summary: in which Michael and Paul politely confront each other about the girl that's got them running round in circles
era: after off the wall but just before he released thrillerrrrr, thriller night (yes, I'm annoying). Based on the dynamics in 'The Girl is Mine' duet
word count: 10.7k (this is a hefty one but I promise it's worth it)
warnings/tags: Michael x female reader, implied Paul x female reader (discussed, never shown so the following tags only really apply to Michael) implicit smut, kinda angsty, suggestive themes, sub!Michael, praise kink and pet names galore, jealous Michael, Marlon and Randy are questionable hype-men, tw for j*seph, no Y/N use, avoidant reader, reader insert is kind of mean but realistically if you're stringing two people along, own your meanness x
a/n: few things to preface: I am not a Beatles fan (cue canned booing and tomato throwing) okay I'm SORRY- I've tried, and I will try again. Maybe. Anyway, since I don't know all that much about Paul, I've based his personality off of how I perceive the lyrics in the Girl is Mine. Apologies if it's OOC, but tbh this is a fictional representation of two men I have not and will not, sadly ever meet. Also, I know he was married around this time, so suspend your belief pls THANKS
Also- I do NOT and HAVE NOT used ai at any point when writing this story. It's a shame I have to clarify this, but I will. You can pry my em dashes from my cold, dead hands. Enjoy!
(images taken from pinterest)
“I mean, don’t you think she’s a little too old for you, Michael?”
The question irritated him; it was the smile with which Paul asked it, small but deliberately obvious, pridefully matching his raised brow.
“Then isn’t she a little too young for you?” Michael bit back. His venom surprised him.
Paul held his hands up with a guilty laugh. “Some might say. But the difference in age between me and her is far less than yours.”
“Why does it matter? Age is just a number.”
“Sure it is,” Paul said with a shrug. “But running around with little boys isn’t going to keep her satisfied forever, is it?”
The statement involuntarily made way for a memory: Michael, half-naked, flush to her bare chest while she rocked him and cooed that he was such a good-boy, wasn’t he—
Heat instantly rose to his cheeks. Embarrassed, he dipped his head to focus on his starter; a bland array of leafy vegetables and the occasional tomato. The menu had called it The Green Guffin and Michael had no idea in the slightest what it meant so naturally he chose it. Next time, he vowed not to order a dish just because its name resembled some kind of sacred object from a sci-fi film.
“I’m not a little boy,” Michael grumbled, dejectedly scooping up a forkful of lettuce only to drop it down again.
“That’s exactly what a little boy would say,” Paul said playfully. He picked up his wine glass with one hand, and the bottle with the other. An impressive flick of the wrist sent the bottle flipping then landing upright in his palm once more. A smattering of applause sounded from the nearest table.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” Paul drawled to them, words garbled like a drunken Elvis impersonator. The red drink sloshed against the glass as he tipped it forwards. Michael watched him with a curled lip.
“Want some?” Paul offered.
Jutting out his chin, Michael replied, “No thanks. It’s not good for the body.”
Paul was groaning before Michael had even finished his rejection. “See, this is what I mean. You’re too stiff.”
“You heard me. Oh I don’t drink, Paul. Alcohol is for heathens and evil people.” Paul had slipped into a higher pitch, waving his hands around in mockery. “You’re boring, Mike,” he then said flatly. “Too boring for her.”
“Excuse me?” Michael repeated a little pathetically, because he wasn’t sure how to counter Paul’s unfortunately accurate impression.
Over the span of his life, Michael had been called many things. Even if he deducted every insult from his father, or every affectionate nickname his fans had given him, not once had the description boring been attributed. Not ever.
Clearly, Paul was deflecting. If anything, he was the boring one, with his outdated T-shirt and shaggy brown hair that might have been considered attractive twenty years ago. At least Michael liked to stand out, albeit he was a little self-conscious in his black, sparkly shirt that had felt fitting when he’d tried it but now seemed so juvenile under Paul’s amused gaze.
“I might be boring, Paul,” Michael started, with fake smugness. “But that makes me sensible. For marriage, and whatnot.”
The noise that ripped itself from Paul’s throat could only be described as a guffaw; a loud, bellowing guffaw. The kind that makes people halt their movements in fear, their eyes shakily sweeping the room for the noisemaker. And that’s precisely what everyone did.
“Marriage?” Paul said voluminously with an incredible lack of self-awareness. People were starting to exchange hushed judgement. It wasn’t every day you saw Paul McCartney laugh in Michael Jackson’s face.
“Yes, marriage. And shush!” hissed Michael.
“She would never marry you.”
“Could you stop talking so loudly! And…” He hated how much the next question clung to his tongue in wretched anticipation. “Why not?”
“If that woman ever ends up marrying anyone, I’ll eat my big toe. In fact, I’d eat yours too,” Paul declared. He swallowed a mouthful of his wine with haste.
“Women like that don’t settle down. They can’t. They just keep sleeping around until they’re old and no one wants to fuck them anymore.”
Michael grimaced at the swear. “Please don’t curse. And you’re wrong.”
Winking, Paul necked down the remaining drops of wine. Michael watched him blankly, trying not to dwell on the choice of word (fuck—so…vulgar, so impolite. He didn’t want to link that word to her, scared it’d set him off in ways he really didn’t need right now) and instead thought about how exactly he’d gotten here in the first place.
The Goldit had never been Michael’s ideal choice of fine dining; he’d heard all about its promotion of fantastically healthy meals, designed to keep all of Hollywood as gaunt as possible. He was a little surprised to find that Paul, a closet vegetarian, enjoyed nibbling on glorified rabbit food.
“I just can’t stand the idea of eating animals, you know? Feels like murder,” was one of the first things Paul had reproachfully told Michael when he’d glanced at the horrible menu. “I mean, how can you have a pet yet still eat meat? It’s so hypocritical.”
The last comment did rouse some guilt in Michael’s chest. He’d brought home KFC yesterday.
At least what the Goldit lacked in their flavoring, they made up for in their visual lustre. Black walls were painted with leaping gold swirls, while the floor almost entirely omitted the darkness and opted for shiny gold squares, separated with borders like a disco dance floor. It seemed that the aesthetic might have been purposeful, as hanging from the middle of the room was a twinkling chandelier, round and twisting like a disco ball. Momentarily, Michael was thrust back to his days at Studio 54, where he danced so much his toes cramped, where the blinding lights catching everyone’s sequins transformed them into otherworldly creatures.
He must have gone quiet when he’d first observed his surroundings, because Paul suddenly said:
“Yeah,” Michael had agreed. Then he remembered why he was in this beautiful restaurant in the first place, and he got annoyed all over again.
That day—it replayed in his head like one of those slasher sequences where there’s no dialogue, just screeching music and horrified faces. Except in real life, there’s just confusion and excuses.
Michael had been so happy moments before. Standing on her doorstep had felt like he was on top of the world—it didn’t matter that the container in his hands was struggling to withstand the heat of the freshly baked cookies, burning into his skin. Who cared? He certainly didn’t. All he could think about was her, her, her—
Maya’s head protruded from the ajar door. Her hair, normally tidily swept away, spilled out of her hair net in waves. Sweat slicked her forehead. She looked exhausted.
