#michael os

His pulse pounds against his throat as he reaches his parents’ bedroom. There is no other way to get to his own room. He has no choice but to pass it. Holding his breath, he continues on his way and hears someone walking through the entrance hall, likely a maid. Suddenly, he hears a sound from behind his parents’ bedroom doors, as if someone is moving inside. He startles, a sharp breath catching in his throat, and hurries past.

His bedroom door at the end of the hall comes into view, and with every step, the sound of his heartbeat grows louder in his ears, drowning out everything else. His hand trembles as he reaches for the doorknob and steps into the safety of his room. Leaning his back against the door, basically blocking it, he immediately lets out a breath, relieved that no one has seen him.

Michael knows he cannot hide his nose surgery forever; it is far too noticeable a procedure. Yet, in his mind, it makes sense to put off the inevitable revelation as long as possible, especially since he hasn’t told a soul about it. One morning, he simply looked in the mirror and saw Joseph staring back at him through his own reflection – specifically Joseph’s nose, that is – and booked the consultation before he could lose his nerve.

He was terrified, incredibly and utterly terrified. Medical procedures always frightened him and the significance attached to this one made it all the worse.

He dreads the day he will have to stand before him and admit what he has done. The day he gives him the satisfaction of knowing what his ugly words drove him to do. That years of being told he was ugly, that his nose was too big, too awkward, too wrong, had finally gotten to him.

“You’re back!”

Michael’s body goes rigid when he realizes he isn’t alone. You lie sprawled across his bed, absentmindedly kicking your feet as you flip through a magazine. You haven’t looked up yet; the article you’re reading apparently too interesting to spare your boyfriend a glance. For one fleeting second, Michael is grateful for it as it gives him a few extra seconds to figure out his next move. However, his mind has gone completely blank; he can’t think of a thing, except – SHIT!

You lift your gaze from the magazine and smile at him, but he immediately turns his head away, his cap and sunglasses obscuring his face. You caught a brief flash of something white on his face, your smile fading almost instantly. You frown, sensing that something is wrong.

“Michael?”, you whisper, barely making a sound, and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, the magazine long forgotten. With each step you take toward him, he flinches and your stomach drops. His entire body is tense; he presses his back against the door so hard he’s practically trembling. One hand is behind his back, gripping the door handle tightly, as if he’s about to bolt at any moment.

“What’s.. going on?”, you ask, but the question dies halfway through.  You are close enough now, close enough that him turning his head away no longer helps. Your gaze falls on his nose and the bandages wrapped around it.

“What..?” The word escapes in a shaky breath. Michael presses his lips into a thin line and his eyes remain fixed on the floor. Because he is terrified of what he might see in your expression when you look at him like this. He couldn’t bear it if you were to see him differently now.

You cautiously raise a hand, very slowly. He notices from the corner of his eye and instinctively shrinks away, as though making himself smaller could soften whatever you’re about to say. You gently cradle his chin and turn his head toward you, leaving him no choice but to look at you. He doesn’t resist.

The extent of what he has done is now unmistakably visible right there on his face. Behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, his eyes shimmer with unshed tears. When he spots a hint of sadness in your gaze, not disgust, not disappointment, his shoulders loosen ever so slightly. Evidently, he senses no threat coming from you. You had never given him any reason to fear judgment or condemnation, but Michael’s mind liked to convince him of the worst.

Without saying a word, you gently remove the sunglasses from his face to look into his eyes. You almost drop it when you look into his deep brown, big, beautiful eyes, a hitched breath escaping your throat. Dark purple bruises surround both eyes, a sign that his nose was likely broken. His eyes radiate such profound sadness and vulnerability that it takes your breath away, leaving you momentarily dizzy as you realize what it all means. Why he did it.

You don’t dare touch his face, afraid even the gentlest contact might hurt him, so your hands just hover uncertainly beside his face while you’re searching for the right words to say. You can’t come up with anything and because Michael can’t bear it any longer, the uncertainty of it all, he beats you to it.

“It’s for my sinuses”, he says softly, his voice cracking at the end. He can’t even look at you when he says it, averting his gaze once more.

“Oh, Michael”, your breath trembles as the words leave your mouth. You know he’s lying and he knows that you know that he’s lying. You know why he did it and he knows that you know why he did it. He has told you about it often enough. That he wants to look like a real superstar, that his nose is simply too big, too ugly. All words his father drilled into him from early childhood, until eventually, he came to believe them.

You have witnessed firsthand how Joseph talks to him even to this day, how he tears him down at any chance he gets, mocking him, belittling him, calling him ugly when he is quite literally the most beautiful man in the world. The irony of it all makes your blood boil.

You had loved his nose, it fit him so well. You still do. His entire face was perfect to you, is perfect to you. Changing it won’t change how you see him. But it hurts knowing he never got the chance to see himself through your eyes instead of Joseph’s. You feel like you’ve failed him. That you didn’t do enough to blur Joseph’s words out, to make him feel comfortable in his own skin, to accept himself the way he is. But you never had any chance, Joseph’s damage had been done long before you came into his life.

