#moon walker

December 31st 1983, Encino California 

  Only a few hours. 

Just a few, until the earth turns over anew. And people will press their glasses together, colored fire will burn across the black sky in a crescendo of noise, the children will scream in delight, and the music will keep playing long into the next year. You perched yourself on the edge of a giant window looking out into your forested backyard. 

  You could brag and say that your summer was spent with the Michael Jackson. But that would be a lie; you spent the start of one summer with the popstar. Then, as expected, the young talented man was whisked away to whatever stardom business he had to attend to. It started out strong; you and him met at the same pool almost every night when the world was asleep. In the stillness, you two were the only ones alive and kicking. 

You listened, he spoke. A lot. You expected song ideas and lyric analysis, some of which did make an exuberant appearance. But you also received something better: simple slow talk about the events in Michael’s life. And it only blossomed from there, growing into hesitant whispers of venting which then burned into passionate airing of emotions. Complaints of his father’s iron fist were always present. One cool summer night, he was talking about just that. 

  “I just… feel trapped, y’know?” He looked over at you, his eyes meeting yours. “And I- I love singing, I love dancing, I really do…” 

Your eyes crinkled in worry-filled understandment. “But?” 

He looked away from you, almost ashamed. “But it needs to be my own thing. Mine.” He pressed a hand to his chest, looking up at the clear dark sky. 

You huffed. By now, you understood how torn Michael was. How he was stuck between supporting his family, but also the man that he couldn’t even call his father, and running off to be what he wanted to be, but in the process, leaving his brothers, sisters, his mother, behind. 

  That night flew by, but you remembered how restless he was. It was a particular nervousness stemming from a man opening up his chest and letting you look at him, see him, and even take what you wanted. Confessing to you how he truly felt. And how sinful it made him feel just to utter those words. 

You didn’t think he should feel so guilty about merely speaking those words. From what Michael has told you, even shown you, Joe Jackson deserved far worse than secret words exchanged behind his back. 

  “I don’t want to leave my family behind. But I… I sometimes really wish to leave him behind.” 

  He had barely whispered those words. As if Joe Jackson was spying on the two of you. Even a few miles from home, Michael was still suppressed just at the mention of his ‘father.’

  Those early summer nights flew by. The heat rose, and so did the closeness between the two of you. It started subtle. The chairs were moved closer together, his arm rested more often on the metal parts of the chair, exposed. He would lean toward you, ensuring every chance that you would look over and catch his eyes with yours. 

You noticed it, but you kept your distance. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Michael. But rather, it was something else. 

It was you. Beyond your debt in romantic skills, you just… didn’t think you were cut out for it. It wasn’t really about looks or body type. It wasn’t personality or anything like that. You weren’t bullied or depressed. It was just, you. Not just with MJ, but with anyone. In fact, you were so sure that you would live your life alone. And you thought you were content with that. 

But it doesn’t help that despite your attitude of certainty, you can’t help but feel the need to be loved. Not in the way a friend or family does, but the way a stranger could look at you and be willing to undo themselves for you as you do the same. 

Whether it was the fear of someone knowing you that deeply or your occasional light misanthropy, it kept you from ever seeking out another. A steel wall built around your kingdom, encasing it. It was safe, but it was also caging.

God. If you weren’t meant to be loved, couldn’t the world just take away your desire to do just that? Or at least stop your midnight summer friend from making such cruel, cruel advances?

  Michael was muttering happily about his favorite story, Peter Pan. He described in vivid detail, the colorful painted pictures of the mystical flying boy in green, bringing happiness to the children and swift justice to Captain Hook. All the while, you noticed his hand. Creeping quietly closer to your own. You briefly looked, then flicked your eyes away. An uncomfortable sensation building in your gut, painfully aware of what was transpiring. 

You try to be gentle about it. Coughing and moving away in a manner that seemed natural. A perfect excuse. You see Michael’s movements stutter, saddened by the chance that had died. Something broke in your chest too. But fear dictated your every move and you had no other choice. 

