#mjxreader

November 7th, 2001

The crisp November air nipped at your cheeks as you stepped out of the car onto the bustling sidewalks of Manhattan at West 45th. Giant billboards flashed advertisements for Michael’s new album, Invincible, and massive screens on the buildings displayed the different covers in rotation. Your heart raced with a mix of excitement and nerves. You adjusted the strap of the diaper bag slung over your shoulder, glancing down at your two little ones. Your son, four years old with his father’s curious eyes and a mop of curls peeking from under a wool beanie, clutched your hand tightly. Your daughter, three and full of energy wrapped in a tiny pink coat, held onto your other hand, her small fingers warm despite the chill.

They’d been asking for their Daddy nonstop for the past two days.

“When is he coming home?” your son had whispered all morning on the plane, his voice small but hopeful.

“Soon, darling,” you’d promised. And now, that soon was here.

Michael had flown out to New York a couple of days earlier for this special signing event at the Virgin Megastore—his first-ever in-store appearance to celebrate Invincible. The album had dropped just over a week ago, and the world was buzzing. But being apart, even for a short time, felt like an eternity. The kids missed their father terribly; bedtime stories without his gentle voice reading them felt incomplete. And you missed your husband.

“Surprise time,” you murmured to the children, kneeling briefly to fix your daughter’s scarf. “We’re going to make Daddy so happy.”

Your son nodded solemnly. “We stay in line and wait for our turn?”

“Exactly,” you confirmed with a smile.

You’d secured the album and special passes through a discreet call to Michael’s team who were in on the secret and coordinated everything so you could blend into the line without drawing attention. Security was tight, but a few trusted people had helped make the surprise possible.

New York was still tender. You’d felt it the moment you landed. Something slower in people’s movements, this kind of gentleness that hadn’t been there before September. And yet here they were, hundreds of fans, standing in the cold to be near something that felt good.

The line stretched further than you’d anticipated. It wound from the entrance of the Virgin Megastore, down the block, and curved around 6th Avenue where a cluster of fans had been gathering since before sunrise, you were told. Hundreds of people, maybe more, bundled in coats and scarves and clutching their copies of Invincible to their chests like something precious.

You found your place in the queue and settled in.

“There are so many people here, mama,” your daughter observed, craning her neck to peer at the line ahead of you. Her breath made small clouds in the cold air.

“There are,” you agreed, shifting the diaper bag higher on your shoulder. “Daddy has a lot of fans. They are here because they love him.”

“More than us?”

You looked down at her upturned face, so earnest you felt your chest squeeze with something warm. “Nobody loves Daddy more than us, sweetheart.”

She seemed to accept this with great satisfaction, hugging her stuffed elephant tighter.

Your son was quieter, like he was thinking hard about something. He stood close to your side, his small hand still wrapped around yours, and watched the crowd with his father’s eyes—the same expression full of wonder, curiosity and attention that Michael had.

“Is he already inside?” he asked.

“He should be getting ready to come out soon, yes.”

“And he doesn’t know we’re here?”

“Not yet.”

A slow smile spread across his face. He liked surprises. He’d gotten that from his father too.

The wait was long, and you’d come prepared.

You’d packed juice boxes and little foil-wrapped crackers, a small activity book that your son quickly lost interest in, and a travel-sized container of animal crackers that your daughter rationed with the seriousness of a tiny accountant, counting each one before eating it. You’d brought an extra pair of mittens for each of them, which proved necessary when your son declared his hands were frozen approximately forty minutes into the wait.

Around you, fans speculated about what he might be wearing, whether he’d speak much, whether he’d sing anything. A group of teenagers near you had been practicing what they wanted to say to him, coaching each other, dissolving into nervous giggles every few minutes. You listened to them with quiet fondness. You understood that feeling. Even now, after everything, Michael still gave you that flutter. Maybe more so, because now you knew him. The whole of him, not just the image and somehow that made it more, not less.

Your daughter tugged your sleeve. “Mama. I’m cold.”

You crouched down and pulled her close, rubbing her arms briskly through her coat. “Better?”

She leaned into you, resting her chin on your shoulder, and sighed the contented sigh of a child who had decided warmth was satisfactory. “Can Daddy come home after this?”

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

“Good.” She patted your cheek once with her mittened hand. “I miss him, mama.”

“I know, baby. He misses you too.”

You thought of the phone call from last night, after the kids were asleep. Michael’s voice low and a little tired, the way it got when he’d been performing or working for too long and needed to just be himself for a minute. I miss you. I miss the kids. Tell me something normal. Tell me what you had for dinner. And you’d laughed and told him about the pasta your son had refused to eat and the way your daughter had spilled orange juice on the dog, and he’d laughed too, and for a little while it had been like he was right there.

“He said he couldn’t wait to see you,” you told her.

She smiled and tucked her face against your neck.

A ripple moved through the line—a surge of murmuring and you straightened up, your pulse jumping. Through the glass front of the store you could see movement, figures in dark clothing, the deliberate organized energy of a security detail coordinating itself.

“Mama,” your son said quietly, moving closer to you. “Is it time?”

“Almost,” you said. Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

You watched through the glass, trying to catch a glimpse. The staff inside were moving with more purpose now. Someone adjusted a display. A woman with a headset spoke into it with focused urgency. And then;

There he was.

Even from this distance, even through the glass and the crowd and the slight distortion of the window, you knew him instantly. He emerged from a back area wearing a royal blue silk shirt with matching pants, his dark hair falling past his jaw. He was speaking to someone beside him, nodding, and even from here you could see the quiet tension in his shoulders that meant he was preparing himself for the scale of it all.

Your son made a small sound which was not quite a word and you felt his grip tighten on your hand.

“Not yet,” you murmured. “We wait for our turn. Remember?”

He nodded, pressing his lips together, practically vibrating with eagerness.