What hurts most is watching him try to hide from you.

It’s all becoming too much for Michael. He simply can’t meet your gaze, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He reaches for his sunglasses and squeezes past you, flexing his hand because he had been gripping the door handle far too tightly. You don’t let him get far, though. Quickly, you grab his wrist. He stops abruptly and looks at you, so sad and hurt that it breaks your heart. A grown, beautiful man, broken by the words of a man who ought to be supporting him, who ought to love him just as he is. Who terribly failed him.

Without hesitation, you pull him into a tight embrace, careful not to touch his nose. At first, Michael is taken aback and stands rigid in your arms, caught completely off-guard.

“Does it hurt?”, you murmur against his shoulder, planting a feather-light kiss there. His breath shudders and then, slowly, almost hesitantly, his arms wrap around you. He pulls you close until there’s no space left between you, squeezing you tightly against his chest.

Only then does his body relax. You can tell by the way he hugs you back, that he’s so grateful to have you, to have someone who will always have his back, no matter what. You can feel his heartbeat underneath his skin.

“A bit”, he sniffs. You both know he isn’t talking about the surgery. The deepest wound had been there long before the bandages ever were. Neither of you says so.

Michael’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly. You feel it in the way his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, in the way he leans just a little more of his weight against you, as though holding himself upright has suddenly become too exhausting. Silence stretches between the two of you, broken only by his uneven breathing against your shoulder. Gently, you rub your hand up and down his back, reminding him that you are there.

“I ruined my face.” The words are so quiet you almost miss them. Your heart cracks and you pull back just enough to look at him, keeping your hands resting lightly against his sides so you don’t risk brushing his nose.

“What?”

“I know you loved my old nose. Now I look like this, awful”, he swallows hard.

“Do you want to know why I loved your old nose?”, you ask, adjusting the collar of his shirt.

“Why?”

“Because it was yours”, you explain, your fingertips carefully smoothing the sleeve of his overall. “And I’ll love this one for exactly the same reason.”

For a long moment, you simply look at him. Michael doesn’t know how to respond to that. He is overwhelmed by the gentleness in your voice, in your eyes. It feels almost foreign, being looked at with so much love when he’d spent most of his life expecting criticism instead. He wants to believe you, desperately, but Joseph’s voice is louder, older, woven into him too tightly to simply disappear.

With the same care you’d shown when removing his sunglasses, you reach up to the brim of his cap now, lift it from his head and set it aside. Soft curls, flattened from being tucked beneath it for hours, spring free. You gently comb your fingers through them, brushing them back from his forehead, careful not to go anywhere near the bandages.

“I just..”, your voice catches for a moment, unsure how to phrase it. “I just wish you would’ve told me.”

He lowers his gaze, feeling embarrassed that he ever thought, even if it was only for the split of a second, that you could ever resent him for what he’d done. You slip your hand into his, the touch making him look up nervously as he squeezes your hand.

“I would’ve been there to hold your hand”, you tell him, your thumb stroking over his knuckles. “You didn’t have to be scared by yourself.”

A fresh tear rolled down Michael’s cheek. “I know”, he whispers hoarsely. “I just.. I couldn’t.”

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you”, you say, your own voice trembling now. “How incredibly beautiful you are, inside and out. I hate that he spent your entire childhood convincing you that you weren’t enough. Because you’re more than enough, Michael.”

The bandages are covering the aftermath of what has been done to him. Years of shame, years of hearing the same cruel worlds, years of pretending they didn’t matter – all of it crashes over him at once. Immediately, you wrap him in your arms again. This time he doesn’t hesitate and buries his face against your shoulder as carefully as he can, mindful of his bandaged nose, while his body shakes with quiet sobs.

You watch from your own safety in the shadows beside the stage. For months, you had listened to his voice through a telephone line, imagining where he was, how he looked, wondering if he was eating enough, sleeping enough, smiling enough. Now he was right in front of you, only a few meters away, close enough to finally touch, and he hasn’t the faintest idea that among the 17,000 gazes fixed on him at this moment, yours is one of them. The one gaze that truly matters to him.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, but then again, how could he? For the past one and a half hours, he’s been delivering a performance even better than the one from the previous night. During the short break, you stayed hidden as not to spoil the surprise. At one point, he glanced toward the wings and your heart had nearly stopped. But his eyes swept right past you.

You can’t help but smile as he spins across the stage, his energy somehow endless despite how exhausted he always sounded during your nightly calls. Or morning calls. Or sometimes even afternoon calls.

A sad smile appears on your face when you think about the call from a few nights back.

The phone rings at exactly 10PM and you pick it up with a smile. “Hello?”

For a few seconds, there’s no sound on the other end. “Michael?”

“Hi, applehead”, he greets you over the phone, his soft laugh crackling through the line all the way from Florida.

“Hello, my love”, you reply softly.

“How’d you know it was me?”, he asks innocently and you can hear the smile in his voice. Your mind immediately paints the picture of him in front of you, that bright smile spreading across his face, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“You call every night at the same time”, you explain. “At least for the last few stops.”

“Not every night.”