“Hiya, Maya,” Michael said, smiling despite how unfunny she found the rhyme. "How are you?"
“Are you supposed to be here this early?” Maya said with a frown. The thin slits of her eyes flicked upwards then downwards with a peculiar expression.
Now, Michael wanted to slap his former, none-the-wiser self because it was so obvious he could cry. But Michael had been too eager to embrace (Name), to feed her cookies, to feel her—
He started grinning just from the mere thought. “I’m a little early, sorry. Too excited, I guess.”
“Hm,” she huffed. “You wait here.”
Ominously, her head retreated and the door slammed, leaving Michael all alone, the sun’s swelter beating down on his head.
Michael had started to get nervous then (Intuition, Michael!, his present self was screaming) but that was just the effect (Name) had on him; one that left him giddy and sick all at once.
So when the door opened once more, this time more widely, and when Maya told him, “I guess you can come in,” he didn’t pay any heed to that strange persisting expression, nor the stilted delivery of her words.
Sidestepping around Maya, Michael felt a surge of relief at the familiarity of everything: the white walls covered in abstract art; the hallway mirror, low enough to barely catch his forehead; the smell of freshly-washed carpet; the kitchen's beige cabinets being within sight immediately.
(Name) always laughed when Michael told her this. “What do you mean ‘you’re glad things stayed the same’? It’s been a month! You think I’m just going to get up and rearrange everything?”
Michael would simply shake his head at her not quite getting it. Really, he didn’t quite either.
“The madam is in the garden,” Maya announced dully. She was watching Michael like he’d grown two heads and a beak.
“Thanks, Maya,” he said. He moved to plant a kiss on her plump cheek, a routine they’d come to adopt, but this time Maya swerved, causing Michael to stumble awkwardly.
“Sorry, I—” And she looked at him with a crumpled brow before spinning on her heels to advance up the stairs.
“Oh—um—” Michael fumbled unintelligently. He wondered (should have wondered longer) if something had happened. But the hot cookies were starting to punish him with a painful searing, so he put the thought aside and rushed to the kitchen.
Ouch. His mother was right. He could envision her now, sighing at the tender skin on his fingers.
“I told you not to use that pot. Didn’t I tell you?” Somehow, Katherine would be whispering and shouting simultaneously. It was an admirably scary skill.
Michael would have carried them straight out of the oven in his bare hands if it meant that he could watch (Name) eat them. It was a very weird discovery, and he did feel like a pervert admitting it to himself, but he loved to watch her eat. Something about the way she’d elegantly gather up the food into whichever utensil she was using, or her fingers (that’s when it felt particularly dirty), and push the contents into her open mouth, with the occasional emergence of her pink, wet tongue, darting out to lick the stains around her—
Alright, he needed to stop.
Steadying himself on the kitchen island, Michael counted to twenty-seven. He always did so when his thoughts veered towards an…impure direction. It worked like a charm—he regained his regular breathing and that one specific organ stayed…relaxed.
Why the number twenty-seven, Michael didn’t know. Maybe the oddness of it clashed with his ingrained perfectionism. Maybe the number was really unsexy for some reason.
The open windows welcomed a warm wind that sifted through Michael’s curls and caressed his exposed skin. The coolness reminded him of the promise of her being outside, likely clad in clothes too dainty to be considered appropriate. Goosebumps formed on his neck as he rushed to open one of the cabinets, reaching for a plate.
Behind him, a click sounded: the door to the garden. Disappointment settled on Michael’s shoulders; he’d wanted to surprise her, maybe wrap one of her frilly aprons around his waist. She liked seeing him act domestic, said it made her feel special. But it was stupid to be upset, he knew that.
Gleefully, he turned to greet her.
In Michael’s opinion, shock is a word that’s used too lightly. Were you really shocked when you found out you were on shift with the colleague you hated? What about when you realized the dress for the wedding reception didn’t fit as well as you'd remembered? Or, and this might be some truly harrowing stuff: discovering your DNA has ancestry from a country you’ve never heard of. Shocking? No, not quite, but perhaps close.
Now, Michael—Michael had experienced shock. His rise to fame had been one of a quieter shock, the kind he’d learned to put to the side and only recognize on the nights where he badly needed to feel better about himself. His father Joseph had taught him about shock before Michael could even spell; the lashings, the kicks, the punches. Pain burrowing into his very bones, pure and unadulterated.
There’s a kind of whiteout that happens with it. Your vision departs for such a tiny fraction of a second that most don’t realize it even left. Then the blood cells in your body start to flow so quickly that your heart can hardly keep up, and it’s beating at a frustratingly irregular pace. Your muscles tingle, especially in the tips of your fingers and toes, and you feel like you want to faint and run away at the same time.
Michael experienced all of these symptoms when he saw Paul McCartney in her kitchen.
Paul, in only his underwear, held half a sandwich in his hands. One would expect him to drop it in equally matched shock, but Paul clutched the item even tighter, oozing peanut butter and jam onto his fingers.
All the saliva in Michael’s mouth had dissolved away, turning his tongue inexplicably dry. Just like his teachers had taught him when he was young, he tried to sound out the vowels and consonants one by one, hoping that something would come of it. Nothing did.
“Michael?” Why was Paul saying his name like that, like he was aghast at Michael’s being there, when he was the one nearly naked in her kitchen—
“Why are you naked?” Michael blurted out, because the very notion had somehow brought him out of his muteness.
“Why am I…?” Paul looked down as if this was the first time he’d ever seen his own body. “I’m not?”
“You—you are,” Michael croaked. He held onto the tabletop behind him and prayed for the strength not to collapse.
“No, I’m wearing underwear. They’re a bit small, but they’re—anyway, that doesn’t matter. Why are you here, Michael?”
“Why are you here, Paul?” Michael retorted, although he knew exactly what he was doing there and yet he still dreaded hearing it all the same.
The door clicked again. In unison, Paul and Michael’s heads swivelled.
With slow, measured steps, she entered the kitchen like a figure of nobility. She might as well have been, because Michael’s eyes ventured to her right away and refused to release her. Despite the confusion swirling in Michael’s mind, everything quietened when he saw her skirt exposing her long, gleaming legs. His heart dropped to his stomach when he saw Paul’s equally enraptured attention.
“No, no,” Michael groaned hopelessly. Clenching his teeth, he clapped the sides of his head with his hands.
“No!” he cried. “No, no!”
She was close to him now, so close he could kiss her. He hated her. He wanted her to hold him.
“Angel,” she started, and he hated how that word in that honey-dripped tone was stirring something primal inside of him. “Let’s talk about this, hm?”
Michael almost conceded, but Paul’s piping up (“What the hell is going on? Someone explain?!”) reminded him of how bizarre it all was so he ran to the door, sweaty palms slowing the twisting of the handle. He practically vaulted into the garden.
Gusts of wind leapt at him, pummelling him with their crispness. They offered him seconds of stillness while he inhaled and exhaled.
He’d always liked her garden, for its immense size and rows of colorful flowers. (Name) wasn’t an avid gardener in the slightest, always harping on about how tedious it was to plant. Maya had taken the brunt of the hard work, shovelling the seeds, snipping the green shrubbery, laying down the stone tiles which formed a path cobbled path.