The line began to move in earnest. Groups of fans filtered through the entrance, spent their moment at the table, emerged back through a side door with teary eyes and trembling hands. You heard various noises from inside; applause, squeals, the sustained low roar of excitement. Every few minutes the queue shuffled forward.

You were maybe thirty people back when your daughter started flagging.

She’d been a trooper, genuinely, more patient than you had any right to expect from a three-year-old in the cold for over an hour. But the warmth you’d maintained with crackers and cuddles along with the distraction of the glittery star stickers was wearing thin, and she was beginning to list against your leg with the boneless weight of a child approaching the edge of her reserves.

“Up?” she asked, lifting her arms.

You settled her on your hip and felt her immediately go limp with relief, her head dropping to your shoulder. It was going to be difficult for you to carry her comfortably for long, but you decided to go for as long as you could. Your son pressed close to your other side, alert again now that the end was visible, his earlier quiet replaced by a barely-contained energy.

Twenty people. Then fifteen.

You could hear Michael’s voice now, just barely, filtering through the sounds of the crowd, brief exchanges, warm and low. You couldn’t make out words, only tone. You knew that tone.

Ten people. Eight.

Your daughter had fallen into a light doze against your shoulder, which you took as both a mercy and a complication. You pressed a kiss to her temple and kept her steady.

Five people.

Your son looked up at you. His eyes were bright, serious, his father’s eyes in his father’s expression with the look of concentrated emotion, too big to fully contain, being held carefully.

“Mama,” he whispered.

“I know, darling. We’re almost there,” you whispered back.

Three people. Two.

One.

And then it was your turn.

A staff member held back the small velvet divider and smiled at you knowingly. “Right this way, Mrs. Jackson.” He took the diaper bag off your shoulder and passed it on to another staff member, signaling them to place it somewhere safe.

You took a breath and walked forward.

The table was set up near the center of the floor, with displays of the album on all with all five covers. The overhead lights were bright, and there was a backdrop behind the table, and there were cameras, staff members positioned at intervals, and a whole organized infrastructure of the thing. You took it all in in a peripheral, secondary way because the primary thing was him.

Michael sat at the table with a Sharpie in his hand and his attention on the album being placed in front of him, saying something to the previous person that was wrapping up.

He hadn’t looked up yet.

The previous fan moved away and a staff member reached for your album to place it on the table, and you shifted your sleeping daughter on your hip, and took the last step forward, and Michael looked up—

And stopped.

The Sharpie hovering above the album cover, his eyes landing on you and then widening like something cracked open in his face, all the careful measured grace of the public version of him dissolving instantly and completely.

He stared at you for one second, two—

“Surprise!” you said softly.

Your son, who had been managing himself with admirable restraint for nearly two hours, completely abandoned any further effort at restraint. “Daddy!”

And Michael was already moving.

He was on his feet before the word had fully left your son’s mouth, already coming around the table, the Sharpie forgotten, the album forgotten, everything forgotten except the small boy who had broken into a run toward him. He dropped to his knees right there on the floor of the Virgin Megastore and caught him, and your son hit him with the full momentum of several days of missing his father, both small arms wrapping around Michael’s neck, and Michael wrapped around him just as completely, one hand cradling the back of his head.

There was a murmur through the crowd of staff and waiting onlookers.

Michael’s eyes were closed. His jaw worked. He held your son like he was checking something, making sure something was still true, and then he pressed his face into your son’s hair and you heard him exhale, a slow, shuddering breath.

“Hey, buddy,” he managed. His voice was rough. “Hey. I got you.”

The four-year old said something muffled into Michael’s shoulder. You couldn’t hear it. After a long moment, he finally lifted his head and looked at you.

In all the years you’d known him, in all the ways you’d seen him look at you with love, with gratitude, with the tender warmth he reserved for you alone, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen him look at you quite like this. Like you’d done something he hadn’t known how to ask for.

His eyes were wet.

“Hey,” you said.

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Hi.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “What are you—how did you—“

“We took a plane, daddy!” your son informed him, pulling back to look at his father’s face.

Michael laughed as he pressed his forehead to your son’s briefly before standing, keeping one arm around him and turning to you.

He reached out and touched your face with his free hand—fingertips only, brushing your cheekbone gently.

“You brought them all the way here,” he said.

“They were going crazy without their daddy. I was going crazy without you.”

“You could have called. I would have set everything up—”

“Absolutely not.” You shifted your daughter on your hip, and she stirred faintly at the movement, grumbling without waking. “We stood in line like respectable fans. We wanted the element of surprise.”

“You stood in line?”

“Yes.”

His expression was something close to disbelief. “Baby. It’s so cold outside, I don’t want you guys getting sick.”

“We had crackers while we waited,” your son offered helpfully. “And she got glittery star stickers.”

Michael looked at the star sticker on his daughter’s coat, now slightly crumpled from being carried. He reached out carefully and touched the sticker, then looked up at you.

“How long has she been knocked out for?”

“She almost made it the whole way from departure but crashed right before the event started.”

He was already reaching for her, his hands going to her with the practiced ease of a father who had spent countless hours with his baby draped over him. You transferred her carefully, and she shifted in the transition—made a small complaining sound and then her head found Michael’s shoulder and she settled immediately. Her tiny head fit perfectly in the space between Michael’s shoulder and neck.

He tucked her close and looked at you over her head.

“You must be so tired, baby,” he said.

“Not really, I am not the one signing albums.”

There was a brief disruption while the team figured out what to do with the four of you. Michael’s manager appeared at his elbow, murmuring something into his ear, he listened and nodded while keeping one arm around your son and holding your daughter with the other. He looked down at the boy while he listened and made a face—a silly face meant only for his son—which always earns him a laugh.

Some rearrangement happened. A small area was cleared slightly to the side of the main table. A staff member brought over a chair. The signing would continue—Michael had insisted on that but you and the kids would be nearby rather than shuffled off to a waiting room somewhere, and a couple of additional security team members were repositioned to keep the immediate area clear.

