Untitled

then came the music. nearly two hours were spent hunched over your stereo with a blank cassette tape, carefully recording songs from your record collection. you’d made the perfect playlist–upbeat, kid-friendly, long enough to last the whole party– and tested it twice on your portable boombox to make sure the sound was good enough for the park.

and the presents… oh, god, the presents. the pile tipped over when you’d finally gotten around to tugging your closet doors open. you knew khalil would be overjoyed when seeing them tomorrow, but tonight? you were regretful. your fingers were callused in the spots where the scissors pressed against you and you’d pulled at least twenty pieces of tape from random parts of your body. 

it didn’t help that you kept having to toss presents under the bed and play innocent when your door would creak open and khalil, the little shit, would poke his head in– asking questions that made your eyes twitch. 

“mommy, would you rather have tentacles for arms or tree trunks for legs?”

“mommy, what’s the worst smell in the world?”

“mommy, if broccoli was a drink, would you drink it?”

when really, he’d just wanted to catch a glimpse of the presents he could hear you preparing from his room next-door. you’d finished wrapping by the time he’d prepared a fourth question, thank the lord, because you were one ‘mommy’ away from driving him to his grandmother.

by ten o’clock, you’d collapsed on the couch, the boombox sitting heavy on the coffee table in front of you, swearing to yourself that you would never do this again– and then switching to ‘not for another year’ because who were you kidding? you’d be right back in this position on khalil’s seventh birthday. 

in a moment of weakness, you prayed that you’d have someone by your side by that point– to love you and your son so graciously that every daunting task you faced alone these days would feel like a walk in the park with him. your feet ached double time just thinking about not having it. your back ached. your soul ached.

but saturday morning came anyway, whether you were ready or not.

you woke to khalil already bouncing around each room in his birthday excitement, his little feet thundering down the hallway. sitting up in bed, your brain works overtime, running through your checklist within five minutes of being conscious. the cake sat safely in the fridge. the decorations were ready. khalil’s outfit was pressed and hanging on his closet door. your mother and younger sister, in their respective cars, would be at your apartment in a matter of hours to help haul items to the park. everything was prepared.

except, you’re faced with a whole new dilemma. one that you’d thought of once and didn’t think of again. 

how would you warn the people coming?

your family– your mom, your aunties, your cousins– they were huge michael jackson fans. your mother had a framed thriller poster hanging in her living room, for god’s sake. your cousin had traveled to a different country to see him in concert. if michael jackson walked into that park, to your party, unannounced… well, you didn’t want to ponder too long over what might happen.

but, if you told them…

you slouched over, holding your forehead in your hands. it was a lose, lose situation! you could already see it: your auntie calling her church friends. your cousin bringing her college friends. word spreading like wildfire until your son's small-ish, intimate birthday party turned into a mob scene. michael would be swarmed.

no, you absolutely couldn’t risk it. 

though, impulsive un-wanted thoughts crowded you seconds later… picturing your mother fainting! her falling to the floor at the mere sight of him. 

you reached for the phone on your nightstand, then hesitated. your mom would still lose her mind if you told her now. she’d probably faint the second the words left your mouth, and then she’d faint again when actually at the park, before michael had even gotten there– just imagining him walking up. 

but your older brother… maybe you could at least tell him. and then make him promise not to say anything. you dialed his number before you could talk yourself out of it.

“yeah?” his voice was groggy, annoyed.

“marc, it’s me.”

“girl, it’s seven in the morning. why are you–”

“shh. i need to tell you something,” you paused at the sound of a creaking door, looking up as khalil bounces in and makes himself comfortable on your bed. you lovingly roll your eyes– he definitely got his nosey tendencies from you. “and promise me you won’t tell another soul.”

a pause. then, suspicious: “... what did you do?”

“i didn’t do anything–” you took a deep breath. “don’t tell mama, okay? she’d fall out before she even makes it to the party.”

“oh, god, (name). don’t tell her what? spit it out, i ain’t got all day.”

“that… michael jackson is coming.”

silence.

then a rather loud snort of laughter. you jerk the phone away from your ear when another burst of laughs follow and khalil gives you a wide-eyed, questioning look. you shake your head before bringing the phone back to your ear. “i’m serious, marc.”

khalil leans up to put his two cents in: “yeah, michael is coming, uncle marcus!”

“michael jackson.” your brother’s voice is flat, disbelieving. “michael. jackson. is coming to khalil’s birthday party. in a random ol’ oakland park?”

“well, yes.” you emphasize.

“the michael jackson.”

“marcus–”

“nah, nah, hold on.” he was fully awake now, and you could hear the grin in his voice. “you’re tellin’ me that my knucklehead sister is a personal friend of michael jackson?”

“i didn’t say we were friends, i just–”

“well ya gotta be close-close to come to the family function!”

“i’m being serious.”

“and so am i! i’m just trying to understand how you and mike got so tight. did y’all meet at the grocery store? did he help you reach something on the top shelf?”

“khalil spoke with him in a bakery yesterday and invited him, and he said yes, and i needed to tell someone– but don’t tell mama because you know how she is–”

“wait, really?” marcus questions, and your shoulders relax from their tense positioning. he was finally listening. “i won’t tell mama… as long as you don’t tell her that i met prince at the doctors office and he’ll be there as well–”

“my god! i’m not joking, marcus.”

“neither am i. you see, me and prince? we go way back–”

“oh, go fuck yourself.” you give up, pinching the bridge of your nose before you flinch– hand flying to cover your mouth when you remember your son is in the room. “why did i even call you?”

“you needed to tell somebody about your little fantasy. so when your ‘close friend’ mike jackson doesn’t show up, are you gonna blame traffic, or–”

“goodbye, marcus.”

you slam the phone back onto its base, feeling like you’d aged thirty years. 

as you piggyback khalil to the kitchen, you hope that your brother keeps this to himself– whether he believed you or not.

khalil sits at the table and carefully sketches something you couldn’t decipher– continuing the drawing he’d started the night before. as you go to open the cabinet holding your cookware, both of your landlines ring out, shrill in the otherwise peaceful moment. you sigh, turning to answer the one in the living room. 

if you knew one thing, you knew your brother was terrible at remembering details. it just had to be him calling back, wondering when the party started.

you snatch up the receiver. “you already forgot, huh? it’s at two o’clock, ya jive turkey.”

silence.

then, soft and distant, like they were multiple feet from the phone, came the sound of your name. your stomach drops. that wasn’t marcus. it was much too quiet.

“oh– yes, this is she?” you straightened, suddenly very aware of how you’d just answered. there was a rustling sound, like the phone being adjusted, and then his voice came through clearer. unmistakable.

“hi. i’m sorry to call so early. i’ve been trying to reach you.”

michael.

for the second time that morning, you slam the phone down– hanging up without a second thought. you press a hand to your chest, your heart pounding and blood rushing. you’d just called him a fucking jive turkey… and then proceeded to hang up in his face. you were so damned embarrassed. you half-hoped you would faint right then and there, for just a second's relief from your poor decisions.

you paced back and forth, the cold of the hardwood flooring seeping through the threads of your socks– jumping and turning when the phone began to ring again. you stared at it like it might bite you.

one ring.

two… 

three…

on the fourth, you squeezed your eyes shut and snatched it up, your voice coming out breathless and ashamed. “i am so sorry, i thought you were my brother, i didn't mean to–”

a soft laugh interrupted you. quiet but amused, without a doubt. “it’s okay,” michael affirmed gently. it was crazy, how you could hear the smile in his voice. “my own brothers have called me much worse.”

you pressed your palm to your forehead, cringing while he pokes fun at you. “i’m so embarrassed. i just… wasn’t expecting–”

“i know. it’s alright. really.”

you exhaled shakily when you realize you’d been holding your breath, turning to press your back against the wall. you take a few beats to collect yourself before speaking again. “um– thank you… for yesterday. at the bakery. you didn’t have to do that. the cookies, the cake– all of it. it was really kind of you, michael.”

“oh,” he sounded almost bashful. “it was nothing.”

“it wasn’t nothing,” you insisted, pulling the phone cord and releasing it– watching it spring to its resting position. “it meant a lot. to khalil. to me.”

“i’m very glad.” there was a pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “well, i won’t take up too much of your time, i swear. i know you’re probably terribly busy today. i just had a question…”

you bit your lip, waiting patiently on the other end. only to be met with static. “...michael?”

“right. yes.” theres a muffled sound– clearing his throat, maybe? “i wanted to make sure i had the right address. riverside park, right? near the playground?”

the way he pronounces ‘right’–the ‘t’ overly enunciated– successfully distracts you. it plays on repeat in your mind before you realize you hadn’t yet replied. “yes, that’s right.”

if he notices your pause, he doesn’t mention it. “and it starts at two?”

“yes.”

“and… khalil likes mickey mouse?”

you blink, a smile tugging at your lips. what kind of question? “well, yes. did y’forget that fast? he only mentioned it a million times yesterday.”

“right. of course.” a small chuckle. “and… does he like balloons?”

“what kid doesn’t like balloons?”

another pause. “and… cake? he likes cake?”

“michael, i’m starting to think you just called to hear yourself speak.”

“no… no. not myself, at least.”

your heart skips, stutters, and fully stops. not himself. the words hang in the air between you and you blink– mind spiraling in a dozen directions at once. you instantly rationalize it, telling yourself that you were reading too much into those two words. that whatever he’d meant by it absolutely wasn’t what you were thinking.