  Soon, meetings became more distant. More space gathered between each one, reflecting the weakening pull the two of you shared. Then, the summer of 1979 ended. The pool closed its doors. But even when she returned the next year, you didn’t go to that pool. Feeling the distance, the fizzling-out of the relationship, your urges to continue the strange habit ceased. 

  Even now, as 1984 approaches, there's a great hole in your chest and it's filled to the brim with dark blue loneliness. It weighs heavy and it hurts just a little, but just enough that you can’t shake it off. It was an unusual feeling for someone who was so used to, and loved, being alone. 

You suddenly find yourself aching for a touch that you never got to have, to experience. A touch that you declined yourself, that you deprived yourself of. 

  Terribly restless and even disgusted, you sigh and pull yourself off of the window’s edge. Pulling a kitchen chair out and plopping yourself down. Still looking out the window, you barely moved an inch. You still had hours before the fireworks go off, yet you waited. Left alone in your dimly lit home whose walls were starting to feel towering and cagey. The silence never felt so loud, so noticeable. 

And thanks to the silence, your own damning thoughts took it personally to fill in the gaps. The would’ve’s and could’ve’s. If only you had done the right thing…

Groaning, you press your palms into your eyesockets hard. Hard enough that rainbow static fills your pitch black vision. Hard enough that it starts to hurt. Hard enough that you nearly miss the sound of something falling with a thump outside- 

You sit up slightly, confused. Straining your ears, you listen for it again. Silence only follows. Interrupted by an occasional delighted scream of the neighbor’s children elsewhere. 

Then, it happens again. This time much softer, weaker.

You get up, nerves on high alert. You pinpointed that it was coming from the front door. With careful steps you approach. As you did, the sound never happened again. Every survival instinct was telling you not to open the door that stood in front of you. But a gut feeling told you yes. 

  You open the door and see nothing for a moment. You look down. And you see the top of someone’s head. He looks up, and that same familiarity emerges. 

“Michael?” You descend the short porch steps. As you do, the damage becomes impossibly clear. He lies on the lower steps. His white t-shirt is stained with streaks of blood. The collar torn and stretched so badly, you thought an animal’s claw snag it. The belt of his jeans is practically holding on by a miracle. 

And his face, tear-stricken and bruised and swollen and so very terrified. He looks up at you, doe eyes begging and pleading, the golden lights that hung from your house made them glow but highlighted the redness, the tears, the bruising, and the pain-

Alarm bells scream in your head as your body moves without a second thought. You scramble to him and lean down to his level. Attempting to grab his arms which he uses to shield himself in a violent flinch. You yank your hands away, apologies profusely escape your lips amongst many, many concerned questions. “Who did this to you? Are you okay? Do you need me to call the police? Ambulance?” You can barely make out what you're saying as fear grips your throat. 

But before your hands could completely leave his reach, Michael’s own shoots out and grabs you tightly, desperately. And when he looks up at you, silence descends. Tears begin to fall faster, as his expression morphs into a mess of raw agony. 

“I-I can’t- I can’t…” He tries to speak through hiccups, struggling to breathe, “I- shit- I’m so sorry- I can’t.” 

  He collapses into you. Causing you to fall back onto the stone floor. Long thin arms wrap themselves tightly around your torso, as he lies down between your legs. He buries his face into your stomach. 

You shift from worry to shock then slowly, it all dissolves into… something. You can’t even understand the feeling itself. But it doesn’t matter what it was. Because your hands find their way to his disheveled curls. Thumbs tracing soothing circles into his scalp, you hold him as he cries. 

  …

  You didn’t need Michael to explain himself. You knew who did this. After the success of his Thriller album, he and Joe got into an argument. Michael snapped and attempted to leave. His terrible father, however, still enraged about Michael’s firing and, more likely, the threat of his loss of control, also snapped. When Michael eventually broke free, he ran. His feet took him to the steps of your house. Remembering the promise you made to him in 1979. 

He sat on your couch, staring at the space between his feet. A thick towel wrapped around his body, he looked smaller than ever. 