It was handled with the efficiency of people who were practiced at managing extraordinary circumstances, and within a few minutes it had simply become the new arrangement, absorbed into the event without further disruption.

You sat down with your daughter, who had finally surfaced into drowsy wakefulness and was now sitting in your lap looking around the store with an unbothered expression of someone still partially in a dream. Your son had stationed himself right beside Michael’s chair and was watching everything with wide, attentive eyes—the fans as they approached, the albums being signed, his father’s steady and gracious presence through it all.

“I wanna sign albums too, daddy!” he insisted.

“Oh, do you now?”

The little boy nodded enthusiastically.

“Here, let me see your autograph first.” Michael pulled a spare piece of paper toward him and handed him a Sharpie.

Scribbling an unintelligible mess, he handed the paper back to his father.

Michael examined the scribbles with exaggerated seriousness, turning it sideways as though he were evaluating a priceless work of art.

“This is actually much better than my autograph.”

“It is?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He tapped the paper. “Look at this confidence. Look at these bold artistic choices.”

The four-year old beamed. Michael leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“I think I’ll have to let you sign an album just for Daddy.”

“Really?!”

“Mm-hm.” Michael glanced toward the line of waiting fans. “The fans aren’t ready for this level of talent yet.”

A few people nearby burst out laughing.

The last fan came through and the staff began the gentle, organized process of winding down the event. Adjusting displays, speaking into headsets, beginning the conclusion of the event. Michael signed the final album, spoke the final kind words, and the person left with the same shining eyes as everyone before them.

Then the table was just a table.

Michael set down the Sharpie and turned, and for the first time in the past hour or so he wasn’t in the middle of something. He exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders once, and you recognized that particular exhale—that he was really tired but still gave his all to the fans.

Your daughter held up her stuffed elephant. “Daddy. Look.”

He crossed the few steps between you and crouched down in front of her. “I’m looking.”

“His name is Peanut.”

“I remember Peanut,” Michael smiled.

“He came on the plane.”

“That was very brave of him. He’s as brave as my princess.”

She considered this, then held the elephant out toward him. Michael accepted it with appropriate gravity, examined it, and handed it back. She tucked it under her arm, satisfied, and then reached out and patted his cheek with one small hand, the same gesture she’d given you in the cold outside.

He gathered her up and stood, settling her on his hip, and turned to find your son already close, leaning against his side in that particular way kids had of simply annexing a parent’s space. Michael put a hand on the back of his head, ruffling his curls gently.

“You both waited in line,” Michael said. He was talking to both of them, but his eyes found yours over their heads. “I hope you did not trouble mama too much.”

“Mama said we had to be patient,” your son told him.

“She was correct.” His voice was dry but warm. “She always is.”

“I know,” the boy said, with an earnestness so complete it almost sounded like a medical fact.

You stood up and looked at Michael.

In his arms, your daughter was braiding a section of his hair with focused concentration. At his side, your son was speaking a mile a minute about the plane and the clouds and his unsuccessful mission to find their house from the sky. And Michael listened to all of it, and at the same time he was looking at you.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You took a step closer. “For what?”

“For doing this.” He shifted the girl slightly, freeing one hand, and reached out to touch your face again, fingertips at your cheekbone, like he was still checking. “For standing in the cold for I don’t even know how long. For bringing them. For—” He stopped. His jaw tightened briefly. “I needed this. I didn’t say so, but—”

“I know,” you said.

“You always know.” A faint, quiet smile. “That’s why I’m thanking you.”

You closed the remaining distance and leaned up to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw, brief and soft. He turned his head into it slightly, like a reflex.

“We’re in public,” you murmured.

“So?” he said, his voice low.

“So behave,”

“God forbid a husband missed his beautiful wife and wants to kiss her.”

“You’ll survive,” you laughed, and your daughter looked up at the sound of it with bright interested eyes. Your son stopped talking about the plane ride long enough to look at both of you with the mildly suspicious expression of a child who knew something was happening that was for grownups.

His staff had arranged cars. That was the other thing about Michael’s staff, the logistics that had an invisible coordination that moved things from one arrangement to another. You’d half expected some debate about hotels, about whether you’d all head to a restaurant first, about the details of the evening. Instead, there was simply a car waiting when you emerged from the side entrance of the store, and a small security presence around it, and a team member who smiled at your children and told them both they’d been very patient today.

Michael settled both kids in the car, buckling them securely.

“Hotel’s not far,” he looked at you.

“Good. Somebody’s going to be fully asleep in about eight minutes.”

He glanced at your daughter already leaning heavily against her brother. A small smile. His hand found the small of your back briefly.

“Come on,” he said.

She was asleep in six. Your son made it to the hotel lobby before his eyes started losing the fight, and by the time you’d gotten upstairs and through the door of the suite and managed the brief logistics of pajamas, he was moving on autopilot, responding to instruction with the half-conscious compliance of a child running on fumes.

Michael took over without discussion and that was something you’d loved about him from early on. How fatherhood came to him naturally. You caught fragments from the bathroom where you were washing your face, removing the makeup of the day: the beginning of a bedtime story and the specific register he used only with them.

By the time you came back into the room, both children were in the hotel bed, and Michael was just rising from where he’d been sitting at the edge of it, his voice trailing off from wherever the story had left them.

He stood up and looked at them for a long moment.

“She’s got a new thing she does,” you said quietly. “With her hands when she’s falling asleep.”

Michael glanced back at your daughter.

“Braiding things. She was doing it to my hair earlier.” He said immediately. “She started about three weeks ago.”

Your gaze drifted to the little girl. Even now, her tiny fingers were absentmindedly twisting the edge of her blanket as sleep pulled her under.

You hadn't even realized when the habit had started but Michael did.

“And he’s taller.”

“What?” You snorted.

“I’m serious.”

