The One Who Wanted Nothing ~Chapter 41
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
August 1979 arrived with a shift in the atmosphere that none of them could quite articulate, though everyone felt it. The world had finally heard Off the Wall, and almost overnight, the universe seemed to reshape itself around the music.
The album was simply everywhere. Record stores proudly displayed the sleek jacket in their front windows, the image of Michael in his tuxedo leaning against that glowing brick wall striking a pose that was instantly iconic. Radio stations played tracks from it around the clock—the infectious groove of "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" bleeding into the smooth, late-night warmth of "Rock with You." Down at CBS Records, the telephones rang constantly, a relentless chorus of executives, promoters, and DJs. Interviews multiplied by the hour. Photographers, suddenly sharper and more aggressive, followed Michael wherever he went, lenses clicking like cicadas in the California heat.
Then came the reviews, spreading across the pages of newspapers and music rags nationwide. Some praised Quincy Jones’s crisp, immaculate production; others focused entirely on the sheer, acrobatic brilliance of the vocals. But regardless of the angle, most critics simply agreed on one undeniable truth: Michael Jackson had arrived. Not as the child prodigy of a family act, but as a singular, formidable force.
A little over two weeks later, the Jackson family gathered for dinner at Hayvenhurst. Well... most of them. Katherine and Janet had stayed behind after the meal to spend some quiet evening time together, leaving the older brothers scattered around the expansive living room, letting the heavy, satisfied laziness of a good dinner settle over them.
Michael sat cross-legged on the floor, the fabric of his trousers stretching as he flipped through a magazine article someone had handed him earlier that day. Even with the charts proving his success, he still looked slightly uncomfortable every time someone congratulated him, a shy tilt of his head and a soft "thank you" always masking the fierce pride burning underneath.
Randy, however, looked far too excited. He had a restless, mischievous energy vibrating through him all evening, and he suddenly stood up, commanding the center of the room.
"I have an announcement."
Jackie didn't even glance up from the television screen. "Should we be worried?"
"Probably," Marlon laughed, shifting his weight against the back of the sofa. "Go ahead."
Randy clapped his hands together dramatically, a bright grin flashing across his face. "We're going to New York."
An immediate, heavy silence fell over the room. The hum of the television suddenly felt much louder.
Michael slowly lowered the magazine, his dark eyes peering over the top of the glossy pages. "...Why?"
Randy stared at him, deadpan, as though Michael had just asked the dumbest question imaginable in the history of human speech. "Because."
Michael blinked, totally unamused by the lack of logic. "...Because?"
"You've got an album," Randy said, taking a step forward and counting on his fingers.
Michael nodded cautiously.
"You're turning twenty-one."
"And..." Randy pointed dramatically toward absolutely nothing in the middle of the room, his voice rising with theatrical flair. "...New York owes us another adventure."
Marlon’s face immediately split into a wide grin. "I like it."
"So do I," Tito agreed from his spot on the armchair, nodding in quiet approval.
Jackie finally looked up from the couch, his interest piqued. "When?"
Randy shrugged, the logistics clearly being a secondary concern to the vibe. "As soon as we can."
Michael let out a soft laugh, shaking his head at the sheer absurdity of it. "You people can't just decide to go to New York."
"We literally can," Marlon replied smoothly. "We've done it before."
Matty, who had been quietly flipping through an entertainment magazine in the corner, looked up over the edge of his pages. He caught Randy’s eye and gave a small, casual shrug. "I mean... I'm not saying no."
Randy pointed at him triumphantly, a victorious glint in his eye. "See? Matty's in."
Michael turned his head, his gaze shifting across the space to Elea. She was sitting close by, watching the whole chaotic dynamic unfold with a look of pure amusement. Sensing his silent plea for an ally, she raised both hands innocently.
"Don't look at me," she said, a playful lilt in her voice. "I haven't said anything."
"...Yet," Randy added, pointing a warning finger in her direction.
Elea smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she looked back at Michael. "...Yet."
Michael let out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh, sinking slightly lower onto the floor. "I'm working."
