you had only been a childhood friend of michaels.
ever since the days he had lived in gary, indiana, you were his best friend in every way, the one person who knew him before the world claimed him. before his family moved to hayvenhurst, michael had promised you that he would always come back to visit. he never broke that word. even as his life became consumed by the relentless demands of performing, dance recitals, and grueling studio sessions, he would still find a way to fly out to gary. he would show up at your home for less than a day, tired but smiling, never failing to bring a beautiful, thoughtful bouquet of flowers for you and your mother.
you could still remember the hours that dragged on in your childhood bedroom, just you and michael sitting in the middle of the floor, lost in conversation as the world outside faded away. he’d tell you everything, opening up about the release of off the wall and shyly asking if you had loved thriller as much as he hoped you would, to which you always answered with a resounding yes. he’d talk about the endless events he was forced to attend and the strange, glittering isolation of his new life in los angeles. coming from a family of eleven, where they’d once squeezed into two bedrooms, the transition to his sprawling estate was a stark contrast, even after he’d spent so much time remodeling it into his own private sanctuary.
he told you about the most unlikely residents of his home, how he had a pet giraffe named jabbar, a llama named louie that he’d occasionally walk around the neighborhood, and of course, his constant companion, bubbles the monkey.
he’d paint vivid pictures of his life now: the way hundreds of fans would crowd his gates, holding up handmade signs and chanting his name until the air hummed with it. but the details he shared that hit the deepest were the ones meant just for you. he told you how he’d added three storefronts to his property, a puppet shop, a faux candy store, and an ice cream shop. he admitted he’d built the last one specifically because he remembered your love for it, wanting to make sure that whenever you finally came to visit, you could have all the ice cream you could ever want.
and boy, it sounded like a dream. it felt even more like one when michael finally flew you out from indiana to california. he had called days in advance, triple-checking that you weren’t tied up with work and ensuring your mother was comfortable with the trip, even promising to fly her out to see him soon, too. he told you he wanted you in cali just to show you the house and introduce you to his family, but the truth was, he’d just missed the sight of your face a little too much.
when bill, his bodyguard, pulled up to the airport in a sleek black rolls royce, your heart began to race. and the moment the heavy gates of the hayvenhurst estate swung open, your eyes sparkled. you pressed your face to the glass, taking in the sheer scale of the home. it was massive, surrounded by grass so perfectly manicured it looked like a carpet of vibrant, emerald green. as the car glided down the drive, your gaze locked onto the grand fountain in the front yard, the steady, rhythmic sound of water flowing endlessly into the basin filling the quiet air around you.
“beautiful, right?” bill questioned with a warm smile, catching your wide-eyed reaction in the rearview mirror.
“yes, sir,” you breathed, barely able to tear your gaze away from the grand architecture.
by the time the rolls royce came to a smooth stop out front and you stepped onto the gravel, michael was already there, stepping out of the house to meet you. the sight of him made your heart leap. you didn't waste a single second, speed-walking across the path and launching yourself into him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders in the tightest hug you could possibly manage.
“hey, girl,” michael laughed, the sound bright and genuine. his arms came around your waist, pulling you in close before you slowly broke the embrace. as your eyes skimmed over him, you couldn't help but notice how much he’d changed. it was as if he’d grown an inch since the last time you saw him. his hair was curled perfectly, framing his face with that familiar softness, and he was dressed casually in black trousers and a mickey mouse sweatshirt. the exact match to the minnie mouse one he had sent you from disney.
you could feel your eyes glossing over with emotion, the weight of the moment and the sheer distance between your old life and this reality finally hitting you. michael let his shoulders drop, the tension leaving him as his hands came up to rest gently on your arms, his smile deepening into something soft and intimate.
“don’t cry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the faint trickle of the fountain.
“I’m sorry,” you sniffled, shaking your head and quickly wiping away the few tears that had dared to escape. you let out a shaky, happy chuckle, reaching out to pull him into one more tight hug. “michael, this…I’m at a loss for words.” you pulled back just enough to look at him properly, your heart swelling. “how are you?”
michael smiled, that familiar, gentle light in his eyes. “I’m doing well,” he said, his gaze shifting briefly to watch bill carrying your luggage toward the house. he gave a subtle nod to his bodyguard before turning his focus entirely back to you. he placed one hand firmly against the small of your back, and with his other hand, he reached down to take the handle of your luggage from bill, insisting on doing it himself. “yourself?”