At least (Name) could take credit for the small stone fountain directly in the garden's center, coughing up streams of water. Michael approached it, feeling drawn to the cherub angel aiming a bow and an arrow.
“You love it, don’t you?” she’d once said, catching him in his motionless from behind to snake an arm around his waist. “You’re always staring at it.”
“It’s beautiful,” he’d responded. She never agreed, growing to resent the excessive purchase.
“Don’t overindulge when you’re up and coming, Michael,” she’d warned. “Don’t be like me.”
Overindulgence. The signs were there and he missed them all.
The pain hit Michael then, thwacking him in his gut. Like a hit dog, he keeled over, moaning.
Was this heartbreak? The kind that had grown men singing about girls they hadn’t seen in years?
I understand it now, Michael thought to no one in particular.
He was sitting on a patch of grass when she found him, hunched over with his wiry legs pulled to his torso and his arms wrapped around his calves.
“Oh my angel,” she said, simpering. Drifting over, she descended to sit next to him.
“Don’t,” he said grimly. He turned to look away.
“Don’t, what, angel face?”
Why was she doing this to him? “Don’t call me…those names,” Michael said through gritted teeth.
“Because I’m not your angel. Not anymore.”
In retrospect, it sounded like a canned line from a badly made romance flick. But, damn, it hurt like hell to say, and it pained even more to see her dismissal.
His head whipped around in disbelief. “Alright? That’s it?”
She shrugged. “What else do you want me to say?”
Michael shot her a piercing stare. She didn’t flinch, just teased her hair a little.
“You’re cruel,” he said harshly. A burning sensation pulled at his eyeballs; great, now he was going to make a fool out of himself and cry.
“No, Michael. I think you’re the cruel one, because you don’t listen.”
Her assurance, her casualness—it seemed she really did believe she’d done nothing wrong. Michael was astonished.
“Don’t you remember? When we first agreed to start seeing each other? After those first few nights…” Her hand crept to his back, shooting a cascade of buffering nerve impulses down his spine.
“I-I remember.” It was getting really hot out here all of a sudden.
Tutting, she said, “I don’t think you do, Michael. Because that night, when you asked me what we were, you know what I told you?”
“Casual. I said we were casual. You know what that means?”
“Please don’t be patronizing,” he said shortly, although his stomach’s contents were performing aerial flips and cartwheels.
“Casual—meaning it’s not serious. Why are you being so serious?”
“Because it’s not casual to me!” Michael almost yelled. Her narrowing eyes forced him to shrink his growing anger. “I’m sorry.”
She scoffed. “Well, that’s not my problem.”
“Really?” His voice was timid, broken.
“If you have an issue with my boundaries, then you can leave.”
That was the first time she’d ever suggested it. Leaving. Leaving her, and all the memories they’d made.
Michael tried to envision it: him standing up, maybe a little—not a little, very—angrily, then stalking home. From then on, he’d continue doing what he always did: rehearse, record, rehearse, record. The only disruptions to his routine being the familial interactions that could range from tolerable, maybe even nice, to downright fearful when his father entered the room. And that was all.
To Michael, that sounded like a recipe for madness.
It happened so instantaneously that it might as well have bludgeoned Michael in the face: the flicker of her expression from irritation to genuine warmth, brightening her eyes and rounding out her cheeks.
“Well, aren’t I lucky?” she said with a grin. “My angel isn’t abandoning me after all.”
Michael couldn’t share her happiness, for a bitterness still festered inside of him. It made him ask:
“Paul.” It sounded like a slur, a taboo not to be talked about.
“You’re asking me why I’ve made Paul my friend?”
Rolling his eyes, Michael spat out, “You don't need to lie to me anymore.”
Confused, she held up her hands. “What lie? Paul is my friend, the same way you’re mine.”
That afternoon was starting to feel like an experiment to see how many heartbreaks Michael could survive suffering within a short period.
A single tear escaped from his eye, dropping onto the green grass. It reminded him of a story he’d read as a child, where the protagonist's tears could grow huge, magical trees. Michael wished he had the same skill, wished the tree would erupt from the ground and take him up in its branches so that he’d never touch the ground again.
He quickly wiped the remnants of the tear away.
“How long?” he asked hoarsely, because he’d already been stabbed in the heart multiple times, why not add a few more?
She stroked her chin with her forefinger—the fact that she was having to genuinely think about how long she’d been sleeping with the man, gosh Michael what are we doing here?—and finally said, “Maybe a year? A little more, a little less?”
A year? Michael had only been seeing her for eight months.
“So…before me?” This conversation was sickening.
“Yes, a little before. We met—oh, don’t look at me like that,” she snapped.
“Why him? Tell me, please,” Michael pleaded.
She held his imploring gaze for a few seconds. Sighing, she said, “You’re asking me why I’m sleeping with him? Are you sure you want to know?”
He didn’t know; nothing made sense. Yes. No. Yes and no.
“A little,” he replied sheepishly.
“Then I’ll tell you a little. Paul’s charming. He’s talented, he can be sweet. He’s British.” Her eyelashes fluttered at the last fact.
If being British was all it took to disarm beautiful women, then Michael was scared for the standards of women worldwide.
“But he’s so…” Michael threw up his hands in frustration.
“So…?” A laugh was breaking through her voice.
“Old?! He’s only a few years older than me.” Pouting, she crossed her arms jokingly. “You must think I’m archaic.”
“No, no. It’s different. You’re… you. Paul McCartney?” Michael was going to try and conjure up some kind of insult, about the singer being a washed popstar, an uncool B-celeb, but he found that his admiration won over. “Are you a Beatles fan then?”
She arched an eyebrow. “Would you be upset if I said yes?”
This time Michael was pouting. He picked at some grass and threw it in the air. “Everyone’s a Beatles fan, so no. Actually, maybe a little bit. Yes, I would."
“Okay, good. Because I’m not.” She shuffled closer, hip against his.
“Y-you’re not?” Michael stuttered, recognizing the all-too-familiar shift in the air.
“Never was, really. I am, however, a huge fan of this one guy.” She was nuzzling against his shoulder now. “Used to be in this kiddie band. Don’t know if you know them, they’re kind of underground.”
Swallowing, Michael let her pepper light kisses across his neck and jaw. “T-try me.”
A final bite on his ear lobe, pulling it down. “Michael, what game would you like to play today?”
Months into their…friendship, as she'd painfully called it, and Michael still got too embarrassed when she addressed the… sensuality of it all. Embarrassingly, she came up with the idea to call them games, developing slightly mortifying names for them.
“How about…the Lone Ranger?” Her fingers fiddled with the hem of his shirt.
“Mhm…” That feeling, the one which made him feel both tired and awake at the same time, flooded his senses. His head flopped backwards in growing pleasure.
“Twist the Snake?” She mimed the cranking action with her hands.
“Oh gosh…” Waves of hotness rolled down his body.
“Wet Willy?” One of his fingers was guided to her mouth where she took it in, moving her head up and down.
“Oh…oh…” He couldn’t formulate a single clear thought. It was too obscene, the things she was doing to him, the things she made him feel—
The slick sound of her tongue, the feeling of it rubbing against his finger…
He was grateful when she pulled off with a pop, because he was already teetering precariously on the edge of something dangerously filthy.