“actually,” michael speaks again, moving past it faster than you can. “i do have another question. just one more.”

you hum into the receiver, not trusting your voice quite yet.

“will you already be at the park by one o’clock?”

you’d grown suspicious immediately– with a hint of childish amusement at the fact that he’d said ‘o’clock’. “i will be… why?”

“i’ve kind of… planned to send something to help.”

“help? help with what?”

“with the party, of course.”

you sputtered down the line, “michael– you’ve already done so much. you genuinely don’t need to–”

“i want to.”

“but you’ve already paid for the cake, a-and the cookies, and you’re coming to the party, which is already more than–”

“it’s really not a big deal.”

“except it kind of is,” you sass back. “you–i mean this in the most respectful way– you barely know us. why are you doing all of this?”

silence.

you could only hear him breathing on the other end, slow and steady. 

“well… i have my reasons.”

you paused, waiting for him to continue and sighing when he doesn’t. “may i ask what they are?”

“no, you may not.” he replies simply.

the way he said it–so matter-of-fact– made you laugh despite yourself. you bring a hand to your mouth in an attempt to muffle it. “okay,” you repeat, “okay. fine. you win that one.”

“thank you.” he’s smug, smiling at the sound of your giggling as he says it.

“by the way, khalil hasn’t stopped talking about you. he’s wished for time control super-powers, just to fast forward to his party. to seeing his ‘friend michael’ again.”

“i’m looking forward to it too,” michael’s voice is noticeably softer– something vulnerable and genuine threading through it. “it’s been… a while since i’ve done something like this. something so…” he trailed off, searching for the word. “...normal.”

your chest tightened. you didn’t know what to say to that. didn’t know how to respond to the weight of what he’d just shared with you. the tiny hint of loneliness he felt, on a deeper level than most.

“well, i’m–or, uh, we’re really, really glad you’re coming.”

“yeah, i am too.”

by the time the two of you hang up just a few minutes after, your heart is racing just like the start of the call– though this time not from embarrassment. it was something else entirely.

hours later, you stand in the approximate middle of the park area you'd claimed. it was perfect in terms of spacing: big enough for khalil’s audience, but not so big that the decorations seem sparse. 

you watch the scene unfold around you. red, white, black, and yellow balloons bobbed in the breeze, tied to every available surface. streamers twisted overhead between the trees, creating a canopy of colors that catch the afternoon sun. luckily, the weather had been on your side– the highest temperature it’d been since november's start.

life sized face-in-hole cutouts of various mickey mouse characters stand guard between the main area and playground; a separate, carefully ornamented section for photo opportunities. 

each table had been adorned with tablecloth, centerpieces set up and felt caps with two black ears and a ‘mickey mouse club’ patch scattered throughout. at one table, your mother had a full spread of food that she’d spent all morning preparing– fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans, mac and cheese, and a towering stack of your grandmother’s sweet cornbread. at the biggest table, under the shade of a tree, sat khalil’s birthday cake and cookies with every present surrounding it.

khalil was living his best life, and his party hadn’t even started yet.

he darted between the tables in his button up, his favorite blue jeans, and bright yellow shoes he’d demanded to wear because mickey wore the same. you hated them with a passion– they squeaked with every step he took. he was a blur of excitement, barely able to contain himself.

“khalil, boy, slow down before you trip and bust your head open!” your mother called out, balancing a tray of cups in one hand while adjusting a streamer with the other.

“i’m fine, grandma!” he shouted back, already halfway across the grass– running from who knows what and to who knows where.

both your brother and sister set up the drink stations, laughing about something you couldn’t quite hear. a few of your friends and cousins were scattered around the area, setting up games, arranging chairs, and hanging the last bit of decorations.

and your grandmother? well, she sat in a folding lawn chair beneath the shade of an oak tree, fanning herself with a church fan and watching everyone else work. ‘y’all got it under control, i’m just here to supervise’ she’d said.

you check your watch, 12:56, as your stomach twists with nerves.

khalil had been so good about keeping michael’s arrival a secret. you’d sat him down before loading him and everything else into your tiny car, explaining that it was a surprise for everyone else, and he’d nodded so seriously– like you’d just entrusted him with classified information. he hasn’t slipped up yet. every time someone would arrive and ask him what he was most excited about, he’d just grin and say, “everything!”

when you take a step toward the drink table, you stop– the low rumble of an engine making you glance toward the parking lot. 

it was a sleek black suv, it’s tinted windows reflecting the sunlight as it pulled into a spot near the edge of the lot. the driver's door opens, and a man you don’t recognize steps out.

he was tall, dressed in a plain black polo and slacks, moving with efficiency to the back of the suv and popping the trunk: revealing three rather large, matte black boxes stacked neatly inside. 

you blinked.

and slowly, you started walking over to him, your shoes crunching against the gravel. he didn’t notice you at first–too focused on adjusting one of the boxes– but when you got within a few feet, he looked up and smiled.

“excuse me,” he started, voice polite and professional. “are you–” he glanced down at a slip of paper in his hand, “–the mother of the birthday boy?”

you nodded, a little breathless. “yes, that’s me.”

“great!” his smile widened. “then i’m in the right place.”

you glanced past him at the boxes, your curiosity piqued. “what… what’s in those?”

“party favors,” he states. as if that explained everything.

“party favors?” you echo, stepping closer. “can i–?”

“of course.” he steps to the side and gestures to the open trunk. you lean in, lifting the lid of the top box just enough to peek inside…

at rows of beautiful wrapped favor bags, each one tied with satin ribbon and topped with a handmade mickey mouse tag. but it wasn’t just the presentation– it was the contents. you could see the edges of coloring books, plush toys, puzzles, sticker sheets, and what looked like small wooden trains. everything was high-quality, thoughtful, and clearly chosen with care. your throat tightened. 

“oh my god…”

it had only been a little over twenty-four hours and he’d had all of this prepared.

the man chuckles next to you, breaking you from your spiraling thoughts. “mr. jackson wanted to make sure the kids had something special to take home.”

you couldn’t speak. couldn’t do anything but stare at the boxes, your vision blurring slightly as tears pricked at the corners of your eyes.

“yo, there’s more stuff?”

you turned to find marcus standing behind you with a dumbfounded look and can only bring yourself to nod in reply. when the man asks where he should put everything, marcus steps forward to grab one of the boxes and directs the man to follow him. as they walk off, you hear marcus grumbling– something about a ‘heavy ass box’ and ‘the hell did she find the money for this?’

you stand there in the parking lot for minutes after, one hand pressed to your chest, trying your hardest to process what was happening to your life.

by 1:50, the party favors were set up on a separate table, arranged in neat rows that immediately caught the attention of every kid who walked by. more guests had arrived– friends from khalil’s school, neighborhood kids, a few of your coworkers with their families, your own family members. the park was filling up, the air thick with laughter.

khalil still vibrated with energy, bouncing from group to group, showing off the one birthday present you’d let him open early and talking a mile a minute. at one point, he climbs onto one of the park benches, standing on his tiptoes to get a better view of the parking lot. his little hands pressed to his forehead like a visor, head swiveling left and right as he scanned every car that passed.

“boy, get–!” your grandmother starts, but khalil cuts her off.

“i’m looking for someone!” he shouts back, not moving an inch. you fix him with a look and a pointed “khalil”. he steps down immediately, shouting an apology before giggling and running back to his group of friends. 

by 2:15, the party is in full swing and you breathe a little easier.

kids run wild across the grass, their laughter echoing through the park as they chase each other around the trees. the tables were crowded with adults all talking, plates piled high with food in front of them. the boombox you’d set up earlier was playing a mix of motown and pop hits, the music blending seamlessly with the ambient noise of the party.

you’re sitting near your intermediate family when two cars pull in.

once again, sleek and black, with windows tinted so dark you couldn’t see inside. your stomach swoops and your heart stutters, because you know who's inside without needing to see it.

your mother leaned closer to you, squinting. “now who is that in that fancy car?”

you open your mouth. and close it immediately.

the driver’s side door of the first car opens, and out steps who you still believe is michael’s bodyguard, dressed in a dark suit. he steps around to the back door and it seems to open in slow motion, though it might just be your mind playing tricks on you. 

a black baseball cap appeared first, tilted just slightly to shade his face– curly hair falling around his shoulders. big hands grip the edge of the door as he hefts himself out. mother nature, the world, must love and cherish him, because he rises to his full height in the very middle of unfiltered sunlight– clouds above him overlapping and breaking perfectly. he looks angelic– dressed in a red long-sleeved button up, tucked into black slacks with a belt securely buckled around his waist. 

complete silence falls over the park and you cringe, waiting.

the first shout comes within a few seconds, “what the fuck?”

the rest trailing shortly behind: “bitch, is that michael jackson?!”, “oh my god–”, “that ain’t–! wait, that is–!”, “mama, that’s michael jackson–!“

the shouts erupted from every direction, voices overlapping in a cacophony of disbelief and pure, uncensored joy. adults jumped to their feet, hands flying to their mouths, pointing, grabbing each other’s arms. kids froze mid-run, their eyes going wide.

and khalil–

“MR. MICHAEL!” he shrieked, jumping up and down so hard his mickey ear felt cap flies off of his head. “mr. michael, you came! you really came!”

you stand up, though you’re not sure why. you’re positive there’s nothing you could do to calm everyone down. your brother must be the only other one quiet, and when you look at him you see it’s because he’s pre-occupied giving you a slack-jawed, wide-eyed look. you’d rub the fact that you were right in his face if your attention didn’t drift back to michael.

who’d, obviously, heard all of the chaos.

you could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his head dipped slightly– and for a second you worry that this was a terrible idea, that your little event has already scared him away… but then he slowly looks up– his face holding the biggest, most breathtaking smile you’d ever seen. so wide and real and bright.

michael brings a hand up and gives a general, small and shy wave; then brings that same hand up to cover his face when the shouts get louder. you start your walk towards him, fully prepared to tell him to stay over there just until everyone’s initial shock wears off– especially your mom, who’d begun to loudly babble while twisting her body side-to-side and throwing her head back, intermittently shouting ‘lord!’ ‘oh good lord!’.

but you stop in your tracks when michael and his bodyguard walk to the car parked behind them and open each of the back doors. 