"So are we," Jackie answered, entirely unsympathetic to the work ethic of a man who had just spent months in a recording studio. "You can take two days, Mike."
"I have recording sessions," Michael countered, grasping for valid excuses.
"They'll still be there."
"They'll still be there too," Jackie shot back, matching him beat for beat.
Michael looked around the room, desperately scanning the faces of his brothers. Nobody appeared willing to help him. Not one single person. They were a united front of rebellion against his schedule.
Finally, he turned back to Elea, his last line of defense. He gave her a pointed, desperate look. "...You tell them."
She looked around at the brothers, seeing the eager, expectant grins on their faces. Then she looked back down at Michael, whose big, soulful eyes were practically begging her to be the voice of reason. A small, helpless smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
"I do think New York sounds nice," she murmured softly.
Michael stared at her in complete, utterly betrayed disbelief. "You've betrayed me."
She burst out laughing, the sound bright and musical in the warm living room. "I prefer the word..." She paused, tapping her chin as she pretended to search for the right vocabulary. "...outvoted."
The room instantly erupted into a chorus of laughter and cheers. Randy threw both hands into the air, practically jumping on the carpet. "Perfect! It's settled. We're going to New York!"
Michael opened his mouth to object one last time, a protest hovering on the tip of his tongue. But as he looked around the room, he realized the battle was already entirely lost. Jackie was already leaning over toward Tito, muttering about hotel availability and bookings. Marlon was practically dancing on his feet, loudly declaring that he wanted to go straight back to Studio 54 the moment they touched down. Over in the corner, Matty was already pulling a pen from his pocket, scribbling a list of restaurants he wanted to revisit on the back of a napkin.
Even Elea was laughing now, her shoulders shaking as she watched the brothers completely take over the planning.
Michael looked at all of them—their energy, their excitement, the easy joy that had been so hard to come by during the grueling months of making the record. And then... without even meaning to... a smile broke across his own face. It started small, just a twitch at the corner of his lips, before spreading into a genuine, warm expression.
Maybe... just maybe... one more trip to New York wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
Two days later, a nonstop flight from Los Angeles crossed the country beneath a bright, wide August sky.
Randy spent most of the journey talking, his endless energy filling the space around them. Marlon spent most of it laughing, turning nearly every sentence into a punchline. Jackie eventually gave up entirely on trying to read his newspaper, folding it with a defeated sigh as the noise grew around him, while Tito quietly looked out the window, watching the patchwork of the American landscape slide by far below.
Matty, meanwhile, somehow managed to use his effortless charm to convince the flight attendant to bring him an extra dessert.
Michael simply shook his head, watching Matty dig into the sweet treat. "I don't know how you do it."
Matty smiled proudly, lifting his spoon in a mock toast. "It's a gift."
Elea laughed from the seat beside Michael, clearly amused by the exchange. "You have to admire the confidence."
"I absolutely shouldn't," Michael insisted, though a faint, playful smile tugged at his lips anyway.
The four-hour flight passed much quicker than any of them expected. By the time the plane began its long descent, the familiar, dramatic skyline slowly materialized beyond the window glass. Tall buildings stretched up like stone giants toward the afternoon sky, and the Hudson River shimmered like a ribbon of cracked silver beneath the heavy summer sun.
Michael found himself leaning across his seat, peering toward the window with genuine fascination. "It's been a while."
Elea leaned in to look out beside him, the reflection of the city catching in her eyes. "It has."
The captain's voice crackled to life, echoing clearly through the cabin speakers. *"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New York City."*
Randy immediately threw both arms straight into the air, completely unbothered by the confined space. "We're back!"
Several passengers turned around in their seats to stare at the sudden outburst. Jackie instantly covered his face with one hand, sliding down slightly. "I don't know him."
"You absolutely do," Marlon laughed, slapping Jackie on the shoulder.
Nearly an hour later, they stepped through the heavy glass doors and out onto the frantic, busy Manhattan sidewalk.