“i’m amazing.” you smiled, and michael nodded, walking beside you, gently guiding you toward the grand entrance of the house.
“how was your flight?” he questioned, his head tilted toward you with genuine interest, and you beamed.
“oh, it was amazing. i mean, i was a little scared at first. i made the pilot show me his license, just to make sure he was legit.” you spoke, and the moment you stepped across the threshold into the home, your eyes trailed up, instantly captured by the massive, sparkling crystallized chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling, casting dancing light across the foyer.
“really, now?” michael laughed, his steps light as he headed up the staircase. “i made sure to give you the best pilot they could offer. was their first-class service good?”
you trailed behind him, your hand skimming over the smooth, polished wooden railing, taking in the sheer luxury of your surroundings. “oh, it was incredible. i think that was my first time eating steak and lobster, two main dishes in one.”
michael just chuckled, a warm, bright sound that echoed through the hallway. as you reached the top of the stairs, he led the way down the corridor toward his bedroom. “my bedroom’s just up here,” he said, gesturing toward a set of double doors. “my parents are out on a business trip, so for the time being it’ll just be me, you, my brothers, latoya, and janet.”
he opened the door to his bedroom, and as you stepped inside, you were instantly captivated by the sheer scale of the room. it felt like it could have been the size of your entire home back in gary. the walls were a living mosaic of his life, decorated with endless pictures, one featuring the iconic shot from his thriller album, another of his off the wall cover. there were so many framed gold and platinum records lining the walls, and a vast collection of awards sat neatly on the shelves, glowing in the soft light. everywhere you looked, there were memories captured in glass and paper: photographs from electrifying performances, glossy magazine covers where his face smiled back at you, and stacks of handwritten notes from fans that he clearly kept as treasures.
you were astonished. amazed didn't even cover the half of it. you stood there, taking it all in, while michael gave you the space to wander, moving quietly to the corner of the room to tidy a few things on his dresser.
your eyes drifted toward the shelf lined with awards, landing on a specific one. a long, crystallized triangle perched atop a sleek black base. the memory hit you instantly, you could see him as clearly as if it were happening right then, watching him on the television screen, his hands steady as he held that very piece of glass between his palms.
soft footsteps sounded behind you, and you felt him come to a stop at your back, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. “that was the first one i had gotten for off the wall.” he spoke, his voice low and nostalgic. your head drifted to the side, looking up at him as he stared at the award with a quiet, reflective expression.
the other half of the shelf was filled to the brim, clearly dedicated to his thriller era. you recognized the eight golden grammys aligned perfectly, photos from his iconic performance of "billie jean," and yellowing newspaper clippings calling the project the biggest album in the world, marveling at how he had shattered every record in his path.
“i still can’t believe it sometimes.” you heard michael’s voice right behind you. “when we were kids, i used to only imagine this stuff. i never really thought it’d happen.”
you turned on your heels, looking up at him with total sincerity. “well, you deserve it. every last bit of it.”
michael smiled, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. “thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. then, he took your hand in his own, gently leading you toward the bed. he sat down, the mattress dipping slightly as you joined him, the frame creaking softly under your combined weight.
with one hand still in yours, he used the other to point toward the window. as your eyes drifted, you noticed a towering, yellow figure slowly walking past the glass. the rhythmic thud of his steps made the room vibrate just a little, but you gasped, immediately recognizing the familiar pattern of brown spots. it was jabbar. you slowly raised your hand, giving a shy, wide-eyed wave to the giraffe on the other side.
it felt entirely surreal.
michael chuckled at your reaction, and as jabbar’s figure eventually drifted out of view, your eyes wandered down toward the pool deck. jackie was sprawled out on a tanning bed in his swim trunks, shades resting on his nose, sipping from a small cup of juice adorned with a tiny paper umbrella. a few feet away, tito leaned back in his chair, lifting his sunglasses to rest in his hair, while jermaine stood in front of him, gesturing wildly as he recounted something chaotic, his movements making tito break into laughter. further down by the water, latoya and marlon were caught in the middle of trying to calm down a heated argument, their hands raised as janet and randy bickered back and forth in the pool.
you laughed, and michael’s eyes followed yours. “that janet and randy. always tryna to bite each other’s heads off,” you added, and michael chuckled, shaking his head. “that, now that is true.”
michael’s hands then came to rest under yours. he watched you as you continued to peer out of the window to watch his siblings, but his eyes were really stuck on your face. it felt good to have you here, to finally be able to see you, hear your voice, and for you to simply just be there with him. your presence never failed to bring comfort to michael, to ease his mind in a way nothing else could.
his thumbs stroked over your knuckles, and then his gaze followed yours down to his siblings. “they’re wonderful. i’m grateful for them,” he spoke softly, his voice full of a quiet, genuine appreciation.