“this isn’t real…” bringing a hand up to cover your open mouth when fucking mickey mouse and donald duck step out. the kind you’d see at disney world, with the oversized heads and perfectly tailored outfits and the big, cartoonish gloves.

khalil is the first to dart across the park, shouting ‘no way, no way, no way!’ before he crashes into the legs of michael– who stumbles before he brings a hand down to pat khalil’s back, laughing. khalil moves onto mickey and donald, jumping and talking animatedly with his arms. every kid in the party makes it to them shortly after, a stampede of tiny bodies and high-pitched screams. some of them made a beeline for michael, shouting his name, reaching for his hands. but most of them ran straight for mickey and donald, their little faces lit up with the raw delight.

by the time the crowd of kids, michael, his bodyguard, and the characters in costume make it over to the party area, you still haven’t recovered. you can’t move, you’re not too sure if you’re breathing, and you can feel trembles throughout your whole body as you watch michael saunter your way– his smile wide and very proud of himself. 

the happiness on his face only grows when he finally comes to stand in front of you, his hands tucked into his pockets, head tilted just slightly as he speaks your name, “hi. you look–”

“michael, i…” you cut him off, your voice shaky. “am so… upset.”

his smile drops instantly.

“wait– what?” his brows burrow, genuine confusion flickering across his face. “why? did i– did i do something wrong?”

“i’ll never, ever, in a million years have the funds to repay you for this!” you whisper as you gesture openly around the two of you.

michael steps closer, shaking his head. “that isn’t why… i mean, i don’t expect–”

but before he can finish, your uncle appears out of nowhere to dap michael up, clamping a hand on his shoulder and pulling him away from you. “michael jackson!” he exclaims, “i’ll be damned. lemme get a picture with ‘ya, son.”

and just like that, he’s whisked away into the crowd, glancing back at you over his shoulder with an apologetic smile as your uncle drags him to where a small group of your family sits with multiple digital cameras. 

the party continues in a blur of segments–games, cake cutting, present opening– and through it all, michael tries.

god, does he try.

you’re refilling the drinks when he sidles up beside you, his hands clasped behind his back, his voice quiet. “hi. again. about what you said earlier–”

“mr. michael!” khalil’s voice cuts through. when you both turn, he’s waving a heavy-looking stick in the air– and when you look down there are three kids tugging on michael’s shirt-sleeve, begging him to come see the piñata.  he promises that he’ll be right back, but your family continues to have other plans for him.

a little later, you’re standing by the food table rearranging the trays, when he appears again.

in that sweet, soft tone of his, he starts, “i’m sorry, i’ve been tryin’ to make my way to you for the longest. are you busy–?”

“michael!” one of your cousins call out, waving him over. “group photo!”

he exhales slowly. he can’t say that he hates being so in demand, no. your family are all so funny, so down to earth and genuine, but there’s nothing he wants more than to just get to know you better.

you bite back a smile at the slight slouch in his shoulders as he walks away.

it happens again when you’re folding up empty chip bags. and again when you’re wiping down the tables. and again when you’re trying to find a way to keep khalil’s stubborn mickey ears attached to his head.

every single time, someone interrupts. an older auntie asking if he’s single. a kid wanting to play tag. hell, your grandmother at one point demands he sit beside her so she can “get a good look at him.” you watch from afar as your she calls someone with a polaroid over to get a picture of him for her.

and every single time, michael glances back at you with the same pitiful pout.

by the time khalil sits down to open his presents, the sun is starting to dip lower in the sky. for the first time, michael and his bodyguard–bill, you’d finally learned his name– stand undisturbed beside you. michael is so close that you can feel the heat radiating from his shoulder. 

khalil tears through wrapping paper with reckless enthusiasm, a growing pile of things you really didn’t have the apartment space for beside him. action figures, a new basketball, a new soccerball, a remote control car… your eyes started to cross trying to decipher it all.

he’s grinning so wide as he reaches for the last present.

it’s small. a tiny box wrapped in shimmering paper with a white bow on top. khalil’s little fingers fumble with the ribbon, a drunk uncle shouts “use ya teeth, kid!”, and when he finally gets it open, he goes completely still.

inside, nestled on a bed of plush cotton, is a mickey mouse pin. identical to the one from michael’s jacket; the one khalil had stared at with wide, wonder-filled eyes.

khalil opens his mouth, but only a choked sound comes out before his face crumbles. crocodile tears spill down his cheeks as he holds the pin to his chest and through his blubbering he says, voice breaking, “i love it.” a series of coos and 'aww's sound out through the crowd of people– your mother raising a hand to her chest as she cries with her grandbaby, their emotions entwined.

but you, knowing exactly where the pin is from, turn to look at michael. half of you wants to tear into him for overdoing something he didn’t need to do in the first place. half of you wants to sob because he’s made this day so very special for everyone around you.

before you can say anything, michael’s cheeks flush and he shakes his head quickly. “oh, no– i didn’t get that.” he gestures toward bill. “bill did.”

he walks away then. you blink, slowly turning to look at bill– who meets your gaze and, very deliberately, shakes his head.

no.

michael is crouching beside khalil when you glance back over, pulling him into a gentle hug as the boy sobs into his shoulder, still clutching the pin like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“thank you, mr. michael,” khalil cries.

“happy birthday, khalil.” michael murmurs back.

you have to look away before you join your mother with your own emotional waterworks.

the park is nearly empty when the party winds down. families trickle out one by one, waving goodbye, thanking you for inviting them. the decorations sway gently in the breeze. the boombox is finally quiet. the sun is sinking low, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange.

and khalil is fast asleep on one of the benches, face peaceful, and his new mickey pin attached to the right side of his shirt. you stand a few feet away with michael, midst story.

“–michael, he put it everywhere. the whole bowl of popcorn. i’m talkin’ ceiling, couch, he’d snuck handfuls into the vcr–”

michael cuts you off with a loud burst of laughter. “inside the vcr?” he brings a hand up to cover his mouth.

you look at michael with a smile, but look away quickly when his eye contact starts to make you feel shy. “inside of it.” you confirm, shaking your head as you look at the ground. “kernels too.”

michael doubles over, his shoulders shaking. “how do you even–” he stops, composing himself. “how did you get it out?”

“i didn’t,” you exasperate. “it went straight to donations pile. i had to keep everything with an opening taped shut for two years straight. you don’t know real pain until you have to scoop jelly out of the keyholes on your door; or syrup out of your cd player.”

he loses it then– a full, echoing laugh that makes you laugh harder, and for a moment it’s just the two of you standing there in fading sunlight, cracking up over the absolute bullshit baby khalil put you through.

“i swear,” you say, wiping at the corner of your eye, “sometimes i think he’s trying to see how much i can take before my head rolls right off.”

“that must’ve been how my mother felt with my brothers and i.” he giggles to himself, “we used to do stuff like that all the time. my brother, marlon? he was the worst– stuck a peanut butter sandwich in my other brother, tito’s guitar, ‘cause he wanted to see what it sounded like.”

“well? what did it sound like?”

“oh, the same. but that smell after a few weeks? bad. tito about killed us. mother told tito off for almost killing us, and then almost killed us as well.”

you both crack up again. it feels so easy. so natural, it makes your heart ache.

“i can’t believe you had to deal with eight siblings. i only have two and i thought that was a lot.”

“it was…” he smiles faintly, as if wrapped in memory, “it was loud. all the time. but i wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“yeah,” you murmur, glancing over at khalil. “i get that.”

there’s a comfortable silence as he helps you clear off the table of food– just the sound of the breeze and the gentle hum of traffic in the background.

and then it hits you.

“michael,” you start. his eyes find yours right away. “can you… give me an itemized list of what i owe you?”

“pardon?”

“the cake, cookies, party favors, mickey and donald…” you shake your head, overwhelmed. “i need to know what i owe you so i can start figuring out how to pay you back. might have to sell a kidney or a lung.”

it’s a joke, but not really.

michael looks at you for a long moment. then, very softly, “what would you need that list for?”

you blink. “what do you mean? i just–”

“those things were for the kids. so, you don’t need to repay me for anything.” he says simply.

“cut the technicalities, michael.”

“seriously.”

you narrow your eyes at the shit-eating grin he attempts to hide. “okay. fine.” you cross your arms and hold his eyes. “those were for the kids. what about those pastries you bought for ‘the boy's beautiful mom’?”

the flush floods his face instantly. he looks down, sheepishly, and now you’re the one grinning at him.