“Oh…I know,” she remarked, eyes twinkling. “How about Rock the Boat?”
Michael was nodding before he’d even registered it.
Her small hand slipped into his and pulled him up. Dazed, he followed her, until a fear stopped him mid-step.
“He’s not still here, right?”
He couldn’t see her face from behind, but he noticed the stiffening of her shoulders.
“Of course not. I told him to leave when you ran outside.”
“Am I sure?” She turned, with an affronted countenance. “Am I a liar?”
“No…” Michael said quickly, fearing he’d wrecked the charged tension between them. “I was just…worried. I’m sorry.”
After a fixed look that lasted several seconds too long, she turned back to lead him in silently.
Michael tried not to think about Paul. He did a good job at first, a really good one, blocking him out. Her kisses stole the memory away from him fleetingly, deep and desperate, like she was trying to consume him whole.
Michael didn’t think about him when they played their games—not in Twist the Snake, where he achieved a high score (the loudest he’d ever been, sorry to her neighbors) nor with Wet Willy, which brought on an onslaught of uncontrollable twitches that took minutes to get over. Michael didn’t think about him when his tongue was filled with the reward of the Lone Ranger, rendering him panting like a starved man.
But it was Rock the Boat, the final game, when he’d noticed it. With his back against the mattress, he could see her in all her majesty; her back, arched from the lack of control in the heat of her release. He saw her mouth fall open, and it really did look like she was forming the letter P—but then she called out a loud Michael and that was the end of it.
And that’s when Paul entered his mind intrusively—the idea of Paul being in this same position, or worse—him being the one to dominate, to lead her, nearly turned Michael off completely. Disgust crawled into his skin and made him blanch, but then she slapped him right across the cheek mercilessly, and the sting made him cry as he hurtled towards his finish, and that was the end of it.
“And then, the dragon swooped down with a thunderous roar, chasing the villagers away…”
This was his favorite part of their meetings. Not the greetings, not the games (though they were a high contender). No, it was the time they spent in bed together after, her hand stroking his curls, his head on her bare chest, her melodic voice reading bedtime stories as he drifted asleep. The domesticity of it was so intimate that it set his skin on fire, scorching from the unbearable sweetness.
“You’re usually asleep by now,” she remarked. She placed the book down on her chest. “Something wrong, angel face?”
Michael was wide awake, pondering if this would be the last time he’d see her.
No. It was less of a decision, but more of the knowledge that he could not commit to abstaining from her presence.
Michael had always ensured he’d stay away from recreational substances, partly from his own beliefs, mostly from his father Joseph’s threats. What he didn’t know was just how addictive a woman could be.
“Did Paul know?” He despised himself for the question, for causing her hand to fall away from his hair with a sigh. “I’m sorry… but did he?”
“About you?” she asked impatiently. He nodded silently.
“Of course he didn’t. He was angrier than I’d ever seen him.” There was a little melancholy in her creeping words.
“To me?” She threw back her head and laughed raucously. If Michael could choose one sound to bottle up and listen to forever, he was sure it would be that.
“Paul couldn’t hurt a fly, let alone me. No,” she reminisced with a small smile. “He just stomped off like a little child, saying that he’d never see me again.”
Michael tried to picture Paul McCartney stomping anywhere, but he couldn’t make the image clear.
“Enough about Paul,” she said, a little testily. Her fingers thankfully returned to his scalp, the pressure so delicate yet heavy all at once. “You must be tired. Sleep.”
He wanted to—he really did. But a harrowing sensation was hollowing his heart for no apparent reason, and he had to say something, he just had to—
“I love you.” There, he said it. It was out in the air now, soft and hesitant.
She planted a kiss on his hair, but didn’t say anything. She planted a kiss on his hair, but didn’t say anything.
She planted a kiss on his hair but didn’t—
It tortured him for days after. Every time he tried to relax, to come up with a polished lyric or a clean beat, his mind was invaded either by Paul or her dead stare when she told Michael to leave, or her silence when he’d told her he’d loved her and—
She planted a kiss on his hair, but didn’t say anything.
Michael didn’t like talking about his…dalliances, to anyone. Especially not to his family.
Sometimes, if he was feeling courageous, he’d casually ask his producer, Quincy, for advice on the best kind of gifts to give. Occasionally he’d ask Bill, his bodyguard, why women didn’t like to say what they felt outright. And they’d both give him a knowing smirk despite Michael’s lack of real confirmation.
But this time Michael was desperate. He couldn’t sleep, not that he ever really could. The few hours he succumbed to on a nightly basis were dwindling quickly.
His eating habits, already irregular and restricted, were growing non-existent. With every unfinished plate, Katherine’s eyebrows furrowed more and more.
“Are you sick, Michael?” she whispered one day, placing a palm against his forehead.
“I’m fine, Mother,” he said, retreating from the room speedily like his heels were on fire.
Michael couldn’t take it anymore when his brothers Randy and Marlon visited home, jostling through the house obnoxiously.
“What’s up, Big Daddy?” Marlon jeered as they pushed into his room without permission.
“Is knocking not a thing anymore…?” huffed Michael. He was lying stomach down on his bed, elbows propping himself up.
The bed sank as Randy’s weight strained against it. “Is that any way to greet your brothers? It’s been months!”
“Wish it’d been years,” Michael grumbled. He didn’t really mean that. It was his stupid notepad’s fault; still blank after an hour, a visual reminder of his lyrical drought.
“Damn!” Marlon clutched his heart dramatically and slowly slid to the floor. “Michael, man. You’re killing me with cruelty.”
“Yeah, man. Killing us.” Randy joined in the theatrics, slithering down until his back was on the comforter. For added annoyance, he made a retching sound and closed his eyes.
“Randy, man. You’re too much,” Marlon said, shoulders shaking with mirth. The room filled with their boisterous giggles.
Michael tried, he really did. He even added a laugh of his own, but then he was suddenly so overwrought with agitation that he started crying.
It took them some time to notice amidst their idiocacy. They were so busy poking and prodding each other that when their brief silence enabled the sniffling to be heard, they were bewildered.
“Michael?” Randy shot up immediately, touching his shoulder. Marlon sat up too.
“I’m sorry,” Michael murmured. He wiped his eyes and briefly wished the walls would cave in.
“What’s wrong, Mikey?” Marlon asked tenderly. It was an odd sight to behold, Marlon being caring. Michael tucked the memory into the forefront of his brain so he could tease his brother for it later.
“It’s nothing, really,” Michael started. He resisted for two whole seconds before he blurted out everything.
The confession hung in the room’s still air, withered and saddening. Michael reluctantly stole a glance at his brothers; Randy was looking blankly at the overflowing shelves stuffed with toys and records; Marlon was staring at Michael like he’d supplied an admission of murder.
“So you’re telling me,” Marlon began, voice quivering. “That you’ve had a secret girlfriend for eight months?”
“And she’s cheating on you with Paul McCartney?” Randy added quizzically.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Michael corrected. “So, I guess it’s not cheating either.”
“Michael, Michael, Michael.” Tutting, Marlon lifted himself on his heels, crouched like an ancient master from an old karate movie. “Do you know who you are?”
Michael stilled his trembling lip. “Michael Jack—?”