“but i keep thinking about the next thing.”
your eyes slowly trailed to him, and your brows creased in confusion at his statement. “the next thing?”
michael looked at you, and then smiled shyly, his gaze dropping to your joined hands. he inhaled, a nervous yet electric energy humming beneath his words. “i’ve been thinking about doing a solo tour.”
your eyes widened, your lips parting in genuine surprise as the weight of what he was proposing sank in. michael’s smile deepened, a flicker of ambition sparking in his eyes. his grip on your hands tightened just a fraction, already caught up in the gravity of his idea, his mind clearly racing with choreography, lights, and the sheer scale of the dream he was just starting to breathe life into.
“i want to be bigger than anything i’ve done before. different costumes, different stages, effects people haven’t seen.” michael whispered, the visionary in him coming alive as he spoke.
your lips curled into a proud smile, and you nodded vigorously.
“michael, that would be amazing.”
“you think so?” he questioned, his eyes sparkling with a mix of vulnerability and excitement.
“i know so.” you smiled. you slowly lifted one hand from his, gesturing toward the walls surrounding you. “look around this room. off the wall, thriller... you can barely fit your awards on the shelves anymore.”
he laughed softly, a shy, modest sound, and you peered at him intently. “i’m serious. imagine it. a solo tour.” you scooted closer on the bed, taking his hands again, your grip firm and grounding. the playful atmosphere in the room shifted, and at the sudden closeness, michael’s smile slowly faded into a look of quiet intensity. “people would lose their minds.”
“i know it. tickets would sell out before half of your fans even got a chance to buy them.”
“you’re exaggerating,” he said, a bashful smile playing on his lips.
“i’m not!” you exclaimed, “there’d be people camping outside ticket offices. newspapers would be talking about it for weeks. i can already see it.”
“camping outside?” he chuckled, a disbelieving glint in his eyes.
“absolutely. and then, people would spend the next year bragging that they got a ticket.” you added, and he let out a laugh through his nostrils, eyes sparkling at your praise.
“the next ten years.” you said.
at that, he looked down shyly, trying to hide how pleased he truly was.
“you really believe that?”
the teasing left your voice, and your head dipped so that you could catch his eyes. “michael.” you gently spoke, and he looked up.
“i’ve known you since we were kids.” you then gestured toward the awards surrounding him. “none of this surprises me. i’ve known you were born with the gift of music. god laid his hand on you the moment you were born. you are meant to be great.”
for a moment, he stared at you. because everything you had said was nothing more than the truth. music thrived within him. it was him. he had grown up around people who saw nothing more than the potential in him, the power he could hold. but hearing it come from your mouth, it was a completely different ballgame. knowing you had so much faith in him made him feel like he could be on top of the world.
and then, a smile spread across his face.
“thank you.” he spoke. you smiled back, leaning in and resting your forehead against his, his curls brushing softly against your skin.
he nuzzled into you, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of your presence ground him. he let out a slow exhale, finally letting his shoulders drop completely, the weight of his world replaced by the simple, quiet peace of having you there.
and then, he slowly pulled his head back from yours, his smile widening as he moved to completely lace his fingers with yours. “come on,” he whispered, rising from the edge of the bed. “i want to show you something.”
you looked up, scrambling to your feet and following as michael strode toward the far side of his bedroom. he reached a set of glass doors and pushed them open, revealing a hidden flight of stairs that descended into the cool evening air. he held your hand with practiced care, his gaze never leaving yours, watching closely as you took the first few tentative steps down the staircase, guided by the gentle, firm pressure of his palm in yours.