“oh boy… she told you i said that, huh?” michael rubs the back of his neck. “yeah… well, um.”

you wait, enjoying him being bashful a little too much. he clears his throat, bringing his eyes back up to yours. “i know the perfect way you could repay me.”

your heart skips a beat. “yeah? what’s that?”

he takes a breath.

and then, very quietly, earnestly, he says:

“let me get to know you better.”

-

AUGUST 17, 1978. Hayvenhurst, Encino…

Four weeks had passed since that night in Studio 54, where Michael had finally offered to hear you out on your valid criticisms of his mother's religion, its strict morals ingrained into his psyche after all these years.

Your criticisms were mostly influenced by the strict stance of the Jehovah’s Witnesses on condemning sexual intercourse outside of wedlock. You'd felt a little awkward and over-imposing at the time, but thankfully he eventually grew to understand, and promised you that he would think deeply about what he'd been forcing from himself for so long. Before the two of you had started dating in the spring, he had never before struggled all that much with his refusal to have sex, because even if one was to remove the orthodox religious aspect out of the equation, Michael was inherently somebody who would only make love to a lady he had a true emotional connection with. And so, since he had spent forever yearning for only you—while making a futile effort to distract himself with dates and sweet kisses with other girls because you 'clearly' never felt the same way—it was only now that he actually had a real, viable opportunity to lose his virginity.

He'd been struggling so much with his restrained arousal since you'd began your romantic relationship together, because he was in a constant battle between the needs born of his heart and his lower body, and the rules he was supposed to abide by. It had been that hot summer night in July, under disco lights and smothered in your lipstick kisses, that he had finally declared with true honesty that he would at least try to look at this whole sex thing a little differently. For Michael, it wasn't even only about religion and his treatment of lovemaking as a sacred act—it was also that he faced quite a degree of childhood trauma that he didn't at all understand. Throughout his formative years and into his adolescence, he had seen only the worst of the act—loveless groupie hook-ups, promiscuous women receiving hurls of abuse in the strip clubs he was forced to perform at; and worst of all, the unmistakable, incredibly uncomfortable sounds of his older brothers, and even his own father, giving it rough to a different woman every night.

As a young child, Michael had been deeply disturbed; by not only the sounds and the reality of it happening right beside him, but also by the sheer disgust that he felt at experiencing how his own flesh and blood treated women so thoughtlessly. They would discard one, only to seek out another the following night, and each time, Michael knew very well that the girls weren't as happy as his brothers were after their one night stand. The girls would act cool and pretend that mindless sex with somebody famous was all they wanted, but Michael would notice the sad, passive look in their eyes as they left, having achieved nothing but the sad reality of being used. Most boys could look up to the older male figures in their lives, but young Michael Jackson would found his own morals as he grew.

The aggressive sex that surrounded him from such an early age had a profoundly deep effect on his psyche. It was all happening too often for a boy so empathetic and sensitive to just brush it off and move on, let alone to be able to easily slip into that sexual world once he became of age.

And then, to make matters worse, as he grew older he watched his best friend become one of those girls he'd seen his brothers discard. While the opposite of a groupie in your stardom, it was in your naivety as a young singer turning to adulthood that you found yourself falling into the trap of men who couldn't care less about you. Michael despised viewing such a thing from the sidelines, comforting you as you would cry over their behaviour, or even worse—watching helplessly as you walked off with yet another. But you had been chasing dopamine hit after dopamine hit, unaware of that reasoning at the time, but altogether knowing one thing: that you were deeply afraid of a real, gentle relationship.

Sex with those sort of men was easy. It was a quick rush of oxytocin, adrenaline, all those hormones that could easily become warped into tools of self-harm.

And the most ironic thing was that not a single one of those men had ever made you cum. So what was the point, one might ask?

In your older adulthood, you finally understood the answer. Buried in your core, beneath all the avoidance and tension that kept you away from real love, was a genuine, bone-deep craving for such a love. You messed around with men because there was still physical touch involved, even if it was meaningless. There existed the act of lovemaking—although in reality how they treated you always stripped away that romantic term, and was more appropriately described as 'fucking with no strings attached.' Essentially, with those men you could experience small hits of affection from the opposite sex; you could convince yourself that you were 'dating' normally, like everyone else your age did successfully. And with that, you had led yourself under the illusion that you were right to avoid anything more. Gentleness didn't feel right to you, and as you mingled with all these different men, it became increasingly apparent that most likely, a sweet man didn't even exist to begin with.

You believed you were okay with the no strings circumstances you switched between—but often, when you were all alone at night in your bedroom, you would cry yourself to sleep. Even then, without the maturity to make you understand what you truly needed, the reality was that your body had always known. It would break down, sending you warning signs that you were continually heading in the wrong direction, although you never listened.

And you were so far gone, so beyond distanced from logic, that you weren't paying enough relevant attention to what—or whom—had been beside you the entire time. The gentle lover your unconscious mind dreamed of had laid in wait for so long, in the form of your very best friend, the boy who was always prepared to show you nothing less than the adoration you deserved.

Since your dual love confessions, it had been a whirlwind of a few months. Incredibly difficult though it was in the beginning—where you struggled to adapt to such unfamiliar, attentive affection—over time you'd gradually felt more and more comfortable. Three weeks had gone by since you and Michael had spoken seriously about your future first time together, and the more Michael waited, the more wild the concept seemed—that while you obviously wanted your first night to come quickly, you couldn't fathom the very real fact that sometime soon, you would be making love with your childhood best friend. You’d be taking his virginity.

Every single element of the prospect was incredibly intimate, and you found yourself actually getting quite anxious at the thought of it. They always say that anxiety and excitement are produced as the same feeling, and truly you struggled to discern one from the other in those weeks leading up to the first night.

It also didn't help that Michael wouldn't give any hints as to when this night would be, but you understood how difficult this was for him, and you would by no means wish to rush him. You were to be unlike how you carelessly behaved previously, where while drunk you had more than once ended up practically begging him to give up everything he believed in and take you right then and there.

Indeed there had been no hints from Michael—not until the week before the intimacy would finally occur, when he suddenly approached you with something that was secretly way more anxiety-inducing than it should've been for a suggestion so romantic. Such a suggestion, then, was Michael's request that you might both take a shower together for the first time.

Your mouth had opened slightly in surprise, and Michael had then started speaking quite quickly, evidently shy of his own idea.

"Uh, I just think it would be... y'know, a good way for us to, um," he looked down at his feet, shuffling his weight, "break the ice a lil bit? 'Cause we've never seen each other—uh—well, naked."

He kind of whispered that last word, so crude in Michael's innocent manner, and you giggled. You deliberately maintained an outward feigning of normalcy as you responded, but inside your heart was beating incredibly fast, and suddenly you had slight heartburn. Taking a shower together? In your opinion, that was even more intimate than the lovemaking Michael was building up to. At least he was finally building up to it, but now the closer you got to going all the way with your boyfriend, the more your emotions attacked you. For you, sex had always been erotic escapism, something that was done quickly and, despite its inherent intimacy, actually didn't hold within it anything intimate at all.

But you knew what Michael was like. Even before you'd started dating you could've guessed, and these last few months had shown you just how deeply serious he was when it came to taking care of his girl. He was a hopeless romantic, and in the beginning that was awful for you—it all felt so strange and not something you deserved to experience, until finally you began to fully let him in. He was initially so shy with every new step he took to show you his love, yet shyness never stopped him from performing such displays of deep affection.

But now you had been requested to do the most romantic, the most private and intimate thing of all—and even in your sudden timidity, there was no way you could say no. This was how Michael liked to do things, and the butterflies in your stomach were an explicit sign of just how much you did in fact want to experience an adorable, romantic shower with him—nothing sexual intended, just two young adults approaching what was foreign.

So, a few days later, Michael’s en-suite was where you found yourself, preparing to undress on a sweet summer’s evening, after a long day of bathing in the sun.

"Um, I'm just gonna..." Michael began, as he awkwardly gestured how he was about to face the wall and slip out of his boxers.

"Mhm, I'll, um—yeah," you mumbled back, cringing at yourself as you turned the opposite way and rid yourself of your bra and panties.

And then you were under the running water as quickly as possible, so nervous that you desperately wanted this beginning part to be over and done with. You faced the showerhead as Michael stepped in behind you, and at the mere sound of his feet hitting the tile, your breath hitched.

Now you were both standing there, fully nude, in the most intimate situation you believed there was. You didn't like that you had your back turned—it felt rude and dismissive, because you knew Michael wanted to look at you—but you thought you might faint if you turned around.

"Hi," Michael whispered, slowly coming up right behind you, though with enough distance to ensure that a specific something of his didn't touch a sensitive something of yours.

You felt his long, cosy arms slide around your waist, followed by a soft kiss to your shoulder. You arched your head back, exposing your neck properly to the scalding heat of the water, and you placed a shaky hand over your boyfriend's, where his rested at your hip.

"Hi," you whispered back, smiling with so much fluster that Michael couldn't believe had adorned your face. He could see your side profile from his height and his proximity, and he grinned.

"Why you all shy, huh?" He began to pepper your cheek in kisses, and effortlessly tilted your head by your jaw to bring your lips to his.

All you could do was giggle into his kiss. "’m not shy," you pouted, finally turning your whole body to directly face him, as Michael carefully detached his arms from you. You didn’t want him to know of your anxiety.