It hit you right there. That the man sitting across from you was a child trapped in an adult’s body, a child that was kept from crying out for help for far too long. The stories of his father’s abuse that he told you years ago rippled throughout your mind. The sight of those scars were seared into your memory. There, curled up, was a wounded child who was never protected nor loved properly. 

You stood up, suddenly invigorated. “I’ll be back.” You whispered gently. He watched as you climbed the steps. You went to your bathroom, plugged the drain, and started a bath. Once full, you clambered back down to where he was. He looked at you with his soft but now empty eyes. You approached him, caressing his hands through the towel. 

“Let me help you out.” His eyes brightened just for a moment. “If you want me to help you.” 

He nodded silently. With that, you held an arm around his shoulders as you took him up the stairs.

You stayed outside of the bathroom, waiting and listening for Michael’s command. You could hear the murmurs of pants, belts, and other clothes hitting the floor. Then a quiet splash. 

“...Michael?”

“You can come in.”

You did and saw him curled up in the filled bath tub. Never in your years of living did you think you’d witness the sight of a global phenomenon looking so… human. Stopping yourself from staring for too long, you grabbed your shampoo bottle. 

“I’ll start with your hair first. You can do your body because I think that’ll make you feel more comfortable. I’ll step out if you would like.” You stated, making your intentions clear. “Are you okay with me doing this?”

He looked up at you, a weak but present look of relief in his eyes. “Yes.” He whispered into the curve of his arm. You frown with heartbroken compassion. As you lean down and begin working through his sweaty and bloodstained hair, you catch a glimpse of the violent lashes sustained to his back. Some deeper and more defined than others, but all red and bleeding. 

“My God, Michael…” You couldn’t help but mutter. He burrows his face into his arms in response. 

You worked slowly and carefully. Letting Michael dictate the pace. You mainly helped with his hair, as he took care of his own body. Once done, you unplugged the drain. Watching the blood and grime flow down the hole. You gave him a new towel and replacement clothes. Some of which fitted a little awkwardly, but he didn’t seem to mind. 

Michael sat on your bed as you brought out your first aid kit. He swallowed nervously. You took notice.

“I just want to patch you up a little.” You spoke softly. He looked away from you. “I won’t say anything. And if something hurts, tell me and I will stop. I promise.” He turned his gaze to you, unsure. But he nodded. He hadn’t put on his new shirt just yet. 

You worked on his back first. Drying, applying neosporin, and patching up the bleeding lashes. Some areas were more tender than others, causing MJ to flinch when you touched them. You apologized profusely, but he told you to keep going. 

Next, you got to his arms and face. You repeated the same process except for the black eye, to which a cold compress suficed. As you packed up the materials and turned to put them away, you were stopped by a warm hand. 

“Wait,” Michael’s voice, despite the violence he endured, remained soft, “don’t leave.” 

And God, his eyes were shinning. Desperation and anguish clouded his irises, but through them there was just the slightest spark of hope. It came to you that he found hope arising from you. 

“Of course, Michael. I won’t.” 

  …

  Christ, how did you get to this point? You thought about it as you lied in your bed with a world wide celebrity lying on your chest. His arms once again, wrapped tightly around you. A foolish little thought creeped into your mind; his fangirls could only dream of this moment that you, and only you, were having in the physical world. Though, you didn’t smile about it. 

You and Michael lied like this for what felt like hours. Had it been hours? You didn’t even know. The warmth from his body was pooling into yours. In the silence, your mind drifts. Replaying Michael’s music in your head. You remember the magical moment that your feet tapped to the music without control. An infectious rhythm that you gladly let in. Now, as his voice sings in your head, all you can think of is a young boy who underwent immense trauma at the hands of greed. 

  A loud pop breaks your thoughts like a needle to a balloon. Then another, then another. Multiple follow one after another. “The fireworks…” You mutter aloud. Michael fidgets a little. “S-sorry you’re missing ‘em because of me.” He mumbles. You shake your head lazily. “Meh… those fireworks happen every year. It’s nothing really special.” 