“Every night.”

“Okay”, he giggles. “Maybe every night.”

You settle on your couch, tucking your feet underneath you. These calls had become your favourite part of the day. No matter where the Victory Tour took him, he always found a phone. Most nights he sounded exhausted and tonight was no different.

“You okay?”, you ask softly. “The boys doing well?”

A few seconds pass. His answers always take a little longer when you ask about his current state.

“Jus’ tired”, Michael sighs through the phone and you can hear voices somewhere in the background, probably his brothers, and a hotel door closing. The way he says it makes your heart ache, wanting nothing more than to give him a big hug for comfort.

“Bad show?”, you ask even though you know there are no bad shows, not when it concerns Michael Jackson.

“No”, his voice drops lower you can practically see him worrying his lip between his teeth. “Show was fine.”

“But?”

You hear him shift on the other end of the line, contemplating about whether to tell you about whatever it is.

“Nothing. I just got into it with Jermaine earlier”, he admits, his voice sounding entirely too vulnerable for the sake of your own heart.

“Oh, Michael..”

“It wasn’t even anything important”, he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Everybody’s tired. Everybody’s irritated. We just.. get on each other’s nerves.”

Contrary to popular belief, at the end of the day, the Jacksons are still a family like any other, with perfectly normal squabbles between siblings. However, knowing how much Michael hates arguing, especially with the people he loves, makes it immediately clear why he doesn’t sound quite right. Why his voice sounds not only exhausted but also sad and dejected today.

“What happened?”, you encourage him, getting more comfortable in your position on the couch.

“I wanted to change something in rehearsal”, Michael answers, pausing a bit before continuing. “Jermaine didn’t.”

You can’t help but smile a bit at that, knowing full well how stubborn they can be when they want something. Since they are the only two singing their own songs on the tour, you can easily imagine how they clash. “That sounds about right.”

“Mm.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but you can feel that there’s more in the way he’s breathing, in the way he hummed.

“Then Joeseph got involved”, he adds and your absentminded smile immediately disappears. You know exactly what that means.

“Oh.”

“Yeah”, Michael lets out a humourless laugh. “He always has an opinion.”

You lean your head against the couch cushion, trying to imagine it being Michael’s chest.

“What did he say this time?”, you roll your eyes but try to make the whole situation sound a bit more light-hearted. There’s at least another minute of silence until Michael finally speaks again, fighting with himself because he’s not used to voicing his complaints aloud. He was always taught that he had no say in any matter and certainly not against his father.

“Said I complain too much”, his voice is small as he says it, almost a whisper, which make the words hit you even harder. Mixed with the compassion washing over you is a sense of anger at the injustice of it all. Because you know how hard Michael works. You know he spends hours perfecting every step, every note, every detail. You know he hadn’t even wanted to do this tour in the first place.

You know he is the reason the stadiums are sold out. His brothers know it. His father knows it. Which is why his father’s plan would never have worked without Michael.

He owes absolutely nothing to these people who are supposed to be his family and should be there to catch him when he falls, not stomp him further into the ground.

“You don’t complain too much”, you tell him, firmly. You believe it with your whole heart because this man never even learned how to complain.

“No?”

His question, seeking reassurance, makes your heart pound painfully; he sounds like a small child momentarily finding a glimmer of hope.

“No”, you repeat vehemently. “You’re exhausted. You’ve been rehearsing for months on end. You barely sleep. And you never wanted to do this tour.”

The line grows so quiet that for a moment you wonder if he’s put the phone away. Then you hear him exhale, slowly and shakily.

“Sometimes I feel bad for saying that”, he admits and you know that it took all his willpower to say that out loud right now.

“You shouldn’t. You do not have to feel bad about anything, my love”, you say softly, the nickname falling easily off your lips.

“I just..”, he struggles to find the right words, sounds of him adjusting on the pillows following his voice. “I wanted to be working on my own music. I wanted to create. Instead, I’m living out of suitcases and argue with people every day.”

“I know”, you say, your chest incredibly tight. You mean it, you do know. You had already talked about it a thousand times before he set off on tour. You discussed it often over the phone, too. He loves his family so much that he would do anything for them, even when, at times, they don’t deserve it.

Michael’s heart is simply too big for this world.

“I sound ungrateful.”

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“You really don’t”, you smile sadly to yourself. “You sound tired.”

Another long silence follows and you don’t know if your words were able to comfort him or whether they fell on deaf ears.

“I wish you were here”, Michael says quietly and you close your eyes, trying to not get emotional.

“Michael..”

“I mean it”, his voice softens. “I keep looking into the audience.”

Your heart skips a beat. He wants you to ask him to elaborate, his very own way of flirting.

“And?”

“And you’re never there”, he tells you, sounding like he’s pouting. You don’t trust yourself to speak because you would love to be there, for every step of the tour, but you’re needed here.

“I love my fans”, Michael continues. “I love performing. But every night I look out there and think maybe you’ll somehow be in the crowd.”

“That’s so sweet”, you gush, twirling the cord of the phone around your index finger.