As he took you in, Michael's mouth dropped open instantly—and just as quickly did he shut it, in his embarrassment at how visibly he'd folded. "Oh, mama..."

"Mikey," you laughed, running your hand up and down his arm—outwardly as a way to soothe him, but truthfully as a way of using his touch to soothe yourself. You really did feel a little lightheaded now, and you were perfectly hydrated and nourished, perfectly used to a blazing hot shower; so the only perpetrator was your hormones.

You had to be the luckiest girl in the world. This man—this beautiful, smiling, handsome man, in his barest form before you—was the man who would soon make love to you. You would guide him through it, bring him into this world he'd been so scared to enter, and upon crossing that threshold, you would feel the utmost content—not just for the finally having had sex, but for the very truth that you had been the one to make him feel comfortable enough to change his mind. The boy who'd been so traumatised, so careful and so specific about who he gave his heart and his body to... That boy had chosen you.

And the most beautiful, the most emotionally poetic thing of all, lay in the romanticism of how this year would see you both guide each other into unfamiliar, uncomfortable worlds. You had already helped to dissect and unravel Michael's religious guilt and past sex-adjacent experiences, and you would continue to do so—you would continue to reassure him that passion between man and woman was just human nature, that there was no sense in a manmade religion determining the act of out-of-wedlock lovemaking as a sin.

And then, parallel to your patience with him, was Michael's own unwavering patience in his endeavours to break down your hard-built walls. Where his unfamiliarity was with sex, yours was with the non-sexual arena of a relationship—the intimacy of soft words, gentle touch, protective embraces and hand-holding. Everything that Michael did with ease, everything that he insisted you deserved, he didn't force onto you, but he gradually guided you into, attentive to the cognitive dissonance between your mind and your soul.

Your mind had for so long shut out the craving for romantic love that belonged to your traumatised heart. In his tenderness, Michael was slowly stitching up the organ's tears, and bringing you into the territory of soft love.

So lost in your thoughts as you looked up into his gleaming dark doe eyes, his pretty lashes already wet to compliment the shine of the orbs, you almost missed what he was saying to you.

"Y' so beautiful," Michael whispered, overcome with emotion, in disbelief at the sight of you and at how this day had somehow been made true. His everlong dream, second to the one where he would surrender himself to you completely. "So magical, baby..."

You bit your lip, holding the back of your neck anxiously with a flustered smile. "Um... you look really good too."

Months ago you'd been made aware of how long he'd been in love with you, but you could've never imagined the extent of his feelings. As he looked at you now, in your purest form, an embodiment of ethereality, he couldn't believe his eyes. His life was complete.

That evening, Michael's en-suite had consisted of two flustered young adults with hearts that were in competition for beats per minute, and two pairs of eyes that erratically darted around at everything but the most intimate parts that lay before them.

It was very clear to you that Michael was making a seriously difficult effort not to stare at your breasts, and you found it very amusing, so you acknowledged the elephant in the room.

"Mikey. The more you try hard not to look at my boobs, the more you're just gonna wanna stare at 'em. 's fine, seriously." You held his hand, standing closer now, beautiful and entirely bare.

"Oh—yeah, but I feel like 'm objectifyin' y', Minnie."

Since you were kids and had sat down to watch Mickey Mouse together for the first time, you had declared the two of you as Mickey and Minnie—especially because Mikey sounded so much like the name of the cartoon mouse—so from then on the names had stuck, used on and off as playful pet names, now even cuter in your romance.

"You're objectifyin’ me by just lookin' at me?" You smiled in amusement. "You're my boyfriend, Michael—I sure would hope you enjoy lookin' at my naked body."

Michael squinted anxiously, looking to the ceiling and then down again. "I know, it's just... this is all so new to me."

"I know that," you whispered, taking hold of his other hand now too and stepping again closer, looking into the eyes that still continued to dart around. "Don't get me wrong—my heart is beating out of my chest right now. I'm so nervous, baby. I didn't say anythin' before but... I really am."

"Why?" Michael furrowed his brows, a flash of worry crossing his mind that perhaps he'd overstepped the mark and made you uncomfortable. "You're... way more experienced than me. I've never even been naked in front of a girl before. Or… seen a girl naked.”

You raised a brow, knowing he most definitely had seen a girl naked, although not in real life of course.

“Um, except in Playboy,” he corrected quickly. “I have… seen naked girls in Playboy.”

“Oh, I know you have,” you said humorously.

“But only before we started dating,” Michael added. “I would never look at those while with you.”

“Shh, baby,” you chuckled, holding his arm. “I know you wouldn’t.”

He started to loosen up again, taking a long exhale as he looked at you with a small smile. You could see the excitement and content in his reticent expression.

You, on the other hand, had become entirely reticent. Shyness had overcome you, and while you kept trying to keep it together and conceal the ridiculous way you felt through playfully giving the shy title to Michael, that didn't help steady the beat of your heart. He looked so beautiful under the stream, the coils of his afro slick with water, rivulets falling from the tips. And this was your very first time seeing him fully naked, therefore it wasn't just the scary intimacy of the shower that was on your mind, but it was the mere sight of your boyfriend, too. You took in his long limbs, the physique that always made him look so tall despite standing at only 5'9; the wet droplets scattered over his broad shoulders and chest, the way his collarbone peeked just below a hickey you'd given him yesterday. To ensure nobody found out, he'd had to wear a sweater with a high neckline all day—in the ninety degree heat of an LA summer.

You didn't dare look down at his lower half. For a woman who had been so desperate to have sex with her man, and for a woman who had literally just been critiquing said man for being hesitant to look at her own genitals, you couldn't bring yourself to face Michael in that way. While he was shy in regard to sexual encounters and sexual thoughts, you were shy of the opposite—of romantic, soft encounters that asked for nothing more than love and care. Here you were, stood right in front of the man who just wanted to wash the body of the woman he admired, and wouldn't be desperate to hoist you up the shower wall and fuck you like any other man would. Every man besides Michael would take you into his shower for only one thing—and unfortunately, it was only that genre you were prepared for.

As crazy as it sounded, Michael having an erection would've actually made this easier. It would turn the moment into something you could tease him over, something that might steer you away from the very pressing truth that there was a man in your life who truly just wanted to admire you and take good care of you. Because Michael wasn’t looking at your naked body right now to fulfil a sexual desire—he was consuming the image to appreciate you at your most vulnerable, where you had laid your entire soul out bare to him.

In your peripheral, you could see that Michael was indeed soft down there, and while you doubted that it would last, the glimpse made your head spin. He was so big. Surely he couldn't be a grower...

You shook your head quickly, snapping yourself out of the thought as you stared absentmindedly at that dark bite on his neck.

He clicked his fingers in front of you, and cradled your cheek with his warm hand to bring your gaze to his. "Earth to my Tinker Bell."

Long before you'd become a couple, cute pet names had been the norm, but ever since your dynamic had entered the realm of romance, you found your heart fluttering with every usage of those names. Michael honestly hardly ever referred to you by your real name.

"Oh, 'm sorry," you chuckled, clearly looking bashful now. This wasn't like you, and Michael was confused.

"You're not uncomfortable, right?" he asked gently, while turning to take his soap from a shelf. He began to lather his upper half in it while you talked.

God, there was something about such a mundane action that just looked so insanely sexy on him.

Again, you blinked yourself out of the aroused thoughts, remembering that if you really wanted to succeed in a non-avoidant relationship, you would have to accept the circumstances that were merely innocent. Of course, Michael had primal, sexual urges—lots of them, to be clear—but he was also capable of being with you in an exclusively delicate, tender way too, even while you were both completely naked. The inexperienced individual was usually so uncontrollably horny, unable to do much about the appearance of an erection at the slightest touch, but Michael had worked out that thankfully, he could prevent the rigid enlargement between his thighs outside of makeouts. He assumed that the reasoning was probably because of the religious and sexual trauma that had messed around with his arousal and understanding of his own body for so long.

"What?" Your voice was a little high and anxious in response to Michael's question, as he now scrubbed over his shoulders. "No, you never make me uncomfortable. Why would I be uncomfortable?"

"Guess 'm just confused ‘cause you're all shy, y' won't look at me properly, even though it's not your first time like it is mine. You've already been naked in front of someone else before."

Now there was a slightly sad expression on your boyfriend's pretty face, because he could tell that there were lies in your words. You took a deep breath.

"Michael."

"Mhm?" He still looked melancholy as his eyes met yours, silently regretting putting you in this situation. He felt as though he'd forced you—and that was his worst nightmare.

"Yes. I do feel a little uncomfortable. Or... I think anxious is a better word. This isn't about you—I would never feel discomfort in your presence." You began to explain.

Michael nodded slowly, still confused. He turned to face the other way while he continued to wash himself, and your eyes widened at the sudden sight of his back profile, before again you collected yourself.

"So, basically... um, yeah, I'm experienced in sex... but not, y'know... real intimacy like this. With this sort of thing, I'm just as much of an amateur as you are."

He turned back, his sad eyes softening into those of compassion and understanding.

"You know I get anxious with the more romantic stuff—just because I'm not used to it. It's not that I don't want to do these things with you—of course I do... It's just that in order to do them, I have to push myself out of my comfort zone, and something like this is a hard thing to push through."