The familiar, chaotic symphony of the city surrounded them instantly, a sharp contrast to the laid-back rhythm of Los Angeles. Taxi horns blared in discordant harmony, distant sirens wailed down the avenue, and street vendors called out loudly to passing tourists. Everywhere they looked, people were walking far too fast, heads down and determined, weaving past each other as white plumes of steam rose lazily from the subway grates. Everything felt intensely, vibrantly alive.
Matty stopped and took one deep, appreciative breath of the city air. "I forgot how much I missed this city."
"So did I," Marlon admitted, looking around at the neon signs and crowded storefronts.
Randy, completely energized by the chaos, was already halfway down the sidewalk, leading the pack. "Come on! We've got places to go!"
Jackie sighed, shifting his bag to his other shoulder. "Slow down!"
Michael lingered near the curb for just a moment, letting the rest of the group forge ahead. He looked up at the towering buildings, the crowded streets, and the endless, fluid movement of the crowd.
Two years ago, this city had felt entirely enormous. Overwhelming. Unfamiliar. It had felt like a maze designed to swallow a person whole.
Now, though... it somehow felt entirely different.
He glanced beside him. Elea stood quietly on the bustling pavement, taking it all in. A soft breeze lifted a few loose strands of her hair, brushing them across her cheek, and she smiled to herself as though she were remembering something private and beautiful.
Michael smiled too, his voice dropping to a softer tone. "...Feels different."
She turned her head toward him, her attention shifting away from the crowd. Their eyes met, holding a shared understanding, before she looked back out at the city streets. "It does."
Neither of them explained what they meant. Neither of them had to.
Because in that quiet beat amidst the New York noise, they were both remembering the exact same thing. A nervous young singer, pulling at his collar. A quiet young woman, watching the world. A nondescript hallway inside CBS Records. A chance meeting that neither of them could have ever predicted, let alone planned for.
The literal beginning of everything.
"Are you two coming?" Randy's voice shouted over the traffic, his figure waving frantically from halfway down the block.
Michael broke the moment with a laugh, cupping his hand around his mouth. "We're coming!"
He looked back at Elea one more time, offering his arm or a reassuring nod. She smiled, the warmth of it grounding him completely. Then, together, they stepped forward, following the loud laughter of the others into the heart of the city where their story had first begun.
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
The moment they stepped into the grand, bustling hotel lobby, the illusion of a peaceful trip shattered into a million pieces. Chaos didn't just begin; it practically moved into the suite with them.
LaToya was immediately at the front desk, adjusting her oversized sunglasses and inspecting the room keys like a diamond merchant checking for flaws. "If my room doesn't have a view of the park, Jackie, I’m sleeping in yours. And I brought four suitcases, so someone needs to make sure the bellhop doesn't lose the one with my shoes."
Meanwhile, the boys had barely crossed the threshold of the larger hotel suite before Randy clapped his hands together with the authority of a military general.
Michael stopped in his tracks, still holding his small overnight bag, and frowned. "...Meeting? What meeting?"
"I didn't know there was a birthday meeting."
"There wasn't," Randy grinned, tossing his jacket onto a nearby lamp. "I just made it up."
Within minutes, the entire entourage had gathered in the living area of the suite. It was a masterpiece of disorganized domesticity. Suitcases sat unopened like a barricade near the walls. Jackie had barely managed to unzip his jacket, Tito was still stubbornly carrying two heavy garment bags as if afraid they’d grow legs, and Matty had immediately claimed the plush, velvet armchair in the corner—the absolute best seat in the house. LaToya was already aggressively fluffing the decorative pillows on the sofa, muttering about dust.
Michael looked around the room, completely bewildered. "...Can somebody please tell me what is happening?"
Randy stood right in the center of the rug, looking like he was conducting a chaotic, invisible orchestra. "First order of business: Dinner."
"Oh, good," Michael said, relaxing a fraction. "I already know where I want to—"
Michael blinked. "...No?"
"Exactly," Randy pointed out, as if stating a fundamental law of physics. "Which is why you don't get to pick."