“Michael Jackson. You’re Michael Jackson! Why are you letting this B-list actress mess you around like this?”
“Well, she’s not really B-list,” grumbled Michael. “She’s been in some real popular movies lately—”
“That’s besides the point, Michael, and you know it.” It was Randy, surprisingly harsh.
“Yeah, well.” Michael’s shoulders drew upwards in a frustrated shrug. “I love her.”
Marlon, still in his weird karate crouch, hobbled over like a crab. “You don’t,” he said sharply when he’d reached the bed frame. “And you need to cut her off, now.”
“No?” Marlon squawked. “Gosh, Michael, what if Joseph finds out?”
Both Randy and Michael were quick to hush Marlon with hissing. Most families would find it odd that the Jacksons regarded their father as some kind of boogey-man, but it really did feel like the old man could be summoned with the mere mention of his name.
“Sorry, sorry. I’m shushing,” Marlon surrendered. He collapsed onto his back with a scoff. “I can’t believe this…”
Michael couldn’t quite believe it either, the fact that he’d told any of his siblings, and especially these two. He should have approached Latoya first, then she could have enlightened him to the wiles of femininity.
He noticed Randy’s thoughtful stare from the corner of his eye. “What?”
“I can’t believe you’ve finally found a girl,” Randy said, his head oscillating from side to side like a disapproving mother. The corners of his mouth wavered with amusement. “I’m happy for you.”
“Randall! Don’t encourage him!” cried Marlon.
“Why not?” He turned to Michael with a question. “You said you love her?”
“More than anything,” Michael replied. In the past minute alone, she’d ebbed and flowed across his thoughts at least a dozen times.
“And you won’t leave her?”
“...No.” The answer was unstable, unsure. He hoped neither of them perceived it.
“Well, there you have it, Marlon!” Randy clapped his hands together triumphantly. “He’s made up his mind.”
“He’s lost his damn mind, that’s what he’s done,” Marlon spat disdainfully. He was still laying spread-eagled on the cluttered floor when he sprang up suddenly. “What about Paul?”
Michael had asked himself that very question countless times.
It was worrying, how quickly the pinpricks of jealousy had evolved into obsession. As soon as Michael had returned to Hayvenhurst, he’d slipped into his father’s room of records, constantly glancing back in anticipation of a wallop. Thankfully, no such came, and Michael found exactly what he was looking for: Abbey Road.
The Beatles, The Beatles, The Beatles. There were few musical acts that brought a heightened awe upon Michael; James Brown, Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly…and regrettably, the Beatles.
This would have been a lot easier if they had worse music.
It was like self-harm; the record player spinning the music into reality, Paul’s soulful voice carrying into the room. Michael’s darkening mood, one of both rage and sorrow, that couldn’t stop him from tapping his foot in time with the rhythm. Some of the songs were so good Michael found himself wishing they were his own.
He thought about how she’d described Paul—charming, talented, sweet. She didn’t say handsome though—that was a one up, right? She was always calling Michael her handsome boy, her beautiful angel—that meant something, right?
If it meant something, she wouldn’t be sleeping with Paul too.
No! He didn’t want to think about that, about them, doing... those things. It felt slimy and horrid.
He didn’t want to share her, didn’t want Paul to see the same blemishes and marks that scattered across her bare skin, the ones that felt personalized for him and no one else. The fact that the same places, the same…orifices he’d learned inside and out were also familiar to Paul, revolted him.
“It’s not a good look, you know,” Marlon said, ever the pessimist. “Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson fighting over a girl? The public would kill her if the press ever caught wind. You saw what they did to Yoko.”
“Good thing they won’t know,” Randy reassured with a deliberate squeeze of Michael’s forearm. “You haven’t gone around tattling on yourself, have you Mike?”
“Then that’s that. All you need to do is keep your lips sealed.”
“So, what, you’re telling me you’re okay with sharing a girl? Really, Mike?” Marlon asked with a pointed look. “What about marriage, kids? How’s that going to work?”
The gloominess of the situation seemed to finally land on Randy with a frown. “He’s got a point, Mikey. Things won’t ever be normal for you.”
Normalcy was always what Michael yearned for. Ever since he was a child, being planted on stages and forced to perform like a circus animal while his mind flew far away, to water balloon fights and climbing trees in a backyard. His past had never offered him that comfort, and so the future did; a house with a farm and a connected playground for his children to play in—that became his dream, his reason to keep trudging on.
And no matter how hard he tried to picture anyone else, the wife in these daydreams, the mother of his children, was always her.
“I’m not leaving her,” Michael declared firmly. The stuffed Disney animals on his shelves caught his eye; they all seemed to be cheering him on, their magic emboldening him. “But I’m also not sharing.”
“So what does that mean, Michael? You’re going to, what, fight him? You’re going to fight Paul McCartney?” Marlon had chuckled at himself, until he registered Michael’s determined expression.
Randy’s eyes had grown equally as wide. “Marlon…I think he’s serious.”
Night-time had fallen on the estate faster than anticipated. Katherine and Joseph had shuffled to an early bedtime, not without suspicion at the loud bickering bouncing off Michael’s bedroom walls. The argument ceased when a heavy knock thudded against the door.
Like a predator, he slinked inside. His hooded eyes travelled around the room, sizing it up. They eventually settled on Michael, whose breaths began erupting shallowly.
Not a word needed to be said before the brothers were making excuses.
“He wants us to practice something with him,” Marlon had insisted. “For his new album.”
“Yeah, yeah! We were just…debating on a tune,” Randy added with tense enthusiasm.
Joseph, clad in a silk bathrobe, was somehow still intimidating despite resembling an older woman with expensive taste. He hovered in front of Marlon, his breath almost visibly ejecting from his nostrils like steam. “Is that so?”
“Yes, Joseph.” They all said it immediately, obediently, except for Michael, who was deathly still.
“Michael,” Joseph called out, his voice crawling menacingly. “You’re being awfully quiet, boy.”
“Sorry, Joseph,” he said hurriedly.
“You working on your album?”
“Good,” he purred. One more sleazy glance at the room and Joseph said, “Ain’t you a little too old for all these toys?”
At first, Michael didn’t answer, fearing his lips would betray him and forget the quickness with which Joseph could make a weapon out of just about anything.
“I said,” Joseph reiterated with a hiss. “Ain’t you a little too old for toys?”
The answer satiated him, like a beast enjoying an offering of prey. Michael knew there wasn’t a point to the question; it was as unnecessary as a lion revealing its claws to the gazelle too far away in the distance.
“Alright. Night, boys. And don’t be hooting and hollering no more. It’s late.”
“Goodnight, Joseph.” This time, they all were simultaneous in their dismay.
The door closed, and a chorus of audible breath-releasing rose.
“That was close,” Randy said breathlessly. “You alright, Mike?
Shakily, Michael nodded and uncurled his fingers from his tight fists. It was a grievous reminder that no matter how many years melted away, no matter how old and tall Michael grew, Joseph could still pull his confidence down as easily as a child knocks down a set of building blocks.
“This is your fault, Randy!” Marlon whisper-shouted.
“I ain’t no hooter, nor hollerer, so it had to be you!”
“Oh please. You know that’s all Michael.”