“It’s true”, he says with so much sincerity in his voice that it makes your stomach flutter. Then, suddenly, he giggles. Really giggles like he can’t stop. You want to join in and know what all the fun is about.

“What?”

“You know what happened today?”, he asks, feeling much more enthusiastic and awake all of a sudden.

“What happened?”

“There was this little girl outside the hotel”, he starts and your smile immediately returns as well.

“What about her?”

“She couldn’t have been older than six. And she had this stuffed bunny”, he explains and giggles in between as he thinks back to earlier today, trying to stay composed to get the story across. “She marched right up to me and said, with a lot of confidence for such a little girl, ‘Mr. Jackson, my bunny wants to meet your llama.’”

You burst out laughing, joining in Michael’s laughter. “No, she didn’t”, you say in between laughter.

“When I tell you she did, applehead!”, he insists. “Then she asked if the llama sleeps in the house.”

You can practically see the grin on his face, his positive energy vibrating through the line. If he could, he would have probably get the girl on a plane right away and show her himself.

“What did you tell her?”

“Told her Louie has better manners than my brothers.”

You laugh so hard that the phone nearly slips from your hand. Quickly, you wedge it between your shoulder and your ear so you can wrap an arm around your stomach, which is already aching from laughing so much. Michael joins in, his laughter warm and contagious.

For the first time all evening, or more like night for him, the heaviness in his voice begins to disappear. When the laughter finally dies down, he sighs contentedly.“I knew that story would make you laugh”, he grins, so happy with himself.

“You only called to tell me that, didn’t you?”, you tease.

“Maybe”, he chuckles. “And to hear your beautiful voice.”

“Always the charmer”, you tsk, shaking your head but the blush that creeps onto your cheeks is evidence enough of what he does to you. A comfortable silence settles between you for a moment, just enjoying each other’s quiet company even kilometres apart.

“How was work?”, he asks after a while, making you smile. No matter how tired he was, he always made sure to ask.

“It was busy, as usual”, you say. There’s so much happening each and every day that you can’t tell what you already told him and what you didn’t.

You hear him chuckle softly. “How are your kids?”

Your kids. That’s what he calls the children on your ward. Not the patients. Not the children. Your kids.

“We had a little boy come in today with a broken arm”, you say, grabbing a blanket from the other side of the couch to drape over your bare legs.

“Oh no, poor kid”, Michael coos.

“He was more upset about missing baseball practice than the actual broken arm though”, you tell him, smiling as you think back to his stubborn little face. “Told me to tell his mom that he can start practicing again tomorrow.”

Michael laughs at that. “A very brave little soldier.”

“A stubborn one”, you add. “And Lucy asked about you again.”

“She did?”, he asks excitedly and you can hear the sudden shift in his voice. The tiredness that had weighed on him only moments before seems to disappear, replaced by genuine curiosity. You hum in response. The six-year-old cancer patient had become one of Michael’s favourite topics over the past few weeks. The first time he visited, he fell head over heels for her and vice versa. She had been shy at first, hiding behind you while sneaking curious glances at him, but within minutes she had him sitting on the floor beside her, listening to every story she wanted to tell him. Now, whenever he called, he always asked about her.

“What’d she say?”, he asks, shifting somewhere on the other end of the line. You imagine him sitting on the edge of his hotel bed, one leg tucked underneath him, his curls falling into his face as he listens intently.

“She wanted to know when you’ll visit her again. She also informed me that when I see you again, I’m supposed to tell you she wants a pony”, you tell him in all seriousness, because that’s exactly how she delivered the request to you, as if asking for a pony from Michael Jackson was the most normal thing in the world.

“A pony?”, Michael repeats, then softly snorts. God, how badly you wish you could see his smile right now.

“Her exact words”, you say, laughing. There is a pause and you hear him hum thoughtfully. Knowing Michael, you can practically picture the expression on his face. The way he tilts his head when he’s considering something. The way his eyebrows pull together slightly as if he’s seriously weighing the possibility.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Michael!”

“What?”, he asks innocently.

“Don’t encourage her”, you laugh harder, knowing he would do anything for these kids, that no amount of money could stop him to make their days at least a little bit better. If he could somehow make those children smile, if he could give them even one moment where they forgot about hospitals and treatments and everything they were fighting through, he would find a way. That was just who he was.

He had already done so much for the children’s ward, more than enough. The donations alone had made a tremendous difference, things he never had to do but did anyway because he cared. But money was never the part that mattered most to him. He still stops by at least once a week to talk to your children, bring them gifts, or play with them. And somehow, despite the fact that thousands of people wanted his attention every day, he always remembered their names.

“How’s she doing?”, he asks eventually, his voice soft as he utters the question so carefully. The concern is more than evident in the way he says it.

“Better”, you reply and immediately hear him release a quiet breath. The relief in his voice warms your heart. You continue telling him about your day. The funny things the children said, the little arguments they had, the moments that made you laugh despite how difficult your job could be. Every time you hear his laughter through the phone, you feel a strange mixture of happiness and sadness.