“Michael, you’ve been gone two days. That’s not how growing works.”

“Time zones. California’s three hours behind New York. That’s three whole extra hours of growing.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and shook your head, fighting a laugh. “Michael…”

He put his arm around you, and you leaned into him, as you both stood there for a moment in the soft dim hotel room. Your children sleeping, the city a distant murmur outside.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

“I’m glad we came too.”

“The line, though.” He shook his head slightly. “You didn’t have to. The kids must be so tired and cold. And you had them all by yourself.”

“We wanted to. We wanted to be in the line with everybody else.” You tilted your head up to look at him. “I wanted to see your reaction when you didn’t know we were coming.”

A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.

"You got me."

"I know."

"And they were very well behaved," you continued.

Michael's eyebrows rose.

“You should've called me."

"And said what?" You laughed. "'Michael, come rescue me from the line you're currently signing for’?”

"Yes. Would have dropped everything to be with my family.”

You turned toward him and he kissed you softly. His hand found your waist as he leaned in, pressing his lips briefly against yours before resting his forehead against yours for a moment.

When he pulled back you rested your head against his chest and listened to the steady, reliable sound of his heartbeat.

“Take me home tomorrow?” you murmured.

𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝟣: 𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖨𝗇 𝖡𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄

The summer air felt heavy against your skin as you stepped out of your apartment building and onto the crowded city sidewalk. Cars rushed by, people hurried along their daily routines, and somewhere in the distance, music drifted through an open storefront window. Normally, none of it would have caught your attention, but today felt different. Maybe it was because your life had become painfully repetitive lately, or maybe it was because of the strange feeling that had followed you all morning, like something or someone was watching,

You adjusted the strap of your purse and kept walking, but the feeling never left. Every so often, you would glance over your shoulder, only to see nothing out of the ordinary, just strangers passing by, a businessman talking on a payphone, a woman pushing a stroller, and teenagers laughing as they passed. You sighed and shook your head, telling yourself, "Calm down, it's just nothing." The feeling was ridiculous, yet it still lingered.

Later that evening, rain began tapping against your apartment windows while thunder rumbled overhead. You sat curled up on the couch with a book resting in your lap, trying to ignore the storm outside. The lights flickered once, then twice, before steadying again. You frowned, glancing toward the window as another flash of lightning illuminated the room. That was when you heard it.

At first, the sound was soft and faint. Music. You sat up slowly, listening carefully as the melody drifted through the apartment. It seemed to be coming from somewhere inside, which made no sense at all because you lived alone. You stood and followed the sound down the hallway, past your bedroom and bathroom, until you reached the small storage room at the end. The door was slightly open, even though you were sure you had shut it shut earlier.

Another flash of lightning lit up the hallway, and the music grew louder. Hesitating only for a moment, you pushed the door open. The room was dark, with dusty boxes stacked against the walls and old furniture hidden beneath white sheets. But in the center of the room, something was playing music. A record player.

You froze.

The antique machine sat on a small wooden table, the vinyl slowly spinning as crackling music filled the room. You had never seen it before, never owned one, and yet there it was, as if it had always belonged there. Thunder shook the apartment, and suddenly the music distorted. The record skipped once, twice, then three times. The room temperature dropped so quickly that you could see your breath, and fear crept into your stomach. Every instinct told you to leave, but instead you took a cautious step closer.

The vinyl label was faded and almost unreadable. You leaned in, trying to make out the words, when the music suddenly stopped. Silence swallowed the room completely. The record player kept spinning, but no sound came from it. The stillness felt wrong, unnatural. Then, before your eyes, the needle slowly lifted itself. Your blood turned cold. Nobody touched it, yet it moved all on its own. The needle dragged across the record, and a horrible screech tore through the room. You stumbled backward as the lights flickered violently. The walls seemed to shake, wind exploded through the room despite the windows being closed, and the record spun faster and faster until it became nothing more than a blur. A bright light erupted from the center, and you threw your arm over your eyes as the entire room vanished into white.

When the light disappeared, you were no longer in your apartment. You stood frozen, rain gone, storm gone, everything gone. Instead, you were surrounded by bright city lights and glowing neon signs. Music blasted from nearby stores, people crowded the sidewalks, and cars lined the streets. Everything looked different, but you couldn't understand why. Then your eyes landed on a newspaper inside a vending machine, and the date printed on the front made your stomach drop.

"1992"

 Your breath caught in your throat. "No..." you whispered, stumbling toward it as if staring harder might make it change. But the date remained the same. 1992. Your hands began shaking. This had to be a dream, or a prank, or anything but real. Then suddenly, a scream erupted nearby. It wasn't a terrified scream; it was excited. Hundreds of voices joined in as people rushed past you toward a nearby hotel. Reporters appeared. Security guards appeared and pushed against barriers; meanwhile, people kept screaming at the top of their lungs.

Then a black SUV pulled up.

The crowd exploded. People cried, shouted, and waved signs overhead. You couldn't even see who they were looking at until the rear door opened and a man stepped out. Black fedora. Gold accents. Black curls framing his face, dark sunglasses.  A Rememberable presence. The entire crowd seemed to stop breathing, including you. Your heart nearly stopped because standing only a few yards away from you was none other than Michael Jackson.

For a brief second, he turned his head and looked directly at you.

The noise around you disappeared. The screaming fans vanished. The world itself seemed to fade. There was only him, and those dark eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Then security guided him inside, and the moment was over. Gone. But somehow, you couldn't shake the feeling that he had recognized you, even though that was impossible. Because you weren't supposed to be here, but SOMETHING and somehow and in some way, deep down, you knew this wasn't the last time you'd see him.

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Taglist

You keep eye contact with Ned as you lock your phone, silencing it.

"Thank you." He says, turning back to play his game.

"You need to at least say something." Ned whispers to you. 

"I want to but I can't. I just can't." 