Michael rolled his eyes and interrupted before the crescendo of immaturity reached a peak. “Oh, stop it, both of you. I want to get this done.”
“Right on, captain.” Marlon sauntered over to the plastic pink table they’d stolen from their sister's room. Atop it sat the telephone, shiny and blue. “Let’s run this through one more time.”
He picked up the phone, chest puffed outwards as he immersed himself in the role. Randy imitated a ringing sound, then clicked his tongue like the imaginary call had gone through. Sighing, Michael stuck out his thumb and pinky finger, holding it to his ear.
“Hello?” Michael said drearily.
“Uh, ‘ello? Who’s this?” Marlon replied, in perhaps the most atrocious attempt at a British accent Michael had ever heard.
Trying to quell his rising hysteria, Michael said, “ This is Michael Jackson. Is this Paul?”
“Ah, Michael! ‘Ello, guv’ner! How’s you?”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Marlon, he doesn’t sound like that. Not even remotely.”
“Who’s Marlon? I only know Paul.” Marlon said, batting his long eyelashes flirtatiously. Michael groaned.
“Ugh. I’m good, Paul, how are—?”
A guttural noise bubbled between them, like an incorrect buzzer from a late night quiz show. It took Michael a few disorienting seconds to find the source of the sound; Randy’s mouth.
“We talked about this, Michael. No niceties, no ‘how are yous’. Just go straight in.”
“Isn’t that a little rude?” Michael questioned queasily.
“Isn’t that the point?” was Randy’s rebuttal.
Nibbling his bottom lip, Michael continued half-heartedly. “Paul, I’m calling about (Name).”
Marlon’s mouth dropped open melodramatically. “(Name)? You mean, my girl?”
Suspending one’s belief while Marlon’s face blew up like a pufferfish was decidedly difficult. “No, Paul.” Michael strained to hold back his laughter. “She’s my girl.”
“Ooooh,” Randy chimed in. Even he was struggling; the vein in his temple was salient against his smooth skin.
“Your girl? No, no. She’s mine,” Marlon sing-songed.
This was ridiculous. If Paul really did start spouting such cheesy lines during their supposed confrontation, Michael might as well just suggest they sing and dance like they’re in Grease.
“Paul,” Michael said cautiously, cringing at his next rehearsed line. “She’s mine. You’re going to…you’re not going to see her anymore. Or…or else…”
Marlon raised his eyebrows in encouragement.
“I’ll…I’ll…I’ll beat your…ass.”
The threat sizzled away pathetically like a drop of oil on a frying pan.
“Seriously?” Marlon said, aghast.
“Told you he couldn’t do it,” Randy said pleasingly.
“Shut it, Randall. Michael.” Marlon strode over to seize Michael by the shoulders strictly. “Michael, you are black. You are from Gary, Indiana. So when you say you’re going to beat this white guy’s ass, you say it with conviction. Amen?”
“Preach, preacher!” Randy exclaimed.
“But, Marlon,” Michael uttered in a hushed tone. “I’ve never beat nobody before.”
“But you do know how to dodge. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee? You know, Ali?” Marlon faked a punch, smirking when Michael did indeed, dodge sharply.
“That’s the spirit!” Randy yelped. “But seriously, guys, let’s wrap this up. I’m getting sleepy.”
“You old hen,” Marlon clucked affectionately. “Alright, you got the number, Mike?”
“Yep.” Nausea wreathed in his belly.
“Then let’s give the ol’ guv’ner a call, shall we?”
If someone had told Michael that one night, he and two of his brothers would be congregated around a telephone as he tremulously dialled Paul McCartney, he would have looked at them funny.
The ringing ricocheted through Michael’s ears. An apprehensive look at his brothers showed Marlon frozen in an awkward thumbs up and Randy silently laughing.
Gosh, was he really going to do this?
He wondered what she’d make of it—would she be upset, claiming it as a crossed boundary? Or would she take it as a compliment, an indicator of the way she drove men crazy?
“Oh, angel. Look at you being all competitive,” he could imagine her purring. “It’s making me excited.”
Michael almost dropped the phone.
“Um…hello?” Why did he sound like that, all girlish and barely audible? Clearing his throat, Michael adopted a lower register and said, “Is this Paul?”
“That depends. Who is this?” Maybe it was just the muffled quality, but Michael was starting to think that Marlon’s stuffy impression wasn’t so far-fetched. He sounded pompously British.
A few crackles and rustles filtered through the receiver. With more clarity, Paul said, “Oh.”
“Michael Jackson,” he added unnecessarily. “Paul, I wanted to tell you that—”
“Did she put you up to this?”
Michael stopped shortly. “…No, she didn’t.”
It sounded like Paul was scratching something, maybe his scalp. If it was, Michael was concerned about the dryness. “How did you get my number?”
So many questions. “You gave it to me, remember? At New Years in London? Last year.”
Marlon and Randy were signalling something; Michael gave them a sidelong glance and saw that they were gesturing, tapping their thumbs against their fingers—you’re talking too much.
“New Years, huh. I don’t remember that,” Paul pondered. “Maybe I was too drunk.”
Paul had been stumbling around the dance floor, and at one point unzipped his fly because he mistook a woman’s designer bag for a urinal. Michael debated reminding him.
“Maybe. Paul,” Michael rushed to say, screwing his eyes shut because what the hell? He had nothing to lose, only his career, his livelihood, his unbruised face—
“Paul, I’m calling about (Name).”
“I wouldn’t have guessed.” Paul sounded amused.
“I just wanted to say…that she’s mine, and, and if I ever catch you with her again, I’llbeatyoass.”
The words tumbled out just as piteously as Michael had predicted. He wasn’t even sure if his enunciation had been clear in any of it. Guiltily, he looked up to see Marlon face-palm and Randy stare in horror.
“I beg your pardon?” Paul said, positively tickled.
“Please don’t make me repeat that.”
“What, the part when you told me you’ll beat my arse? I’m too scared to! I'm shivering timbers, mate.”
Paul’s drawling arrogance made Michael grit his teeth. “I’m not joking, Paul.”
“Michael Jackson wants to beat me up,” Paul mused. “I should get that as a tattoo.”
Paul released an exaggerated sigh that Michael swore he could feel brushing against his ear. “Look, Michael. Yesterday was a shock for me too. This isn’t something we should argue over the phone about. We need a civilised conversation.”
“Civilised…conversation?” Michael parroted. Randy was mouthing something—it’s a trap!
“Yeah. Let’s get dinner, you and me. Ever been to The Goldit?”
Michael shook his head, then stupidly realized Paul couldn’t see him. “No, I haven’t.”
“Really cool restaurant, downtown LA. Very healthy. I’ll take you there.”
Like he was chewing air, Marlon opened his lips hugely to mouth—he’s going to jump you! Call 911!
It did seem too convenient, him going to a place Paul chose, where Paul could easily call whatever shady men he knew to have Michael put down by sunrise.
“I...I don’t know, Paul. Can I trust you?”
“I’m not the one who threatened to, what was it again? Beatmyass?” Paul mimicked.
(Name) had called Paul charming…Michael only saw an annoyance who thought he was too witty for his own good.
“Besides,” Paul went on. “You can bring your security. I’ll make sure the people there are the kinds who don’t talk.”