"Honey, 'm sorry," Michael whispered, setting the soap down and stepping forward. "When you put it like that, I understand. I guess I was just gettin' caught up in makin' myself feel more comfortable before we make love, that I didn't view this as one of those things that would give you anxiety. 'm so sorry."

"Baby, it's okay," you smiled, interlocking both hands with his, and swinging them softly. "I'm not having a panic attack or anythin'—I want to be in here with you, and I love how romantic you are. It's just a lil bit of anxiety, and honestly I'm already feelin' it kinda slippin' away the more we stand here."

"Yeah?" His eyes lit up marginally, and he squeezed your hands to soothe you.

"It's just..." you started to giggle, covering your face. "Oh my god, this is so silly but every time you look at me I feel dizzy. I thought I'd got over this, but right here I feel the same as I did when I kept gettin' all shy after we first started dating."

Michael laughed, cupping your cheek. "I never stopped feelin' that way myself. I just manage it a little better now."

"Ugh, this is so... Wow, I'm here telling you that you should be looking at my boobs without restraint, but I can hardly look at you."

You continued to giggle shyly, while Michael was very amused, and emotionally moved by how wildly flustered he'd made you.

"Exactly, don't be a hypocrite now, baby," he grinned, using one finger to your chin to direct your eyesight up at him. "Look at me."

"Noooo," you laughed, playfully shutting your eyes, but in an instant Michael had you held tightly against his chest, your face mushed against his pectoral muscles. You squealed happily, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Well, now you can't see me," you murmured airily, against his sandalwood-scented skin.

So Michael readjusted your head, cradling your face in a position that now allowed you to both snuggle into him and be seen by his higher view. "There. That's better," he smiled.

You hummed—the vibration hitting Michael's grateful nervous system—and you felt a strange glimpse of real calm now, as if finally experiencing what normal women felt like when their man would cuddle them in the shower. You tightened your arms around his neck, kissed his chest twice, and in turn Michael tightened his hold around your waist, stroking your hair. He rocked you in a slow sway for a period longer than you ever expected to be comfortable with in such silent intimacy, but it grew to be the most beautiful feeling ever, and you found yourself never wanting to leave it. He kept kissing atop your head, and then giving small pecks to your nose because he knew you'd instinctively smile.

After a few minutes, he finally spoke. "Are you just restin' on me because y' don't want me to look at y'?"

"No," you hummed into his neck, before pulling back slowly, and taking your hands in his again. Now that you were more relaxed, your clingy side was becoming further apparent. "I feel better now. A lot better."

"Mm?"

"I think I needed that," you admitted, referring to the standing cuddle. "You always know what I need, even when I don't know myself."

Michael's chest ached. Without sounding too egotistical, that was true—he did have some magical superpower that allowed him to help you in the situations in which you felt the most vulnerable. Even while he'd made the mistake of misunderstanding your hesitation tonight, it was upon recognising your feelings that he immediately knew what to do to make you relax.

"I'm glad, baby," he smiled, picking up your interlocked hands to kiss your knuckles. "Always want y' to be comfortable."

You suddenly felt like you were about to cry, but you turned quickly, blinked back the tears hard, and turned back. "Got somethin' in my eye," you laughed.

"An eyelash? Y'want me to get it out for y'?" Michael was already disconnecting one of your hands to reach out to help, but you stopped him.

"No, I don't know what it was but it's gone now. Wait, what are those?"

You quickly changed the subject, because the shelves behind Michael had been brought to your attention a moment ago. On the top were two extra bars of soap, decorated in a wrapper that told how they were most definitely not intended for a man's use, beside two bottles of what appeared to be body oil? Also clearly not for a man, even if your boyfriend did tend to enjoy more feminine notes when it came to cologne.

"Oh," Michael blushed, turning to look at the shelf. "Um, I bought these for you. So y' have 'em whenever you’re at mine and y' wanna shower. I didn't know which scent to get you of both the soap and the oil, so I got two different ones for each."

"Michael... Thank you, baby." You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him softly, before going over to the products and examining them.

There sat two pale French-milled bars of soap by Hermès, unopened in their decorative paper wrappers, in a porcelain dish beside two cut-glass bottles of body oil. One bar was delicately scented with lavender, the other with verbena and rose. Then, the first bottle of body oil was titled as a luxurious blend of gardenia and jasmine by Estée Lauder, while the second carried the fragrance of orange blossom softened with bergamot, by Guerlain.

"Wow, honey, you didn't have to..."

"Y' needed some soap, Minnie. 'm not makin' y' use mine," he answered, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind again, and leaning his chin on the crown of your head as you held the products.

"And the oil?" you questioned in amusement. "You wanna pamper me? Is that what you had planned, baby boy?"

"Maybe..."

"Michael Jackson," you began playfully, while turning around out of his hold with the lavender bar in your hand. "You lured me in here so that you could rub oil all over my naked body?"

"Don't put it like that..." he grinned bashfully, covering his face with one hand.

You instantly moved the hand away, giggling. "Don't worry, 'm not judgin' you, Mickey."

"Okay, then yeah, I wanna... um... do that. But not today, I don't think I'll, uh—be able to handle it without accidentally, y'know..." He gestured his gaze downward to his crotch.

You nodded slowly, a happy grin on your face. But then you squinted, having caught another glimpse of his soft dick in your peripheral, and you decided not to second guess your next question. After all, Michael was your long-time best friend and your boyfriend, no matter how shy you sometimes felt with each other.

"Baby… I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“Are you a grower?"

"Am I a what? What's a grower?"

You rolled your eyes with a sigh, then started laughing awkwardly. "Mikey, don't make me explain. I really can't do this while we're both stood here naked."

"Well, I don't know what y' mean, so I'm askin'. How do I answer the question otherwise?"

You continued to laugh through your words. "Ugh, I'm talkin' about your dick, silly!" You flicked his forehead. "I'm just gonna say it how it is—you're big as hell down there considerin' you're soft, so I'm askin' if it grows much more when you're hard."

"Oh, um..." Michael's eyes widened upon understanding, but he didn't laugh with you. He actually looked quite anxious, because he'd just identified a potential problem. "Yeah, quite a lot more, actually. Is that gonna be an issue? When we..."

You gasped, followed by another giggle. "Just a slight issue. But you're not taking my virginity, so you're not gonna tear me apart, don't worry."

Michael furrowed his brows, looking seriously worried that you were being too naive and that he just might tear you apart with his size.

"Michael, you can't be that big."

"Baby, let's just end this conversation. I don't know how big I am compared to other guys."

"Okay, I guess I'll find out soon," you laughed, squeezing his cheek. You were entirely relaxed now. "Unless you back out because you're scared you're gonna break me?"

Michael rolled his eyes, fighting an adorable smile. "It's just... The last thing I wanna do is hurt y'."

"I know, Mikey, and we're gonna go so slow—I'll teach you all the very important parts of foreplay... We'll be fine."

His eyes lit up at the mention of foreplay—he'd heard his brothers talk a lot about it, notably how satisfying it felt to make a woman cum with just tongue or fingers or both, and he'd been too nervous to ask about the details.

You paused to laugh at his expression, then suggested an additional component. "You can even get some lube for us, if you want?"

"Uh, yeah, okay."

"You're so cute," you giggled, reaching up to pet the wet frizz of his afro and squeezing his cheek again. "It's gonna be fine, baby."

"Stop it," he rolled his eyes with a smile; and then, with a hand on the back of his neck, you pulled your sweetheart down into a sweet, slow kiss.

When Michael pulled away to talk, he had his hands settled at your hips, and he looked a little nervous again.

"Honey, uh... would it be okay if I washed you?"

At his request, your eyes widened, but of course Michael would want a romantic evening shower to involve him doing everything for you, even if it was true that you hadn't even so much as grazed each other's nudity sensually before.

"Um, yeah, of course you can," you whispered, becoming a little shy again but without possession of the anxiety you'd carried in there earlier.

Michael nodded, then hesitated for a moment before taking the bar of soap from your hands, and picking up a fresh cotton washcloth.

Wordlessly, he began rubbing the product up and down your arms, the least anxiety-inducing part of your body to begin with, but all he could think about was how he would very soon be initiating touching the body part that sat just outside of his peripheral. Your breasts, what he'd yearned to touch for so long... And impossibly, he now had his very first opportunity.

You started to laugh again, because he had this adorable concentrated expression on his face, and because his wet fro was adorable enough in itself. The scrubbing also tickled slightly.

"Hm?" Michael looked at you, brows raised.

"I know I said this already, but you're so cute."

"Oh," he smiled bashfully, looking down at your arm again.

"Baby," you whispered, taking hold of his wrist. "Don't y' think you've washed my arms enough already? They're not that long, y'know."

Michael bit his lip, finally pausing, but still looking elsewhere from your face. "Uh, yeah, probably."

Truth be told, he was insanely nervous to touch your breasts for the first time. So much so, that he even began to share your concern from earlier. This was too intimate.

Michael never drank alcohol, but a sudden thought occurred in his mind that perhaps he should've taken a few shots before this shower.

"Mikey."

"Yes."

"Look at me," you laughed, reaching up to drag his jaw.

"I'm lookin'," he muttered, with a pout like a child.

"What's goin' on? Why have you stopped completely?"