It has been two weeks since the party. Two weeks since Peter and MJ became a couple and two weeks since you began avoiding her. It was never your intention to ignore her. You wanted nothing more than to run to her house, burst through the door and embrace her, tearfully apologizing. You wanted to go back to the way things were but, with her new relationship, you can't. And, considering she hadn't stopped you from kissing her that night, you felt like maybe she felt the same way. 

Peter's phone starts to ring, hushing your whispers with Ned. The two of you snap your heads to Peter, causing him to groan and pull his phone from his pocket. He looks at it and then turns the screen to you. 

'Incoming call from: MJ.'

You shake your head and Peter just shrugs. "She's my girlfriend now, I can't just ignore her." 

You open your mouth to say something but it snaps shut when you see Peter answer.

"Hello…. Honey?" Peter gives Ned a shrug and he gives him a thumbs down and shakes his head.

'Don't call me honey.' Your heart stops at the sound of her voice. You weren't sure if Peter knew how loud his volume was if you were able to hear her from the other side of the couch, but you weren't going to pass up the opportunity to hear MJ. You may be avoiding her, but your heart still pulled toward her.

"Yeah. That didn't feel right." Peter says with a laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "So, what, uh, what do you wanna talk about?"

'Is…. Is Y/N hanging out with you?' 

You hear the sadness in her voice. You have to hold yourself back from jumping over Ned, taking Peters phone and yelling, "Yes! I am! I miss you! Please forgive me!" All you do is give a sad look to Peter, causing him to sigh.

"She's been talking to Ned all day, but I wouldn't say she's hanging out with me." He didn't want to lie to MJ. Last thing he wanted was to have this drama pull his relationship apart. But, Ned had begged Peter to let you come hang out with them and it was moments like this that made him really regret saying yes.

'Oh. Ok.' You hear her sigh over the phone. 'If you talk to her, please tell her to call me.'

"Of course, MJ. I will." His jaw clenched as he looks to the ground shaking his head.

'I don't know what…' You couldn't make out the last part of what she says, but Peter straightens his back and looks you in the eyes.

"I don't think you did anything wrong, MJ. I think this just something Y/N has to sort out and she's pulling you down." You frown at Peter, not knowing what to say.

'Whatever, Peter. You don't understand her like I do.' Your heart skips a beat. 'She doesn't just do something like this without a reason. And I… think I know why.'

"Well I hope you two figure it out soon." 

'Ok. Bye.'

Peter furrows his brow, pulling the phone away from his head. He shrugs and puts the phone down on the arm of the couch and continues to play his game. "MJ: mysterious as always."

The next few days were hard. The weekend was always a lot easier to avoid MJ, but once school was back in it was near impossible. You had classes near each other, but not the same classes. You would get to class early and be the first to leave. 

You were thankful for the winter air as you stepped out ahead of the after school crowd. You began trekking your way home, cursing yourself for not wearing your snowshoes. Before, MJ would either give you a ride home or you would walk together. You two spent so much time together sometimes people mistook you two for one person. 

As you walked you tried to use the cold to distract you from your aching heart. You felt your phone buzz from your pocket, causing you to stop in your tracks, taking a breath and looking to the sky as fresh snow flakes began to fall. You pull your phone out to see MJ calling you again. You stare at your phone, finger hovering over the answer button before shaking your head, locking your phone to silence it and returning it back to your pocket.

"What's your problem?"

You turn around, seeing MJ come out from an alley, phone still near her head.

"MJ! I-I don't-" You look around you for a second, wiping fresh snowflakes from your eyes as you look back to her. "It's good to see you, MJ."

"Two weeks." Her arms fall to her sides, sadness covering her face. You gulp and look to the ground, shrugging.

"I don't know what you mean." You say, just barely louder than a whisper.

"I've been trying to talk to you for two weeks. This either stops now or you tell me what the fuck your problem is." Her face is stern, and the little waiver is subtle but you hear it. It tells you she's hurting. Of course you knew she was hurting, though. Her best friend was avoiding her but you didn't expect her to confront you. It would have been out of character for her not to confront you.

"I've just been… busy." You lie. You look around you for an out, but the empty snowed streets showed no signs of helping you.

"Bullshit." Her arms crossed. You shut your eyes tight and you felt your hands shake a little as you ran one through your hair.

"I guess maybe I just hit it off with Ned so well I figured why not pursue that full time." You shrug, trying to spout out any excuses you could think of.

"Bull. Shit." 

"What do you want me to say, MJ?" Your arms jut out, looking at her in confusion. 

"Just talk to me and tell me the fucking truth!" She mimics your body language and any other time you would have noticed and made a remark about how in sync the two of you were, two parts of a whole, but you didn't. Your body started to hum in anger as adrenaline rushes through you.

"Fine! You want the truth I'll tell you the fucking truth. I'm just a little pissed off that Peter gets to walk in out of nowhere and you just fall for him." 

"And why do you care so much?" Her voice was laced with animosity, though it had lowered slightly, regretting her own words as they fell out.

"You're kidding me, right?" You can't help the laugh that slips through, causing MJ to scrunch her face up.

"What's so funny? I don't feel like laughing." This makes you laugh harder.

"You know what MJ? Just stop calling me." You begin to walk away, but MJ isn't having it.

"You don't get to walk away from this conversation." She calls after you, trying to keep your steady pace in the snow

"You don't get to tell me I can't." You grip your backpack tighter, willing yourself and MJ to just stop saying words.

"I know you don't like Peter. Why did you tell Ned you did?" 

"You've gone mental, MJ." You shake your head, teeth grinding.

She grabs your shoulder, tugging it back so you turn to face her. "At that party. Everyone heard you say it. Word spread and I heard about it the next day. You know, after you left me without saying anything. You've never been good at keeping your voice down when your drunk." She crosses her arms. "Why would you say that?" Her voice slowly lost its venom, the soft MJ you know leaking through.