“You don’t have to,” Michael said, stomach clenching with biliousness.
“Oh, but I must. Otherwise, I’m going to get my butt kicked.” He laughed breathily. “What do you say, tomorrow at seven?”
Michael always had a problem with saying no. A born people-pleaser, he flattened like a carpet just to keep people around him happy, no matter how strung out and dirty he got when they walked over him.
This was why, despite everything in his gut, his heart, his mind and even after processing the wide-eyed head-shaking that his siblings exhibited, he still said:
“Alright, Paul. Tomorrow.”
“You should have told me you weren’t hungry.”
Paul was pointing at Michael’s still-full plate; he hadn’t even realized he’d spent the last twenty minutes chasing a piece of broccoli with his fork.
“Sorry,” Michael replied bleakly, deciding that it was better to appease Paul’s vegetarianism than supply the truth–the ‘Grand Green’ (the restaurant seemed to have an affinity for adding ‘green’ to their menu items, like it was some kind of trophy) was likely seasoned with nothing more than the bitterness and tears of The Goldit’s employees, rendering it absolutely revolting. Michael swore his tongue began recoiling purely of its own volition, slithering away from the souring taste of the dripping vegetables.
Paul looked at him with a knowing twinkle in his wide eyes, speckles of light bold against their brownness. “Meat eaters,” he said with a disapproving cadence. “Go on, break my heart. Tell me about how much you love eating dead animals.”
While his words skipped into the open breezily, there was some accusation behind Paul’s stern look. “I…I don’t really think of it like that,” Michael said defensively. “I love animals. I have a pet snake, Muscles, and I had a pet rat–”
“No need to justify yourself. Just take it into consideration," Paul said, winking.
He liked to do that a lot. Wink, smile…whatever. It just came so easily to him; it was his eyes that helped, Michael reckoned— the doe-shaped largeness, the drooping eyelids that somehow made him look both tired yet very attentive. They gifted him an earnestness that even Michael himself struggled to not get sucked into. And then there was the roundness of his pale face, impressively boyish even after all these years.
Not like Michael, not like Michael at all, with all his sharp edges and lines jutting this way and that. Michael wondered if that mattered to (Name). Did she ever run her fingers over the defined slope of Michael’s nose and think of Paul’s narrower one? Did she ever mentally contrast their complexions, one darker, the other lighter, or dwell on the way Michael’s curls were harder to run through than Paul’s straight strands?
“I hate that you don’t see how pretty you are,” she’d told him one afternoon, while they lounged on the fold-up chairs in her garden. Michael hadn’t heard her clearly at first, too focused on the way the wind hiked her billowy dress up just high enough to reveal the skin above her knees. Then she’d repeated it in a far more suggestive manner than originally, and Michael buried his face in his hands.
“Never.” She clambered over to perch in his lap, making it all the harder to ignore the stirring between his legs. Count to 27, he commanded himself. 1…2…
“And how lucky am I,” she’d murmured, hands clasped like some kind of warped prayer. “That I get to see the most beautiful face up close.” And then he’d stopped counting because her lips were on his and that was all that mattered.
The most beautiful face. She’d said it so convincingly that he’d begun believing that maybe it wasn't totally impossible.
Michael wondered if she’d ever told Paul the same.
Sickened, he dropped his fork with a clatter and said, “Paul, I—”
“Oh God,” Paul overrode, clutching his cheeks in faux fear. “Is this the part where you finally beat me up?”
“No, I—what?” Blinking, Michael was reminded of his brothers’ departing words following their many (unsuccessful) attempts to go with him.
If he even remotely looks like he wants to fight, you better start swinging, Mikey. That was Marlon, skittering back and forth with his fists raised.
Don’t hesitate. Just go bam, bam. Randy had retracted his own fist and let it pummel the air in an uppercut. If you think you’re losing, call for Bill, he'll show him.
Michael’s eyes searched the room for Bill now, relieved when he spotted the impressively large man at the bar, one hand on the narrow table, the other in his pocket. He gave Michael a nod when their eyes met.
Bill was big, far bigger than both Michael and Paul, maybe even more so than both combined. Michael couldn’t quite visualize Bill in a fight though. It seemed that the old fart had grown too soft around Michael, with all his dad jokes and his baldness, and Michael was very glad for it.
And Paul—well, Paul certainly wasn’t as spindly as Michael, and there was a possibility that he could secretly be a master in combat, like one of those secret villains from a fairy-tale. But the same Paul who sat directly across with cheeks flushed from the alcohol and endearingly raised eyebrows did not exactly rouse much fear.
So Michael decided to be honest. “Paul, you should know that I never meant that. I would never…it was just…I said in the heat of the moment, and I'm sorry.” By heat of the moment he meant his brothers’ incessant prattling.
“Really?” Paul sat back in his chair, in a state of exaggerated disbelief. “I never would have known. I was really scared.”
“Don’t,” Michael said, and he could almost hear his brothers’ chorus of booing in his mind. “But if you brought me here in hopes I’d change my mind, or leave, it won’t work. I won’t.”
Lethargically, Paul sized Michael up like he was a particularly hefty fish that had flopped onto the boat. “Well, that’s all fine and dandy because I won’t either.”
It shouldn’t have, but immense exasperation rippled through Michael abruptly. All at once Paul’s circular face and its openness warped into something that vexed him.
“Now, now,” Paul warned, noticing the grimace on Michael’s visage. “Why are you annoyed? I didn’t say anything you didn’t say.”
“Because!” Michael started, angrily gesturing until the stares from the surrounding tables resonated. Simmering down, he lowered his voice. “Because, it’s not fair.”
“Not fair?” Paul glanced around gape-mouthed. “Not fair to who?”
“What’s not fair, is how my relationship was intruded on by you,” Paul said accusingly. He was gesticulating back just as hastily now, his unappetizing meal long forgotten. “I met her first!”
Michael ground his upper row of teeth against the lower set, an ingrained habit when he felt that helpless anger welling up and no healthy way to release it. “I didn’t know!”
“Why can’t you just go find some other girl then?” Michael spluttered. The question was admittedly foolish, and Paul’s scoff seemed to indicate an agreement with that fact.
“Why don’t you? Go find someone your age, get married—”
“I don’t want to!” Michael cried out. “I love her. I’d die for her, Paul. I would.”
Perhaps he’d been a little too histrionic in his delivery, but Michael meant every word. He’d offered this honesty to her many times before:
“I’d do anything for you,” he’d say when she served him a lovingly baked meal, cut into circles and stars because she knew he liked it that way.
“I’d drop everything to run away with you. Just say the words,” he’d once declared effusively when they were entangled in each other’s arms in bed, sleepily materializing a fantasy land where everything was perfect.
“I’d die for you. I would, I would,” he’d chanted as he pressed himself against her thigh just as she had instructed, the friction eliciting a string of pathetic noises that he knew she loved to hear.
He never ceased his devoted babble, undeterred by her laughs and her flippancy. Her knowing was always enough.
“I love her,” Michael said again, no louder than a whisper. He looked down at his fingers, long and slender. Some of them had red grooves dented on their sides; the cookies had burned into his skin after all.