No way could he say aloud that he, at the grown age of nineteen (to be twenty in two weeks) was scared to touch his own girlfriend's breasts. 'Scared' was perhaps a silly word to use, because one couldn't be scared of something they desperately craved. Rather, his inexperience was crushing him, overwhelming his free will and thereby rendering him unable to proceed with the next action in a normal, casual way.

And so, indeed unable to admit what was plaguing him, he shook his head and grinned. "Was nothin'. I just thought I heard somebody, 's all."

"Alright," you chuckled, although you felt a hint of a lie on his part.

You brushed it off. It was understandable if he was nervous.

Now he moved your hair out of the way and scrubbed gently over your neck, up to your jaw, making you gasp as he held your nape in place. His heart pounded as he did so, both with the thrill of hearing you gasp that way, and with the anxiety about what he would be doing next.

Finally, he lowered his hands, dragging the cloth over your upper chest, just below your collarbone, before setting it aside. He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes tight for a moment, before relieving his hesitation and opening them.

You looked up at him, wet lashes fluttering, heart racing too. He wouldn't touch you like all the rest—you knew that for certain. He was going to touch you so tenderly; with so much care, so much reverence, and—

"Oh..." you involuntarily moaned, head rolling back slowly. Both of Michael's big hands had met your aching breasts, kneading carefully over the tissue. He eagerly lathered your chest in soap, lip between his teeth as his dilated pupils relished in the sight before him. You were breathtaking, and he couldn't believe he somehow had you like this. If he hadn't been so nervous and hesitant, he could've had you this way all the way back in spring. Or even earlier, if he hadn't taken so long to confess his love.

"This okay, mama?" he whispered, kissing your cheek, and then your lips.

Your eyes rolled back as you took another deep breath, reaching a hand up to his shoulder to steady yourself. How was he real? Michael took so much care, paid so much attention, and then had the nerve to kiss you twice, and ask if he was doing well enough. How quintessentially him. He never had any idea how innately talented he was at absolutely everything.

Because in that moment, as your supposedly 'shy' boyfriend squeezed and kneaded, you had quite literally ascended to cloud nine. Incredibly, Michael knew exactly what to do with what he had zero experience in. He was working the tissue in a way no man had before. All men loved breasts—that was a given—so Michael's infatuation with yours had been expected, but the men of your past did something very different. They would grab roughly, hold onto them tight for their own pleasure, without an ounce of tenderness. While here was Michael, doing something so particular, you wondered how on earth he was a virgin. If you hadn't known him on such a deep level, you would've chastised him for lying.

"Mikey..."

You didn't have to explicitly state a confirmation of how this was very much way more than okay. Your soft whines said enough, and they ran through Michael's body like the first hit of a hard drug.

Repetitively, he would run the palm of his hand along one breast, dragging the smooth skin over your erect nipple, and to the other breast he would provide a very slow massage, squeezing passionately as his thumb rubbed side-to-side and in circles over that nipple too.

You hardly looked down, too lost in one of the most pleasurable sensations you'd ever experienced—and you hadn't even reached the sex yet!—but whenever you did, your head would instinctively roll back again. His hands you knew were huge, except now they looked like the sexiest assets to inhabit the earth, you the lucky lady who had the digits sprawled all over your chest. And how tender he was...

All your life you'd done everything erratically, switching from one boy to the next in the hope that his pleasure might give you what you needed. But you had been so wrong—so naive and disconnected from what your safety hormone was really begging for. Beneath everything you sought that only harmed you, was a craving for this very touch.

Michael had a tendency to switch between shy and dominant. While you'd had only heated makeouts and dry-humping sessions so far, it excited you that there was a high likelihood he would behave the same way during sex itself. He would be shy during the build-up, but once he was settled, it was like all his inhibitions were hazy, and the only thing he could focus on was you—consuming you, and pleasuring you. That was the reason why you often found yourselves making out in public, because you were equally addicted to each other, and Michael's shyness appeared to dissipate entirely once he became lost in your body.

Under the fierce shower stream, he sure was taking his sweet time. While just previously he had been too nervous to even touch the area, now he was reluctant to pull away from it.

But there was a problem. So lost in his provision of pleasure, so immersed in your sexuality and your angelic hums with each slight alteration of his movements, indeed Michael Jackson was getting a boner. The love he had for you, the arousal coursing through his veins, had rushed to his nether region, the blood flowing rapidly, much more insistent than he would've liked.

Michael knew he could've kept this shower at mere innocent romance, and when he initiated washing you, he hadn't intended to give you a full on massage. Except, that was what had ended up happening—against his will, he believed, because he felt that his body was moving via his arousal and not his logical mind. He was supposed to save everything until the first night—partly because that was just how he had wanted it to be, and also because the last thing he wanted was to get hard in the shower right in front of you, unable to conceal an inch of it in his nudity.

He was surprised you hadn't noticed, but then again you had your eyes closed during ninety percent of the massage. If this had occurred a few minutes ago, however, you would've seen instantly. Where once his cock had hung limp, it was now risen—the tip flushed mauve, thick veins running up and down the erect length. He wasn't fully hard yet, but he really was getting there, and the longer he touched you and stared at your beautiful chest, the worse this situation would become.

Quickly, he came up with an idea. He would guide you to turn around, so that he could wash your back. Perfect.

"Turn, honey. Lemme do your back," he whispered, cupping your cheek to kiss you again, and then he gently spun you 180 degrees, at which you giggled.

You were stunned by what he'd just given you. "Michael, what on earth was that?"

He gathered more soap and began spreading it from the nape of your neck and downward, scrubbing as he spoke. "Um," he chuckled, "I don't know, but it looked like you were enjoyin' it?"

"Quit this gimmick—you know exactly what you're doin', sir. Have you been stealing porn from your brothers?"

Michael laughed louder. "Nothin’ but Playboy, I promise. 's all me—I haven't learned nothin' from nowhere."

"Ugh, you're incredible, baby. No one's ever touched me in that way before. Like, I've never had anythin' close to that, I swear." You sighed in disbelief and leaned back into his chest, wanting him to cradle you in a hold.

Michael was astonished by your reaction. Sure, it was clear you'd been enjoying yourself, but you'd been with several men before. How had he, in all his inexperience, managed to win such an achievement on first try?

When you leaned back into him, he took hold of you as you wished, now done with washing the plane of your back. He kissed your shoulder, but then froze in his place as he remembered his erection, and so gently pushed you forward again.

"What are you doin'? I wanna cuddle," you protested, about to turn around, but he stopped you with a hand on your hip.

"Not done yet, mama."

You sighed in irritation, but then felt the thrill of realising he was about to wash the lower half of your back profile. With a now content sigh, you let him continue.

Past your waist, Michael washed over the curve of your ass, lip bitten tight between his teeth as he stared at the image before him. He squinted in his sexual frustration, and you never would've guessed—to you he felt so entirely in control, those gorgeous hands running over where you so desperately wished he would just stop being such a gentleman and squeeze, but he didn't want you to think that he was like all the others, that he really had lured you in here just to touch you that way.

That was the last thing you would've ever believed of him, but Michael second-guessed a lot of things.

All of a sudden, he found himself speaking with sincerity. "Uh, y'know, baby, I'm sorry that we're waitin' so long to... um, have sex. 'Cause it's been nearly a whole month since I told y' I'd think about it. I guess this is kind of like me warmin' up to doin' it? I promise I won't make y' wait much longer."

"No, honey, don't apologise," you reassured, reaching back to hold his arm. "There's no pressure at all. We do it when you're ready."

Michael smiled to himself, and leaned down to kiss your shoulder again several times.

"And," you added happily, "I'm very impressed with the glimpse you've given me today. Well, in all fairness, it was really a lot more than a glimpse."

He chuckled, crouching down further now to wash over the backs of your legs. He pressed a kiss to your left hip, and to the skin just above your ass, again producing a pleasant gasp from your throat.

But just as he was about to consider what he might do next, about the problem concerning his own lower half, there was a loud, insistent knock at the door.

"Michael!" one of his brothers called. You didn't know which one it was, because the loud downpour of water above your head was quietening outdoor sound.

"Oh God..." Michael groaned under his breath from behind you, standing up from where he'd been crouched.

"Mike, y' in there? I can hear the water runnin'!"

"Is that Marlon?" you whispered in amusement, still facing away, but you were a little anxious that he might walk in and find out you were in there. The glass was fogged, but it was more than clear that two people stood behind it. Michael would lose his mind if anyone saw, because he knew that Katherine would lose her mind.

"Yeah," Michael muttered back, worrying now. Then he called to his brother, because he couldn't ignore him when it was very obvious he was in the shower. "Hey, yeah, 'm in here!"

"Alright man, y' still got my Afro Sheen?"

Oh no. Michael had borrowed the product off of Marlon earlier on—having run out of his own bottle—and now Marlon had a date, and needed it back immediately.

"Yeah, I can give it back to y' when 'm done!" Michael shouted, trying to disguise the unease in his chest. "See if anyone else has any, maybe?"

"Nah, 's cool, man, I can just come in right now and get it myself!"

You both heard the twist of the door handle, still facing away from each other but with expressions that were parallel, a mirror image in their horror.

"No, don't come in!" Michael yelled, much too defensively, but Marlon obliged, because living with so many brothers meant that you really could witness something you would regret if you weren't careful. That was never the case with Michael though, because he was always so innocent, therefore his anxious yell left Marlon now incredibly suspicious.