"I don't know what your talking abou-" And then the memory floods back to you. You had said it sarcastically, but it never occurred to you that the other people in the room could have taken it the wrong way. "Oh. That. Um, Ned was throwing theories out at me and he thought I liked Peter, which is absolutely not true in the slightest. But when he said it, it made me laugh and I said that I liked Peter sarcastically." You shove your cold hands into your pockets and looked to the side. "Guess people just don't understand sarcasm." You grumble to yourself.

"Oh. Ok. Then… if that's not true, why are you avoiding me?" You lock eyes for a few moments. Your heartbeat picks up and aches all at once. She always had this affect on you. She was always capable of making you feel like you could take on the world while also being the reason for your heart break.

"I can't tell you."

"Why, Y/N? You can tell me anything." 

She gently takes your hand into hers, rubbing the top gently with her thumb. You look between your hands and her face, now holding a gentle smile and something inside snaps. Tears well up and your trying to blink them away before she can see, but she does. She always does.

"Y/N? Do you... have feelings for me?"

Your head jerks backs. "What? No. No. Don't be ridiculous." You watch cautiously as MJ swallows, taking a deep breath. 

"I know when you're lying."

"I love you." You blurt out, eyes staying on hers as the tears build up. You smile at her slightly, hoping by some chance she'd reciprocate the feelings. But as she slowly pulls her hand away from yours and takes a step back, you suddenly can't look at her anymore. You can't see her jaw go slack, opening and closing trying to process what you just said.

"Y/N…" Your eyes flicker to hers for just a second before turning to the floor. "You're-You're just confused."

"I'm not. I haven't been… I haven't been confused since I kissed you for the first time when I got drunk in your room."

"You told me you didn't remember anything."

"I remembered something."

"You've been feeling this way the whole time while-while we've…" You nod. Her eyes close tightly. "Listen, we can move past this. I just want us to move passed this. Please can we just go back to how we were? Forget it all?" Her voice wasn't higher than a whisper, pleading with you silently.

"But I don't want that. That's why I Ieft, MJ, why can't you see that?" Her hands come up, fingers threaded together. Anyone watching from a building above might have mistaken her for praying.

"Please, Y/N."

"You must have felt that spark too when we kissed all those times."

"Stop."

"And you didn't stop me from kissing you that night at the party. That means something."

"I love you, Y/N. I do. Just not like that. I'm-I'm with Peter." Her eyes stay shut and you suddenly feel gross. You feel a wave of disgust flow over your body. Your own best friend won't even look at you. You feel like your feelings are wrong, that you are wrong, but you push it aside. This is how you feel and you're done hiding. You nod and push the dread down to the bottom of your stomach.

"Ok." And that's all you say, turning around and walking away quickly, wiping the tears from your face. She doesn't call out to you as you walk away, doesn't run after you. Part of you hoped she was watching you walk away, but the reality was she had started walking in the other direction the second you walked away. She was left feeling torn apart, having just lost the best friend she ever had and life felt empty.

The days following she doesn't try to contact you at all. You would see her spending more time with Peter and Ned. You stopped answering Neds texts, telling him you need some time. You sat alone at lunch, sat in the farthest corner of the classrooms, and after school you locked yourself away in your room. 

Ned watched from afar, MJ and Peter quickly returning to their little bubble when they were around each other and Ned wished things would just go back to the way things were. Before the drama and before things got complicated. This day in particular got to him the most. He watched from their table as you walk into the cafeteria, scanning the room and quickly locking eyes with him. Ned looks to his side and sees that MJ and Peter have their eyes glued to each other. He rolls his eyes and look back to you, seeing you make a beeline to the farthest, emptiest, table from them. You sit down and grab your lunch from your bag, trying to keep your head down and stay out of sight. Ned groans and stands up.

"You guys suck." He mumbles out, knowing his words likely got lost in the sea of conversations going on.

"Where are you going, man?" Peter asks, eyebrows scrunched together.

"To someone who actually needs a friend." Ned looks to MJ, who quickly avoids his eye contact, and walks over to your table.

"What does that even mean?" Peter watches Ned make his way through the crowds, losing him after he cuts through Flashs' circle of friends. MJ knows exactly what he means, but chooses to ignore Peter and start a new subject.

"This seat taken?" Ned points to the spot next to you. He always seemed to sneak up on you when you were deep in thought, only this time you welcomed him in.

"Please, take it." He gives you a tight smile before settling in next to you, returning back to his food.

"So." He finally says after a minute of silence. "Her lips are sealed. You gonna tell me what's going on?"

You sigh, poking at your food. "I told her and she rejected me."

"Well, shit sucks, but you two can make it through this. She misses you. You both just need some space and then you can come back together?" Ned shrugged. "Honestly, seeing you two not together just doesn't make sense. You need each other."

"But I don't need her, and she doesn't need me." Ned frowns at you. "I could live with or without her. Yeah, when we're apart it's hard to breath sometimes but I survive. We're able to be apart, we don't need to be attached to each other but I…" You look across the room, eyes earching for MJ, "I think maybe I'd like her in my life."

"Then talk to her."

"I can't. I really, really do love her, Ned. And now that she's with Peter I just don't have a chance." You look back down at your unfinished food as the bell rings, signaling the break was over. You repack your leftovers and shove them into your backpack as Ned picks up his backpack and food tray.

"Just do it, Y/N. For the sake of my sanity."

You spend the rest of the day mulling over his words. You knew he was right. You needed to talk this out with her, but you couldn't bring yourself to suffer through the reject again. 

And so you don't. 

You find a new normal. Ned eventually opts to spend his time with you rather than third wheel and you gladly welcome his company. He gives up trying to convince you to talk to MJ, and instead tries to help you find someone else to keep your mind off her. As more time passes, and prom season comes closer, you and Ned decide to go together as friends. 