His laugh is your favourite sound in the entire world. But you miss hearing it beside you. You miss seeing his smile instead of imagining it. You miss being able to reach out and touch him. You miss him so much it hurts and the tour is still far from over. In other words, it will be a while before you see each other again. Thinking about it makes your eyes sting.

At some point during your call, he starts humming a song. Since you don’t recognize the melody, you assume it’s something new he’s working on. You don’t say anything and just listen to his angelic voice. There is something so peaceful about hearing him sing when he doesn’t think anyone is judging him, simply happy not to be closely scrutinized in your presence.

You smile to yourself as his humming fills the silence between you, an idea slowly occurring to you. You don’t know if you can actually make it happen. You don’t know how you’ll manage your shifts or convince anyone to cover for you. But the thought of going even longer without seeing him feels impossible, making you feel like you might burst. What you do know, however, is that you can’t stand the thought of him looking into the crowd again and not seeing you.

“Hey, Mike?”, you interrupt his singing softly, your words hanging in the line.

“Yes, my love?”

“I can’t wait to see you perform”, you tell him, breaking into a smile he can’t see while your plan takes shape. You hear him shift and you imagine him sitting up straighter.

“I wish you could”, he murmurs. “You know I would fly you out here in a heartbeat if your schedule allowed it”, he adds gently. “You know that, right?”

“I know”, you whisper, feeling a small pang of guilt. You know he understands, he always does. But you also know he sometimes wishes things were different. “But they need me here.”

“Still doesn’t mean I don’t wish you were here, applehead”, Michael confesses, his genuine words squeezing your heart. You look around your quiet apartment, suddenly very aware of the distance between the two of you. The empty space beside you on the couch. The silence that fills your evenings after the phone call ends.

“I wish I was there too.”

A soft sigh comes through the receiver. Then: “I miss you.”

The honesty in his voice makes your throat tighten. You know Michael doesn’t say things like that lightly. He feels everything deeply, but he doesn’t always let people see it. With you, though, he doesn’t have to hide.

“I miss you too, Mike.”

For a while longer, you talk about everything and nothing. Eventually, his voice starts getting quieter.

“You should sleep, my love”, you tell him, even though you don’t make any move to end the call.

“So should you”, he counters gently, a yawn coming from his end of the line. He needs rest, you both know it. But neither of you wants to be the one to say goodbye because the moment the call ends, the distance comes rushing back. Your apartment becomes quiet again, his hotel room becomes quiet again. All you have left is the memory of each other’s voice.

“I love you, Michael”, you say softly and hear his breath catch slightly, even though you’ve said it countless times before.

“I love you too. Good night, applehead.”

“Good night, my love.”

You missed his voice. Even though you heard his voice every day, you still missed it. The angelic tones floating through the concert hall gave you goosebumps with every song. You followed his every movement, every turn, every spin, and that is why you know exactly which steps he won’t be happy with at all. You hope that your presence makes him forget all that later.

When the last tunes of Billie Jean sound across the stage, the audience erupts, if even possible. Michael smiles brightly at the crowd, breathless and sweaty beneath the bright lights, throwing kisses at his beloved fans. After a few minutes, he disappears backstage with his brothers. The second he is out of your sight, you hurry towards his dressing room, careful to not accidentally bump into him, or one of his brothers, on your way there.

You spot Bill, Michael’s loyal bodyguard, near the dressing rooms, nervously checking his watch. His eyes light up when he spots you.

“There you are!”, he smiles, opening the door for you to help you slip inside. “You’ve got maybe a few more minutes until he’s here.”

You thank him and enter the dressing room, feeling grateful that Bill was able to make all of this possible. He coordinated your long journey here, got you a room at the same hotel, got you inside the venue without any Jackson noticing.

As you step into the room, a strange feeling washes over you. Your ears are still ringing from the thunderous music, the screams of thousands of fans, and the pounding bass that seemed to shake the entire arena. Your heart is still racing, but not because of the concert. Because you are finally about to see Michael again. After weeks of phone calls, of countless nights of hearing the exhaustion in his voice and wishing you could reach through the receiver and hold him. In just a few minutes, you will finally be able to.

The room feels strangely quiet now. The silence almost feels unnatural. Every now and then, a voice passes by in the hallway or a door closes somewhere nearby, making you glance up instinctively. It must be any second now.

You walk over to the large bouquet of white roses and lilies you left there earlier. The flowers are enormous, so when you lift the bouquet, you’re barely able to see over the top. Perfect, that’s exactly the point. You hide behind the bouquet, fighting the urge to laugh at how ridiculous you must look. The plan is quite simple: Michael walks in, sees the flowers, takes them from you, and never expects that the person standing behind them is the same person he’s been wishing would appear every night. Hopefully.

Now all you can do is wait. And try not to let your nerves get the best of you.

Just as Bill predicted, it doesn’t take long before you hear footsteps and laughter heading toward the door this time. Your stomach makes a flip as you hear familiar voices. You quickly adjust your grip on the bouquet and move into position just in time for the dressing room door to open. In walk the Jackson 5, Jackie being the first to enter. The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly as they all come streaming in, their energy filling the room with a mixture of post-show excitement and exhaustion. You steal a glance past the bouquet and spot Michael entering the room at that very moment.