He hums a lone note thoughtfully. The silence is no longer complete, as the fireworks burn in the night sky. After a moment, he speaks your name. “You’ve done way too much.” You shrug. He snorts in disbelief. “Don’t shrug, no one would ever think of doing what you did. No matter how much they say they love me.” 

“It wasn’t anything special. I mean, it isn’t hard to care for someone who needs it.” 

“And what if it was special? ‘Cause it was special to me.” 

You swallowed, hyperaware of Michael’s movements. Large palms curled around hips. Slender fingers pressing against skin where your shirt was rolled up slightly. He was holding you so, so close. He held on to you because he couldn’t have you before. Now he could. 

“Y’know what I’ve been told my entire life? That I wasn’t a normal kid. And that I couldn’t do normal things. Normal stuff like having real friends and being cared for.” 

You stayed dead silent. Your breathing shallow. 

“That’s why I love you.” There it is. “Y’hear me? I love you. I always loved you because you were the only real person in my life.”

“Michael I-” you can feel yourself being picked apart. Unraveling. “I just- I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

He sits up. “Cut out for what?” You look away. “For- for this, for you I-” your chest grows fuzzy, “I wouldn’t be a good partner to you. To anyone.” 

MJ stayed silent. Eyebrows narrowed as his eyes darted around your face. Digesting your words. He says your name oh so softly, it makes you shudder. “You think you aren’t deserving of love? After the care you gave me?” He was stunned. 

His arms untangled, hands inching to your face til they cupped both sides. “Look at me.” You did. Meeting his eyes that burned with life that nearly died hours ago. “Even if you didn’t literally nurse me back to health, you are so deserving of love. Of all kinds, y’hear me?” 

“It doesn’t matter who you are or who you were, baby. You deserve love. Any and all kinds.” 

The breath in your chest was whisked away. You nodded quickly, feeling tears prick at your eyes. The two of you held each other for another moment, before Michael sank back down to his previous position. He held you tighter. You entangled your legs with his. Contentment circled throughout the room. You and him listened to the faintly bursting fireworks before he spoke up once more. 

  “Could… could you sing to me?”

You were startled by the mere suggestion. You? Sing to a master of music? “Uh, Michael, I don’t think-”

“Please?” He murmured into your chest. “You don’t have to be good. I just… I just want to hear you.” You opened your mouth, then closed it. “You want to hear me?” 

“Yes.” He looked up at you, chin resting on your sternum. How could you say no to those eyes? “You have no idea. Your voice, it sounds a lot prettier than you think.” 

Blush burned your face. You huffed and nodded. Michael shifted his head back down, waiting. 

Oh, but what to sing? You shuffled through songs in your head, taking into consideration the tone of the moment. Fireworks continued to go off, their sound muffled in the distance. You peered down at the celebrity, the young man, the Michael Jackson. 

The world, the fans, hell, even his own family saw him as a king. You saw him as Michael. 

  “Close your eyes…” You voice came out as a husky whisper. 

  Michael seemed to have held his breath for a moment. His tensing told you that he has heard this song before. 

  “Have no fear.” 

  He relaxed. His weight pressed down on top of you. He shifted a little. Tilting to his side, holding you tighter. 

  “The monster’s gone, he’s on the run, and your lover’s here.” 

  You hear Michael’s breath hitch at the change in lyrics. 

  “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy…” 

  Your hands are tangled in his curls. You brush through them with your fingers, reciprocating his closeness. He melts in your arms. 

  “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful… beautiful boy.” 

  You feel the weight of Michael’s head fully on your chest. Tilting your head, you notice his eyes grow sleepy. It warms your heart that he feels comfortable enough to fall asleep in your presence. 

It’s 1984. The earth has turned anew. Only this time, something really has changed. Whatever comes next, as you felt your lids grow heavy, you were sure of it; you wanted to be with Michael. 

“Darling, darling, darling… darling Michael.”