Before the drama, you would have gone with MJ. You would have also gone as friends, but maybe it would have been the night you told her how you felt on better terms. You would have shared a dance, a slow dance, together. You would have laid your head on her, your arms around her waist and hers holding you close to her. She would kiss the top of your head as you swayed to the slow beat, the world around you fading away because all that mattered was your shared heart beat. You would lift your head in the middle of the song. 

"I love you." You would say.

"I love you too." She would reply with a smile, closing the distance between your lips in a caring kiss, one that feels like it could last forever. You wouldn't care about what the people around you thought, what Peter thought, because all that mattered was that moment. 

But now that wouldn't happen. It was the night of the prom and you and Ned got ready together. Well, more Ned came over and you sat around talking in your fancy clothes before hopping into your moms car and driving to the prom. You're both some of the first to get there. It's your first prom and you weren't sure what to expect. You'd seen movies and you'd read about proms in books, but you'd never imagined what one would be like to go to in person and your first thoughts were…. Disappointed. It didn't have the low lighting you had expected, the lights hanging from the ceiling were basically the only decorative thing in the room besides the cloth on the tables. But, as you both hung against the wall and more people began to show up, you saw the transformation. The main lights turned off, the only light was from the hanging stars above you. Tea lights covered most walls, and you saw thin fabric draped from the center of the room to the walls, lined with lights. A disco ball hung in the center, tying it all together, causing light specs to flicker around the room. 

"Woah." You whisper, the scene unfolding around you suddenly taking your breath away.

"Yeah, I know. Like, who even is she?" Ned says from beside you, taking your attention away and turning to him with a confused look.

"What are you talking about?"

He lifts a finger and points to the door, where you see a beautiful girl walking in. She was wearing a sleeveless black and silver dress with her dark hair pulled into a loose but styled braid. She looked around the room and locked eyes with you, giving you a small smile before Flash's arm came around her. You saw her roll her eyes as she got pulled away to his group.

"I think she's totally into you." Ned says, leaning in. You let out a nervous laugh and shake your head. "I'm serious! The second she gets alone, you need to make your move."

You shove him playfully, but in the back of your mind you know you want to. After dancing to a couple of songs with Ned, you slowly make your way to the punch bowl as you watch the new girl come over. You grab a cup for yourself and step aside, giving her a smile as she begins filing her own cup.

"Hi!" You say loud enough over the music, her head turns slightly towards yours. "I'm Y/N."

"Raven." Her voice is like silk to your ears. Any nerves you had instantly melted away.

"Raven. Pretty name." You say, biting the inside of your cheek slightly to keep yourself from smiling too wide.

"So is yours." She finishes filling her cup, stepping aside closer to you. You take that as a good sign that she wants to keep talking.

"So, you go to Midtown? I've never seen you around." This makes her laugh.

"Actually no, never went to Midtown. I actually graduated last year, but Flash there is my best friends brother and I lost a bet so-" She trails her hands down her silhouette, then they come out beside her with flair, "-here I am."

You laugh, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "Well, good to know you have higher standards than Flash." 

Her face becomes serious. "Who said I wasn't seeing Flash?" You begin to stutter out an apology, your heart sinking but she just laughs at you. "I'm joking, punch girl. I don't swing that way, so he isn't exactly my type." 

"And… what is your type?" You ask with a sudden surge of confidence. She looks you up and down, before smiling wide.

"You seem to fit the description pretty well."

You and Raven talked as if you were the only two people in the room. But MJ was there, and she hadn't stopped looking at you since she came in with Peter. She made small talk with him, making little effort. Peter could tell something was off, but quickly figured it out when he followed his girlfriends gaze. MJ felt her heart drop when she saw you and Raven. You looked at Raven like you had looked at her and she felt stupid for not realizing your feelings sooner. Part of her wished you were next to her, looking at her that way again. MJ looked to Peter as he started doing silly dance moves, trying to make MJ laugh. But she didn't feel laughing. The song changed to a slow song and Peter extended his hand for her to take. She gave him a tight lipped smile as she gently took it and began swaying awkwardly together. They turned in a circle, MJ looked over his shoulder and saw you and Raven, dancing close to each other. Raven had her arms around your neck, yours on her waist, holding her close. MJ watched with bated breath as she saw Raven look into your eyes, smiling as she brought her hands to cup your cheeks and pull you in for a quick kiss. 

MJ's world stops. Everything moves in slow motion around her. She sees Raven pull her face away from yours slowly, thumb sliding across your cheek slightly. She hears one of Flash's friends beside her. 

"Damn Flash, Y/N stole your girlfriend." They say, and it makes her blood boil with this rage, this jealousy, she's never felt before. 

The song ends and MJ watches as Raven steps away from you and her feet are moving on their own. Her long legs get her across the room in no time, grabbing your arm and dragging you out of the room into the hallway. You try to get her attention, but MJ isn't responding. Finally, you pull your arm out of her grasp.

"What the fuck, MJ?" 

"I can't do this anymore." She says, shaking her head and avoiding your eyes. "I thought I would be ok with this, but I'm not."

You cross your arms, sighing with slight annoyance. "What does that mean?"

"Who is she? Is she your new girlfriend?" Her arm jesters back towards where the party was. You see the jealousy in her eyes and you smirk slightly to yourself.

"We just met." You say simply and you see MJ's hands start to shake as her eyes widen.

"You just met her and you're letting her kiss you? Are you crazy? You don't even know her." Her voice begins to raise. You cross your arms, smirk still plastered on your face.

"I know her name is Raven. She lost a bet, so she had to come here tonight. I know she goes to the local community college. She's a freshman and she already hates it. It's funny, she actually reminds me a little of you except she actually likes me."

"I do like you, Y/N! I like you." She yells. Your smile fades and your arms uncross, any cockiness you once had faded. People come out of the party room and MJ is grabbing you again and dragging you into the closest room, which happens to be a supply closet. She turns on the light and you find yourselves pressing as far from each other as you could in the cramped space.