He’s still wearing pieces of his stage outfit, his hair slightly damp from the performance, his shoulders carrying the weight of the night. As you look at him, you almost forget to hide. Quickly, you duck back behind the bouquet before he can notice you.

Michael, whose brothers seem completely oblivious to the fact that someone else is in the room, notices your legs sticking out from behind the massive bouquet. He frowns and walks toward you, unaware of who is hiding behind it.

“Someone sent flowers?”, he asks, his voice rough and strained from hours of singing, assuming you are just another staff member delivering a gift. Immediately, without wanting to, he feels bad hat there’s only one bouquet and not more for his brothers as well. He leans forward, reaching for the small card attached to the bouquet. When he reads the words ‘For my love’, his breath catches in his throat, his hand stills. Thousands of thoughts rush through his mind all at once, thinking how sweet it is of you to send him flowers. Even from miles away, even with your own busy schedule, you somehow found a way to remind him that you were thinking of him.

A small smile almost pulls at his lips, but then something catches his attention. The handwriting, your handwriting. His smile fades slightly and his heart skips a beat. That can’t be, right?

He shakes his head slightly, almost as if he can physically push the thought away. Don’t get your hopes up, Michael. That would be impossible: You are in Los Angeles, you have work. You couldn’t just be here.

He refuses to let himself believe it because the disappointment would hurt too much.

For a moment, he doesn’t move and the entire room seems to go quiet. Then, finally, you lower the bouquet just enough for him to see you.

“You were amazing out there”, you whisper, handing him the flowers. Michael freezes, his eyes widening. For a second, he simply stares at you. At the person he has spent every night wishing he could hold, the person whose voice has been the only thing making the long days on tour feel easier.

His brothers are just as shocked to see you. As are his sisters and parents who you only now notice standing there, watching the reunion unfold with surprised expressions.

Michael’s mind can’t quite process what he is seeing, what is happening. He feels like he must be dreaming. Because how else could you be standing right in front of him? How else could he see your smile, hear your voice, feel the warmth of your presence after weeks of only having a telephone line between you? He’s afraid to blink. Afraid that if he does, you’ll turn into nothing more than wishful thinking, that you’ll disappear. A dream his tired mind created because he missed you too much.

His lips part, but no sound comes out. You softly smile at him and that is what finally breaks him. The exhaustion, the stress, the arguments with his family, the weeks of missing you, all of it disappears at once as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug, the bouquet still tightly in his grip.

“You’re here?”, it’s barely more than a whisper against your hair. The words are filled with so much disbelief, so much emotion, that your heart aches and you smile against him as you say: “I’m here.”

For a long moment, neither of you moves, just basking in each other’s presence after being separated for so long. Michael buries his face against your shoulder, taking a slow, shaky breath.

You’re here. Not on the other end of a telephone line, not in his imagination, but actually here. In his arms. His fingers curl into the fabric of your blouse. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and inhales. Your perfume, the familiar warmth of your skin. You.

For weeks, he’d gone to sleep with nothing but your voice lingering in his ears after your phone calls. Now you’re standing in his arms, close enough that he can feel your heartbeat against his chest.

“You..”, he starts, his voice breaking. “You’re really here.”

“I thought I’d surprise you”, you say shyly and a breathless laugh escapes him. He reluctantly pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy. The tears don’t fall, but they’re there, shimmering under the surface. He blinks several times, willing them away because he doesn’t want to show this side to his family. They’ve seen him cry enough times.

“You flew to New York?”, he asks, still in disbelief.

“I did.”

“When?”

“This morning”, you explain and reach up to brush a damp curl away from his forehead before letting your hand settle against his cheek. Your soft touch almost makes him whimper, his sweaty skin hot beneath your palm.

“This morning?”, his eyebrows shoot up. “H-How?”

“Airplane.”

Michael lets out a watery laugh. “I know that, applehead.”

His hands are still on your arms, almost as if he needs the constant reassurance that you’re real and not just an evil trick of his mind.

“I meant.. How did you.. Why didn’t you tell me?”, he shakes his head, still trying to make sense of it all. “I would’ve paid for the tickets.”

“Then it wouldn’t have been a surprise, my love”, you giggle, gently caressing his cheek with your thumb. He leans into your hand before he even realizes he’s doing it. He simply stares at you, his mind still refusing to catch up. Every night he’d imagined seeing you in the audience. Every night he’d told himself to stop wishing for something impossible. And yet here you were.

“The kids”, he croaks almost instinctively, his expression changing instantly. “They’re okay, aren’t they?”

You can’t help but smile at that because of course that would be his first concern, always putting others before himself.

“They’re okay.”

“But what about your shifts-”

“I found people to cover them”, you explain, seeing how the realization slowly hits Michael.

“For how long?”

“A few days.”

“A few..”, Michael searches your face with so much adoration in his eyes. “You actually arranged all of that?”