“You think I don’t?” Paul’s voice became just as muted. Forcing his gaze upwards, Michael found a stricken arrangement of Paul’s facial features; his frown was prominent with deep lines etched around them; his brow hanging low.
Silence wedged itself between them imposingly. It amplified every sound in Michael’s sensitive ears; the hum of conversations becoming increasingly subdued as more guests tried and failed not to make their eavesdropping obvious; the clink of glasses as the bartender doled out drinks to customers; the clash of plate against plate as the waiters hurried back to the kitchen, and finally Michael’s own pulse, slowing from its frenzied climb as he reconciled with the fact that his heart was not the only one hurting. The empathy sprang up like a eureka moment except there was no victory in its discovery, only a shared gloominess.
With much effort, Michael finally said, “I thought you were going to leave her.”
Paul’s laugh was humourless and tense. “I thought so too. I always do.”
Ah, Michael thought unhappily. She’s his drug, too.
“So what now, Michael?” Paul asked laboriously. The bright, effortless mood he’d started with had vanished and left behind something akin to mournful fatigue. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not happy sharing my girl with another lad. I’m not a polygamist.”
“I’m not either.” Then a slightly frightening thought pushed to the front of his mind. “You don’t think…she is, right?”
“No,” Paul said. He picked up a spinach leaf and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger. “You know what I think? She’s bored, and she’ll tire of one of us eventually.”
There was no severity in his mannerisms, and yet Paul’s words descended on Michael with a threatening air. “How…how do you know that?”
“I just know. She’ll either get rid of one or ditch us both. And I don’t know about you,” Paul continued, eyes hardening. “But I’m not going away easy.”
Surprisingly, Michael found that his own anguish was seeping away. In its place an urgent determination crept into his heart and planted a seed. “I won’t either,” Michael said resolutely. The root was starting to flower.
Slowly, a smirk emerged on Paul’s pouted lips. “You’re saying this is a competition?”
“I didn’t say anything,” but Michael, strangely, was smiling too.
They both turned in synchrony; a waitress with blonde hair gathered into a braid was hovering at their table. Her hands tapped against her thighs spasmodically.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she said, not sounding very sorry at all. “But is it alright if I could get an autograph?”
“From me or him?” chirped Paul.
“Both!” she said eagerly, before clearing her throat and adding shyly, “If that’s alright with both of you, of course.”
“How annoying,” Paul crooned, although he was already folding a napkin into a little square and had pulled out a pen (he carried around a pen? Maybe Michael should start doing that too). “I was hoping I’d get to one-up Michael in at least one thing this evening. You want anything specific, darling?”
“Just your name is fine. Oh, and you could write ‘I love you, Jan’, but that’s like, totally not necessary,” she gibbered.
“Does ‘Jan is my girl, back off Jackson’ work?”
The blush didn’t hesitate to rise to her cheeks, squeezing them until they stained dark red. “Yes, gosh, yes, that—that works. Please,” she rambled.
Paul clearly thought he was so clever, tittering at Jan’s unknowing reaction. When he’d finished scribbling, he passed the napkin and pen over to Michael who accepted, grinning perfidiously at the young waitress. She staggered faintly, steeling herself against the table.
“And what would you like me to write, ma’am?” he asked innocently.
“Anything,” she breathed. The poor girl looked like she was having a hard time standing upright.
Michael tapped the ballpoint pen against his chin, ruminating on (polite) ways to trump Paul. Then he knew.
Etched onto the napkin as promised, Paul’s name was signed under his chicken-scratch handwriting. Michael scrawled his message below Paul’s, fighting back a smile when he handed it over.
“Thank you! Really, I’m—” she halted unexpectedly and gawked at the napkin in her palms.
“Jackson,” Paul began admonishing. “You didn’t write anything to offend this young lady, did you?”
“Of course not, Paul,” Michael said cheerily.
“Then what did you write?
“My name, and then I wrote…” he ducked his head, suddenly flustered. “I wrote: ‘Jan, you know I’d love you better than he ever could’.”
The stretch of quietness that followed was a form of torture. Paul’s lips were pursed but there was no supervening quip nor any witty line.
“What?” Michael exclaimed, a little fearfully. “What did I do?”
Sniffing, Paul faced a now entirely red-faced Jan. “Jan, darling? Actually—that’s a nice name. Short for anything? Janice, Janet?”
“J-just Jan,” she stammered.
“Alright, Just Jan,” Paul joked. “I want to ask you a question. Be totally honest, there’s no gun against your head, though in America I understand that’s not always the—never-mind, bad joke. Anyway, me or him?”
“Paul!” Michael hissed. “What are you doing?”
“It’s a social experiment, you see,” Paul said leisurely, as if he hadn’t pivoted the conversation so quickly that Michael was nearly dizzy. “You can answer, there’s no judgement.”
From the way in which her knees knocked together audibly, it was uncertain how long Jan could endure the conversation before collapsing. “I-is this music-wise?”
Paul’s unkempt hair swished as he shook his head. “No. Let’s say later tonight, I run up to you and ask for your number, because I’m just dying to see your pretty face again. But then Michael,” Paul jabbed a finger at him exasperatedly. “Michael here thinks he’s so much better than me and asks for your number since he likes you too. Who are you choosing?”
Eyes darting to and fro, Jan murmured under her breath, “How is this real…?” Michael overheard and shot her a look: I’m not quite sure either.
“Is both an option?” she proposed meekly, flinching when both men piped up with a “No!”; Michael, laughably; Paul, with genuine passion.
“Only one.” Paul held up his index finger.
A little more nervous goggling, and she finally made up her mind. “Just for the record, this isn’t being filmed is it?”
“Oh yes,” Paul proclaimed sarcastically. “There’s a hidden camera in my eye. Didn’t you know? It’s new technology.”
When his only response was a funny look, Paul sighed, “No, it’s not being filmed. Go on.”
“Well, I’d choose Michael.”
He didn’t care; honest to the heavens above he didn’t. Until Paul started groaning about how he knew it, how traitorous it was for a so-called Beatles fan, and then it clicked.
He’s jealous, Michael realized. And he’s testing the waters.
“You told me to only pick one of you!”
“Yes, I did, which is why you could at least appeal to my ego a little, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Jan,” Michael said brightly. He beamed at her until she could no longer maintain eye-contact, mumbling something about needing to get back to work, and she darted away.
“This doesn’t mean anything, by the way,” announced Paul.
“Incentive for me. Now I know I have to work twice as hard to make sure you don’t win.”
Sharpened clarity edged around Michael’s vision, accompanied by a light-headed buzz. He was familiar with the sensation; he’d felt it as a young child when he once saw Marlon master a single spin so easily that Michael was compelled to master a double. He’d felt it all throughout their Motown days, wherein he’d hear the most soulful and entrancing vocal tones carrying over the radio that he had to refine his voice so it was that much better, that much more perfect. What had Katherine called it?—oh yes, his God-given, natural born, combative spirit.
“May the best man win, Paul.” And they shook on it.
Thanks for reading! This fic is my lovechild, borne from procrastination and guilt. Lowk thinking of writing one for 'You Rock My World'...decisions, decisions.
Thanks for all the love on 'The art of sexiness' too! Wasn't planning a part 2 for that butttt I am a doormat for praise. Bye!
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