"MJ, I need you to tell me what's going on." You say, eyes searching her panic stricken ones.

"I… like Peter but seeing you kiss that girl-"

"Raven."

"-whatever. When I saw you two kiss it made me realize, I wanted that to be me." Her foot began to tap nervously. "I didn't like dancing with Peter and every time I kiss him it feels weird but when I kissed you it felt right and I can't get you out of my mind, which is kind of a dick move really."

Your head jerks back. "What does that mean?"

"How can you just exist and have this… weird power over my feelings like this? How can we be friends, grow up with each other, and then life just fucks it up? I just want to go back to how things were." She looks down at her hands, watching herself pick at her nails.

"You keep saying that. We can't, MJ. We can't ever go back." You say, watching as MJs face scrunches up slightly the way it does when she's trying not to cry.  

"We-we can't, you're right. But maybe we can move on from this?" You gulp, staring at MJ hard. You feel your head shake slightly, eyes hard on MJ's and she knows. She knew before she even asked. Nothing would be the same. This just wasn't something you could easily come back from. "What can I say to you that would change that?"

"You could break up with Peter? You could tell me you love me and mean it the way I do?" You clench your jaw, waiting for a response. She looks down and that's all you needed to see to know the answer. "Goodbye, MJ."

You reach for the knob but she's grabbing your hand, holding tightly to keep you from opening the door. "Please," she sobs, no longer stopping the tears, "Please, I-I need you." 

You fight back your own tears as you bite the inside of your mouth, contemplating her words. "You can't keep doing this to me, MJ."

"I-" Her mouth opens and closes, not knowing the right words to say. 

You take that second to reach for the door, opening it and walking away. Walking away from MJ, the air between you two thicker than ever. Nothing was resolved. Your friendship was worse off, in fact. You wrap your arms around you body, trying to give yourself some small comfort and you felt your tears finally slip through. You push the sadness down, wiping the tears away quickly as you approach the door back to the party. You take a deep breath and go back inside, deciding to find Ned and ask to go home. You track him down easily, he had found and latched back onto Peter. You saw them laugh with each other and your heart aches more. Without your drama, you see them being friends again and it was something you hadn't realized you missed. You stand there watching them for a few moments, one song playing into the next.

"There you are, punch girl. You ok?" Raven says as she comes up to you, hand going to your face to brush some stray tears from your face. Your head jerks away from her touch slightly, stomach turning. 

"Y-yeah. I just don't feel very good. I think I need to go home." You say, body already walking around the crowd to the front exit. 

Once out, you decide to text Ned that you will be in the car waiting to drive him home whenever he's ready to leave. You knew he wouldn't be looking at his phone right away, knowing how bad he was about checking his phone. After about 10 minutes, you get a text from him.

'Ummm…. You should get back in here.'

You get out of the car and begin walking back towards the prom, stopping as you see MJ and Peter talking around the corner.

"I don't understand why you're doing this now?" You hear Peter say. You stick against the wall, staying out of sight while being close enough to hear. "I thought we were doing good together."

"We were, we are, I just think maybe we need to stay… friends?" MJ says, her voice low. You peek around the corner and see MJ twisting her fingers as Peter runs a hand through his hair, letting out a deep sigh.

"I, uh, I don't know what to say." There's a long silence. You hold your breath, worried that any sound you make might get you caught. "You're great, MJ. I'm sad, but I-I respect you're decision, I guess." 

There's another long silence, followed by MJ softly saying, "Goodbye." You realise the footsteps are coming toward your direction so you make a beeline back to your moms car, hoping she doesn't see you.

"Y/N?" You stop in your tracks, turning around slowly to see MJ, teary eyed. You see Peter walk out from the around the corner, stopping and looking between the two of you before heading back into the prom.

"What did you do, MJ?" 

She doesn't say anything. She gives you a sad look, one you have seen too much. You almost forgot what she looked like happy, smiling, since now all you saw was her frowning. You find yourself rolling your eyes, and you open your mouth to say something when she walks to you, taking big strides and kisses you. It's a quick peck, and she looks are you gulping as she tries to read your face. You nod your head once, and MJ's lips are back to yours, and you can't stop the tears that fall from your face. 

Old partner in crime

I'm going to try

Eventually you tried to get away from Ned, only to have him follow you like a puppy. You put your hands over your ears to try and block out his voice which you were now finding annoying. You tried to lose him by going into a room, but the alcohol was making you react slower.

“What are we doing in here?” Ned says, looking around the room when he turns to you, eyes wide. “Are you going to tell me more about your crush on Peter?” You roll your eyes, moving your jaw in annoyance when he gasps, hands coming up to cover his mouth. “Do you have a crush on me? Is this where your confession-”

You slam the door, getting Ned to stop mid sentence.

“Shut UP. Oh my god. I don’t have a crush on you, and I definitely don’t have a crush on Peter. Just stop talking for five fucking seconds.” Your hands pull at your hair for a second, before sitting on the floor in front of the bed in the middle of the room. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

“Oh… Ok.” Ned looks around the room for a second before slowly moving to sit next to you.

You open your eyes after a few moments of silence and look at Ned, who gives you a gentle smile. You feel bad and look down at your fingers, picking at your nails. “I’m sorry. The alcohol makes me a bitch sometimes.”

“It’s ok, Y/N. If you don’t like like either of us, then what’s the problem?” You know he’s trying to be nice, but you can’t help but laugh.

“What are we? Twelve? Crush and like like, Ned? Really?” You chuckle, looking at him and glad to see he has a smile as well. He just shrugs, hoping if he doesn’t say anything that you might continue. “I just… God I’ve never said this to anyone yet.” You twist and pull on your fingers.

“You can tell me, Y/N.” You squeeze your eyes closed. “I know we don’t know each other well, and I’m not very good at keeping secrets, and MJ AND Peter are some of my best frie-”

“I’m in love with MJ.”