For me? is the unspoken end of his question. His throat tightens when you nod with that sweet smile of yours that he loves so much. He can’t remember the last time someone rearranged their entire life simply because they wanted to see him. Not Michael Jackson, global superstar. But Michael. Just Michael.

His chest tightens so painfully he has to look away, his eyes stinging. He tips his head back ever so slightly, pretending to look toward the ceiling as he blinks hard. Quietly, he sets the bouquet down on the table beside him. The moment his hands are free, they find you again. He laces his fingers through yours, squeezing gently before bringing your joined hands against his chest, directly over the frantic beat of his heart.

“You shouldn’t have..”, he murmurs, almost looking guilty now. He doesn’t understand why anyone would go to such lengths simply for him. You step closer until there’s hardly any space left between you.

“Michael”, you gently cradle his face again, your thumb brushing beneath his eye. “I couldn’t spend another day without you. I had to see you.”

He looks away, hating how you can read every emotion on his face with such ease.

“I know you’ve been carrying everything on your shoulders because you think that’s what everyone expects from you”, you whisper, careful so no one hears. “So don’t you dare feel guilty because I wanted to spend a few days reminding you that you don’t have to carry it alone.”

His eyes finally overflow at your words. It’s just one tear that slips down his cheek before he can stop it and, almost immediately, he wipes it away, hoping no one noticed. Unfortunately for him, Janet notices anyway. She smiles quietly from across the room but politely looks away. You pretend not to have seen it while Michael laughs through his emotion, embarrassed.

“I’m making a fool of myself”, he whispers, letting out another shaky breath as he softly plants a kiss on the back of your hand.

“You are not”, you say softly.

“I’ve just.. missed you so much”, he admits, overwhelmed by all the emotions.

“I know. I’ve missed you too.”

He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he inhales your familiar scent. “You actually saw the performance? You were in the audience?”

“Saw all of it”, you smile cheekily, your own eyes burning now.

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice you”, he says, shaking his head at himself. His brows knit together, genuine disappointment settling across his features. As if, somehow, he thinks he should have sensed you were there. You can’t blame him, though. He’d been so focused on giving every person in that arena the performance they deserved that there was no room left to notice one face hidden in the shadows. The fact that he is standing here, smiling at you despite the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, feels like a miracle in itself.

“So, are you two done pretending we don’t exist or?”, Marlon interrupts your moment with a wide grin, breaking the spell you two were under. A laugh ripples through the room, everyone laughing. Everyone except Joseph, of course.

You glance toward him as you greet all the brothers and sisters, his expression unreadable. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, lips pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t say a word and he doesn’t have to. His expression alone makes abundantly clear that he isn’t thrilled to see you here.

For a brief second, old insecurities threaten to creep into your mind until you feel Michael’s thumb brush absentmindedly over the back of your hand and you remember whose opinion actually matters. You smile politely, hugging Janet.

“I’m so happy you’re here”, she says warmly before stepping back with a knowing smile. “He hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

Michael’s cheeks flush instantly. “That’s.. not true”, he tries to defend himself, but there is no use when he’s in a room full of people who had to hear him talk about you day in, day out.

“It absolutely is”, Randy laughs.

“Every single city. ‘She would’ve loved this restaurant’”, Tito joins in immediately.

“’Do you think she’d like this song?’”, Jackie adds, smirking.

“’I wonder what she’s doing right now’”, Jermaine can’t resist adding and all brothers dissolve into laughter. While you can only grin, Michael lets out the most dramatic groan imaginable before covering his face with both hands. “Oh, come on you guys.”

“You walked right into that one”, Marlon shrugs while laughing.

“You guys make me seem like a love fool.”

“You are”, Randy says without missing a beat.

“I am not!”

“You called her every night”, Jackie points out matter-of-factly.

“Every. Single. Night”, Tito emphasizes.

Michael peeks through his fingers, cheeks flushed a deep pink. “Not my fault you don’t have anyone to call. I missed her.”

The room erupts into laughter and Katherine smiles so fondly it makes your heart melt. “I think it’s lovely”, she says softly.

Michael glances toward his family before clearing his throat. “Would you guys.. uhm..”, he scratches the back of his neck. “Would you mind giving us a minute?”

His brothers immediately exchange knowing smiles.

“No problem, Mickey”, Marlon chuckles, pushing Jermaine out of his chair because he was too comfortable to move. “Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

One by one they file out of the dressing room. Katherine gently squeezes your shoulder before following them. Joseph is the last to leave. As he passes, he gives you one lingering look. Cold and disapproving. You hold his gaze without flinching as he walks out without saying a word. The door clicks shut behind him and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

When you turn to look back at Michael, he’s already staring at you, reaching for your hand as if he’s afraid you’ve vanished while he wasn’t looking. “You really came.”

You giggle, squeezing his hand. “I thought we’d already established that. Yes, Michael. I really came.”

He lets out the softest laugh, sounding like music to your ears. He can’t help himself anymore. Slowly, almost timidly, he closes the last few inches between you. One hand cups your cheek as the other slides gently around your waist. His thumb strokes your skin with heartbreaking tenderness. His eyes search yours, drinking in every feature he’d spent weeks trying to remember from memory alone.