“careful,” he murmured, his grip firm on your waist as he helped you find your footing.
as soon as your feet hit the ground, michael guided you along the winding pathway toward a separate, smaller building nestled on the property. your brows creased in confusion, but his smile only deepened, mysterious and bright. he pulled the heavy door open, ushering you inside.
you gasped, pressing your hands to your mouth. the room was massive, featuring a high, vaulted ceiling and an array of sophisticated hardware that looked like something out of a dream. it was a complete, private sanctuary, a control room packed with instruments, mixers, and racks of gear for recording, editing, and mastering. as you stepped further in, you realized the room was divided by thick glass; on the other side was a soundproofed vocal booth, stark and professional, with a two tall microphones and a pair of headphones waiting on each. on the far wall, a massive corkboard was pinned with layers of handwritten notes, some aged and yellowed, others on bright, colorful paper, all of them filled with his creative sparks and ideas.
your fingertips traced the polished wooden edge of the console, and michael moved in behind you just as your fingers hovered nervously over a complex hoard of buttons. you didn’t want to touch anything out of place, but he chuckled softly. his chest pressed gently against your back, and his large palms hovered over yours, guiding your index finger toward a small lever. he helped you slide it upward, and the room seemed to hum to life, the power surged through the equipment, and the soft glow of lights flickered on inside the recording booth. you looked up at him, your eyes wide with wonder, and michael huffed, a proud, contented sound.
“i’m in here the majority of the time,” he spoke, his hand leaving yours as he walked over slowly to the pin board. “coming up with new ideas, formulating lyrics, making beats,” he said, turning to face you.
“the studio’s my safe space.”
you nodded, your lips parting in realization of how sacred this room really was to him. michael moved past you, his hand momentarily swiping across your lower back, a brief, grounding touch, as he walked toward the vocal booth. he opened the heavy glass door, and your eyes never left his. as he stepped inside, he smiled, standing before the tall microphone and sliding the headphones over his ears.
michael gestured toward the console in front of you, but you stood frozen, eyes widening as you looked down at the sea of buttons that all looked identical to your untrained eye. you offered him a helpless, playful shrug, and he rolled his eyes with a boyish grin. he pulled one of the earmuffs slightly behind his ear, leaning into his own mic to speak through the talkback.
you formed your lips into an ‘o’, your heart doing a little flutter at the nickname. you pressed your fingertip onto the red button, watching in awe as the level bars above it jumped to life, filling with a vibrant, rhythmic green.
suddenly, a melody washed over the studio, filling the air with a familiar, infectious energy. you looked around, briefly confused, before realizing it was the instrumental to p.y.t., one of your absolute favorites from the thriller album.
but this time, it was with unreleased vocals, your eyes widened, smile deepening as you heard him sing the lyrics in the microphone, momentarily dragging out the loving part in pyt.
but this wasn't the version the world knew. as the music swelled, his voice cut through the air, raw, unpolished, and breathtakingly intimate. he sang the lyrics directly to you, momentarily dragging out the "pretty young thing" refrain with a smooth, soulful inflection that sent chills down your spine.
you couldn't help but bob your head to the rhythm, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as you became completely lost in the magic of his voice. listening to his melodic ad-libs weave perfectly through the background tracks, you started singing along under your breath, swaying slightly as you watched him pour his entire soul into the mic.
as the instrumental continued to build, michael smiled, his gaze locking with yours through the thick glass. he began tapping his feet to the beat, his head swaying in that familiar, rhythmic way. “you know, uh,” he spoke, his voice velvety and playful as he sang right to you, “there’s this special girl... from indiana, she’s such a p.y.t., pretty young thing.”
you pressed your lips together, fighting to suppress the wide, lovesick smile threatening to break across your face. your heart was doing cartwheels in your chest, and you instinctively brought a hand up to shield your burning cheeks, hiding your reaction as michael let out a melodic, genuine laugh into the mic.
“i’d give her all i’ve got. i wanna give her some t.l.c.” he sang, his eyes dancing with mischief and affection.
“come on in here, baby,” he smiled, beckoning you with a wave of his hand.
your breath hitched, but you laughed at yourself, feeling daring. you pushed back from the chair and moved toward the glass door, pulling it open. stepping into the booth, the outside world vanished, replaced by the heavy, rich sound of the music amplified in the soundproof space. you walked up to the microphone beside him, feeling the proximity of his energy, warm and electric. michael reached over, his fingers brushing your hair as he carefully placed the extra pair of headphones over your head, adjusting them so they fit perfectly.
you laughed, pressing the headphones against your ears as you bobbed your head, singing just a sliver of the lyrics and letting the notes drag out in sync with the instrumental.
