise me you won't let anyone else sit on those steps. that's our spot, okay? only ours."

by the mid-80s, michael is at the most successful and burdened moment of his life. you’ve remained in his inner circle, a quiet fixture in the studio. the only person who can walk into a room and instantly lower his heart rate. his crush has evolved into a quiet, simmering obsession. he tracks your movements not out of malice, but out of a deep-seated fear that if you leave his sight, the "magic" that keeps him sane will vanish.

he treats you with a reverence that borders on worship. if you’re in the room, his eyes never truly leave you. he’ll be in the middle of a high-stakes meeting, and the moment you walk in with that gentle, grounded aura, his entire posture softens. he’ll find excuses to touch you, straightening your collar, lingering as he brushes a stray hair from your face, his fingers trembling slightly.

he starts to get protective, borderline possessive, though he hides it behind his gentle demeanor. if you mention another name or a man you met, the air in the room shifts. he doesn't yell; he grows unnervingly quiet, his large, expressive eyes tracking your every movement as if he’s trying to memorize the way your lips move. he begins to realize that the thought of anyone else touching your hand, the hand that used to hold his when he was scared of the dark in gary, is physically nauseating to him.

michael sees you as a piece of his lost childhood that he successfully "saved." he becomes intensely focused on keeping you "unspoiled" by the industry. his obsession manifests in the way he catalogs your likes and dislikes. he remembers a candy you liked when you were seven and has it imported by the crate. he notices if you’re sad before you even realize it yourself.

the confession happens during a private moment at neverland, far away from the cameras. the "safe haven" isn't enough anymore; he wants to own the haven. he’s tired of being the boy next door, he wants to be the man in your life.

he’s pacing the library, the firelight dancing off the curls at his temples. you’re sitting in an armchair, watching him with that same gentle composure that has always been his anchor.

"you're doing it again," you say softly in a worried tone. "you're overthinking. come sit down, michael."

he stops abruptly, turning to you. his voice is a whisper, thick with years of unspoken words. "i can’t just sit down anymore, y/n. don't you see? i go out there and i give them everything. i give my blood, my sweat, my childhood... and then i come to you to get my soul back. but i’m tired of leaving it here and picking it up later. i want it to stay with you. i want me to stay with you."

he moves toward you, his movements fluid but desperate, kneeling at your feet and resting his forehead against your knees. “i’ve been obsessed with the way you say my name since i was six years old. please... tell me you feel the weight of it, too."

once he declares his feelings, there is no going back. michael’s love is all-consuming. he wants you in the front row of every show, in the studio for every take, and in the room every time he wakes up. it’s a suffocatingly sweet kind of love; he wants to build a wall around the two of you where the world can’t hurt him and where you’ll never have a reason to look at anyone else.