"Alright man, Jesus! But what the hell are y' doin' in there? Y' jerkin' off or somethin'?"

You tried not to laugh at that, but Michael didn't find it funny, scared that his mother might hear if she happened to be upstairs. She wasn't, but he couldn't be sure.

"Uh, no—no. I would never do that."

"Whatever, bro," Marlon chuckled. "What is it then? You got a girl in there? Oh shit, that's what it is, huh? Lil Mikey's got a lady in his shower..."

It hadn't taken very long for Marlon to work that one out, given the fact that Michael had literally no other excuse for why his brother couldn't quickly come in and out of the bathroom.

"Michael, this is so embarrassing..." you whispered. "What if he walks in?"

"He won't."

"Michael!" Marlon called again, with more frustration in his tone this time.

"What, Marlon?!"

"Tell me—am I right—do y' have a girl in there?"

What followed was more extremely telling silence, with the sound of the shower's persistent cascade. The quiet spoke for itself.

So Marlon continued. He was loving this, because he never thought he'd see the day that his younger brother would begin to break the rules. "If you don't have a girl wit y', then you'll let me in, but y' not lettin' me in, so that proves it!"

Again, more silence, while Michael groaned under the noise of the hot water.

"No way..." Marlon began to laugh again. "It's [♥︎] in there wit y', ain't it?" Then he raised his voice louder. "Jackie! Tito! Get over here!"

"I'm so sorry," Michael whispered from behind you, although you just found it all very amusing. As long as nobody actually saw you naked in the shower, this was some light entertainment to add to the romantic evening.

But Michael was stressed out, and for more reasons than just that he'd been caught. He had wanted to make this evening as romantic as possible, already nervous enough without the intrusion of his stupid brothers. In retrospect, he really should've done this with you at your place instead of the chaos that was Hayvenhurst, but he didn't want to impose, considering he was the man, and therefore the one who was supposed to initiate all these milestones in your relationship.

"What's gon' on, man? We're 'bout to go out." Jackie was now outside the door too, responding to Marlon's call. Michael's blood was boiling.

"Nah, listen to this." Marlon paused, then couldn't help but laugh again in his shock, so excited to deliver the live news. "Mikey's got a girl in his shower."

"Not [♥︎]?!” Tito asked, in disbelief. Surely his brother had to be kidding.

But for once, he wasn't. "Mhm. 'm sure of it. He won't let me in, 'n he keeps goin' all quiet whenever I ask."

Dumbfounded by the revelation, Jackie called into the bathroom. "Michael, y' can't be for real, man? When mother finds out?"

Each one of his brothers were hypocrites, because they all did whatever they liked, no matter what their mother believed in. It was just that Katherine was most protective over Michael, and Michael was the most compliant with her requests. He had vowed with sincerity never to do anything sexual with a woman until he married.

"God, shut up, Jackie!" Michael snapped. "All of y' need to mind y' own business. And don't y' even dare tell mother. She'll kill me. We're not even doin' nothin' in here—we're just takin' a shower. Washin' ourselves, 'n..."

"And each other?" Tito interrupted through laughter, which the others joined in with.

You'd found it funny until you heard how stressed Michael was, because he really was such a sensitive soul who'd wanted an entirely private night with his girl.

Although, unbeknownst to you, the one thing he had to thank his brothers for was a distraction from his erection. His cock was softening now, and as you turned back to face him, it was like nothing had happened down there at all.

Now, Jermaine had walked up to the door. "What's goin' on?"

"Michael's havin' sex in the shower," Marlon announced.

"Not even kiddin' neither," Jackie added.

"What? With [♥︎]?!" Jermaine asked, in the same shock the others had expressed.

"No, 'm not!" Michael yelled again. "Jesus, just—"

"Michael, why else would you be in the shower with your girl?!" Jackie asked.

"None of y' business!"

From down the hall, a twelve-year-old Janet Jackson had peeked her head out of her bedroom door. "Why are y'all shoutin'?"

"Oh, 's nothin', Jan! You go'n!" Tito called back to her.

"Is Michael doin' somethin' bad?"

"No, I just want my Sheen back!" Marlon shouted.

"Shut up, mother's gonna hear!" Michael reminded. "Is she downstairs?"

"Yeah, she's outside, we're fine!"

"Alright, I'll get out of the shower quick, 'n give it to y'. Only if y' promise to leave me alone."

"Leave 'us' alone, y' mean!" Jermaine corrected. "You're not exactly alone in there!"

Out of respect, the boys didn't speak to you directly, and you were very appreciative of that. The Jacksons were like your brothers, and this was definitely not the most comfortable situation for you to be in with them.

"’m sorry, we'll be alone again in a minute," Michael whispered to you, kissing your forehead.

Then he grabbed a towel, and at the side dried his body with it quickly, before wrapping the cotton around his waist and stepping out. He picked up the jar that had been requested, handing it to Marlon through the now scarcely opened door.

Jackie, Tito and Jermaine were already walking off, done with their teasing because they too had girls waiting on them.

"Marlon, 'm so serious, don't tell mother about any of this. Or Joseph, 'cause he'll tell her himself and then he'll—"

"Hey, bro, stop worryin'. Y' know 'm only messin' with y'. Have you guys been sleepin' together, though?"

Michael squinted in confusion. "Yeah, obviously. We have sleepovers all the time."

Marlon laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, man. No—sleepin' together as in... y'know, makin' love."

The younger brother's face dropped. "Oh."

"You ain't done it yet, huh? How long y' been together?"

"Uh, 3 months. We're, um—"

"Mikey!" you called, getting bored in there alone. "Is everyone gone?"

Marlon tapped his shoulder, before dapping him up with a supportive smile. "You go back in there 'n enjoy yourself, Mikey."

Michael smiled, but rolled his eyes at how his brother mocked your nickname for him.

After shutting the door again and taking off his towel, he stepped back into the shower, immediately pulling you flush to his chest. "So, where were we?"

You grinned, pulling your head out of his neck to lock your lips onto his. "Um," you started to giggle, "you were giving me a very sensual massage."

"Very sensual, huh?" He pecked your nose and squeezed your hips.

"Mhm. Latherin' me in all this luxury soap." You sighed happily. "Baby, I love how much thought you put into this. 'm sorry they ruined it for you."

"No, 'm sorry for you, not me," Michael stressed.

"Oh, shut up, Bambi. Honestly, it was funny. They didn't actually see us, so I can laugh it off. I mean, I would definitely be feeling much different had your mother found out, but if you know for sure that they're not gonna tell, then... Let's just resume our paradise." You beamed, wrapping your arms around his neck and feeling over his fro. "Y'know, if you really wanted something totally private, you would've been better off with a hotel suite, baby."

Michael's brows furrowed in concern. "Is that what you would've preferred? I should've—"

"Noooo, shut up—no. Honey, this is more than enough. Let's move on now. I've really enjoyed tonight."

"Yeah?"

The beautiful boy smiled so wide, it physically hurt you.

"It's been perfect," you whispered against his lips, between more kisses. "Even in its imperfections."

You both chuckled, and Michael now cradled your head, guiding you to rest against his chest again, nestled in the crook of his neck.

"I love you," he murmured. "I really think 'm ready to give you all of me."

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡🧁₊˚⊹♡ ╱ writing this immediately after my last one shot was a fun twist lol ! what a dichotomy. also… initially i intended to include some light smut at the end but i decided against it bc i felt that it would taint the fluff !! there will be soooo much smut in the third part when they do everything together >u<

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@someonessoulrecord @kkgalerii

“shit—come on mama”, michael whined as his head hit the back of the leather limo seats.

“always so impatient mikey.”

you let out a quiet giggle as you unbuttoned his black tailored slacks. he decided to not wear underwear on this day—which wasn’t uncommon for michael.

his cock sprang out, bobbing onto his white button up shirt. the brown pinkish tip leaking globs of precum.

a large grin spread over your face as you gently grabbed him and ran your pointer finger over the slit.

“stop teasing”, micheal groaned out as he grabbed your hand forcefully to wrap around his whole cock.

knowing he was getting impatient with you—you used both hands to slowly jerk him off. the globs of precum spurting out used as lube that shinned over his cock.

he gripped the leather seats and rolled his head to the side to look at you. “faster, please mama.”

you couldn’t say no to him, his brown doe eyes blown wide with a certain ecstasy only you could bring him.

gripping his cock tighter we both hands you jerked at a faster rhythm — watching michael’s face scrunch up at the change of speed.

you knew michael was close, it never took much to get him to release for you — but you wanted to see him do more.

one of your hands snaked down to his balls, where you cupped and massaged them as you fastened the speed on his cock.

michael felt a familiar pit in his stomach, grasping at anything he can catch ahold onto in the seat. “please. ma—oh my god.” he didn’t even know what he was begging for, but you made him feel so good.

you leaned over, breast pushing up on the side of him.

“cum for me michael. please daddy.”

the way michael’s mouth feel open and he squinched his eyes shut, you knew you had him. if only you could take a picture of him in this exact moment.

he let out a series of moans as thick white ropes of cum shot out of his cock. you continued to work him through his high until he grabbed your hand to stop you.

michael made eye contact with you, his lashes wet from the intense euphoric feeling you made him feel. he swiped a few spurts of cum of his dick and brung his fingers to your mouth. he watched you giddily wrap your soft plump lips around his index and pointer finger, sucking every last dribble of cum.

“thank you mikey.”