“mhm,” michael hummed, a wide grin spreading across his face. “sing it, girl.”
the studio quickly turned into a playground. you were both filling in the gaps of the music, playing around with ad-libs and rhythms. when michael let out one of his iconic, sharp “ooh!” sounds, you tried to mimic it, but your attempt ended up sounding more like a startled bird. you both burst into hysterical laughter, the sound echoing through the microphones and into your headphones.
in a fit of giggles, you decided to try and mimic his famous kick, but you ended up using the wrong leg and stumbling through a spin while awkwardly trying to hold your crotch. it was a complete disaster, and michael absolutely lost it, doubling over with laughter. you grabbed onto his shoulder to steady yourself, laughing so hard that your stomach muscles began to ache as he clutched his own sides.
eventually, the two of you were laughing so hard you literally spilled out of the recording booth doors, collapsing into the hallway. michael stood there for a moment, still trying to catch his breath and wiping happy, unshed tears from the corners of his eyes. after he reached back in to flick off the studio lights, the two of you headed back outside. the cool air felt refreshing against your flushed skin, and michael, still chuckling to himself, took your hand and led you toward the small ice cream storefront on the grounds.
the bell jingled cheerfully as you stepped inside, the bright, nostalgic space bathing you in light. michael flipped the switch, and the room buzzed with life, revealing the classic black-and-white checkered floor and the vintage counter that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a dream. he vanished behind the glass, only to reappear a moment later wearing a ridiculous, oversized ice cream apron and a matching hat, twirling with a grace that made you laugh out loud.
“hello, ma’am! what may I get for you today?” he asked, his voice adopting a playful, customer-service lilt.
you leaned against the counter, tapping your index finger against your chin in feigned contemplation. “chocolate, please,” you decided with a smile.
he nodded, turning around to perform a series of quick, impressive spins and silly flourishes. he scooped the ice cream with effortless flair, balanced it perfectly in a sweet cone, and handed it to you with a flourish. “chocolate ice cream for the lady, coming right up.”
you clapped, beaming as you took the cone, immediately taking a happy lick. “so good,” you hummed, the words muffled by the cold, sweet treat.
for a second, michael just stared at you, his expression softening into something unreadable. your eyebrows creased in confusion.
“nothing,” he said, his smile turning gentle and slightly distant.
you shrugged, too distracted by the ice cream to press further. you tapped your foot to an imaginary rhythm, unaware that a smear of chocolate had decorated the corner of your mouth. michael watched you, his lips pressed together in a struggle to keep from laughing.
you blinked, confused, but he was already moving. he came around the edge of the counter, his movements fluid and purposeful. he reached you and held your face between his palms, his touch electric and grounding. staring down at your lips, he used his thumb to gently swipe the stray chocolate from your skin.
his eyes drifted up to meet yours, and the playfulness in his gaze evaporated, replaced by a raw, searching intensity. seeing him like this, this man with sharp, striking features, no longer the boy from Indiana, yet with that same boundless, childlike soul peering out from his eyes, it felt like the world had tilted on its axis. his thumb continued to stroke your cheek, a slow, unconscious gesture that made your breath hitch.
he was feeling it, too. that deep, aching love that had taken root when you were children. every day he’d spent away from you, every mile of fame he’d endured, he’d lived with the quiet agony of missing you. he had left half his heart behind in Indiana, clinging to the hope of these moments, the only times he felt truly human, truly grounded.
“michael,” you whispered, his name a soft plea in the quiet room.
he didn’t answer with words. his eyes dropped to your parted, glossed lips, and he began to lean in, slowly, deliberately, giving you every possible chance to pull away, to preserve the safety of the years you’d shared.
but there was nowhere else you wanted to be. you leaned in to meet him, and when his lips finally touched yours, the world simply ceased to exist. you melted into the contact, a soft sigh of relief escaping you. your ice cream dropping to the floor, completely forgotten. his hand drifted to your jaw, tasting chocolate from your lips, his thumb tilting your head back just enough to deepen the connection. his movements were tender but hungry, his head tilting to the side as he pulled you closer.
and as your back hit the wall, he moved with practiced instinct, his hand reached up and clicked a button, sending the curtains sliding shut to shield you from the outside world. he flipped the store sign to CLOSED with a final, decisive click, his other hand sliding firmly to your waist, pinning you in the sweet, private sanctuary of his own making.