His cheeks are still flushed, whether from the concert, the adrenaline, or simply from having you standing in front of him, you can’t tell. But you’ve never seen him look more beautiful.

His black curls frame his face messily, his dark eyes shining with an emotion he can’t quite hide. Moments ago, he had been larger than life, commanding an entire stadium with every movement. But standing here, with his hand resting against your cheek and that shy, almost disbelieving smile on his lips, he doesn’t look like a superstar. He looks like Michael, your Michael.

“I’ve missed you”, he whispers, the words barely audible. Slowly, he kisses you. So tenderly like he’s been waiting weeks to remember exactly what it feels like. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket as you melt into him.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours once more.

“I don’t think I’ve been this happy in months”, he admits, caressing your face before pecking your nose. You smile through the tears gathering in your own eyes, not being able to wrap your head around the fact that you are doing this to him, that you are the reason he’s happy. That you’re the reason he wears that beautiful smile on his lips.

“You have no idea what this means to me”, he shakes his head, your noses touching, kissing you again and again and again.

“If it feels anything like what I’m feeling right now, then I think I have a pretty good idea”, you giggle against his mouth, not getting enough of him as you steal another quick kiss. He smiles so brightly it almost hurts to look at.

Michael cut you off by slamming his lips against yours, his hands slowly rising up to cup your face as you felt Michael’s tears falling onto your cheeks, a sob escaping your throat the second he pulled away. “You feel that?” he breathed out, his gaze intense as his hazel eyes glared into yours. “That’s love. That’s something I’ve never felt with anyone else before, and that’s something I’m not just gonna let go of.”

“Michael-”

“Do you know how bad I wish I could give you the fucking world? To be there for you all the time like a good boyfriend is? I’ve been fearing this day since we started dating because my career drives everyone away,” he managed out as his thumb brushed against your cheek. “But I love you, Y/N. I have from the second I first heard you laugh at one of my dumb jokes. I know I’ve got my problems and you’ll probably leave, but please, just-” he choked on his words, trying to ignore his heart pounding relentlessly in his chest as he dropped his hands to his sides, his eyes pleading for you to believe him. “Hold onto me.”

Your arms instantly wrapped around his neck, Michael taking no time to pull you flush against him as he felt your chest rise and fall at a painfully slow rate, his head resting in the crook of your neck before you pulled away and stared into the eyes that knew everything about you. “I’m so sorry, I was over reacting-”

“No,” Michael cut you off, wiping away the tears from under your eyes before kissing your forehead. “Your feelings are completely valid. Being away from you is by far the hardest thing I have to do, but we get through it. We only get stronger, baby.”

You gave him a small smile before reconnecting your lips, running your hands through his hair as Michael sighed in contentment, his hands grabbing your hips and pulling you as close as possible to him. “You’re the only person that’s worth it, you know,” you teased, poking Michael’s chest as he cracked a smile.

“That’s how I know you love me,” he replied, his lips brushing against yours as his eyes studied you. 

You hummed in response before kissing his cheek, squeezing him tightly before pulling away and grinning. Michael’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion at your sudden excitement, his attention entirely set on you as he waited for you to talk again. “We never finished that Pokemon episode the other night.”

“You’re right,” Michael gasped, reaching for his laptop as you repositioned yourself to cuddle against his side. “We have to find out if Gary loses.”

“Fucking Gary,” you mumbled, causing Michael to burst out into laughter as he nudged your side.

“I love you,” Michael blurted out, causing you to raise your eyebrows before playfully rolling your eyes, Michael’s eyes full of love as he grinned at you. “What?”

Your heart nearly stopped when you heard the words so effortlessly flow out of his pink lips, swallowing the lump in your throat as you stared at the dark-haired boy beside you. The way his lips were parted as he continued to stare at the ceiling, his hands resting on his stomach as his legs were stretched out across the length of the bed mesmerized you. You were surprised by how comfortable everything was- the humming of the cars passing by on the street below and the sound of Michael’s soft breaths were all familiar to you. Michael confessing his love to you was always something you thought would happen in a dramatic way, maybe with fireworks on the beach or right before you were about to marry the wrong guy, but it was really in your 2am conversations about how you both wanted to do more with your lives, and that’s when it all made sense.

You swung your legs over the side of mattress, pushing yourself off of the bed as you rummaged through your closet. Michael furrowed his eyebrows in confusion when he saw you hastily searching for something, sitting up to get a better look. He was surprised when he saw you pull out a giant red suitcase, a smile tugging at his lips as he got out of your bed and walked over to you. 

“What caused you to change your mind?” Michael whispered, his hands ghosting over your skin before bringing a hand up to cup your face, his bright green eyes staring into yours as you wrapped your arms around his neck.

“I realized I’m in love with my best friend,” you answered, your lips brushing against his before he absolutely lost it and crashed his lips onto yours, the pit of your stomach twisting as your lips immediately gave into his. 

“What do you think New York is like?” Michael lightly laughed once he pulled away, not able to fight the smile on his face as you played with the collar of his shirt.