Marlon nodded sagely from his perch on the arm of the couch. "That's actually fair."
"It is *not* fair!" Michael protested, his voice cracking slightly in pitch.
Jackie laughed, thoroughly enjoying the breakdown of democracy. "I kind of like this system."
LaToya chimed in, pointing a perfectly manicured finger. "Well, I hope this system accounts for the fact that I am *not* eating greasy food. It ruins my skin, and we are in New York. I want something elegant."
Within seconds, everyone began talking over one another, the volume instantly skyrocketing.
"No, Italian!" Marlon shouted.
"Steakhouse!" Tito countered.
"We had steak yesterday, Tito!" Jackie yelled back.
"I'm not eating seafood," LaToya sniffed. "It smells like bait."
"I'm voting wherever has dessert," Matty raised his hand from the luxury of his armchair. "Specifically, wherever serves cheesecake. New York cheesecake is non-negotiable."
Randy pointed dramatically at Matty. "Excellent point!"
Michael rubbed his temples, feeling a headache blossoming right between his eyes. "You people are unbelievable."
Nobody heard him. Or perhaps, more accurately, nobody cared.
Ten minutes of intense, high-stakes debating later, Randy clapped his hands again, bringing the courtroom to order. "Dinner's decided."
Michael let out a long, defeated sigh. "...Where are we going?"
"What? No. It's my birthday, I should know."
"I don't like surprises, Randy."
"That's unfortunate," Randy shrugged.
The room burst into a chorus of laughter. LaToya was smirking behind her hand, and Marlon was practically bent double.
Desperate, Michael looked toward Elea, who was sitting on the arm of Matty's stolen chair. "Please. Help me."
She smiled innocently, lifting her hands. "I can't help you."
He stared at her in complete, utterly crushed disbelief. "...You voted against me?"
"I voted for cheesecake, Michael," she clarified, her eyes dancing with mischief. "The cheesecake overrode my loyalty."
Matty immediately pointed a finger at her in solidarity. "See? She's thinking clearly. Trust the system, Mike."
Michael shook his head, looking up at the ceiling. "I've been betrayed by my closest allies."
"You'll survive," Elea teased.
But Randy wasn't finished. He cleared his throat loudly. "Second order of business."
Michael groaned, burying his face in his hands. "There's more?"
"Oh, there's plenty more," Randy smiled, looking far too confident for a younger brother. "After dinner... we're going to Studio 54."
Michael froze. He dropped his hands and gave Randy a dead-serious look. "...Randy, no. I don't—"
"I just got off a plane—"
"I have interviews tomorrow!"
Marlon laughed so hard at the rapid-fire shut-down that he nearly slipped off the couch entirely, while LaToya actually clapped her hands in excitement. "Oh, we *have* to go! I brought the perfect outfit for Studio 54. Michael, you can't be a party pooper on your own twenty-first."
Jackie looked at his younger brother sympathetically, though he offered zero actual assistance. "I don't think your vote counts, Mike."
Michael slowly turned his head toward Elea again. She was already quietly laughing, covering her mouth to hide her grin. He looked positively desperate, casting his ultimate line of defense.
She met his big, soulful, pleading eyes. "Hm?"
She tried. She really, truly tried to hold a serious face for his sake, but the sheer absurdity of the Jackson family dynamic won. A quiet, breathless laugh escaped her instead. "I'm sorry."
"I came to you for shelter, and you're laughing at my demise."
"I know, I'm sorry," she stepped closer to him, looking up into his pouty face with a warm, comforting smile. "But you really should've known."
"Coming back to New York... to celebrate your twenty-first birthday... and your very first solo album..." She glanced over her shoulder toward Randy, who was now somehow drawing a wildly complex, color-coded itinerary on a piece of hotel stationery with a stolen pen. "...was always going to include every single one of Randy's wildest ideas. You never stood a chance."
Michael followed her gaze. Randy was enthusiastically explaining a nightclub layout with far too much dramatic hand movement. Matty was actively encouraging him, Marlon was shouting out ridiculous suggestions for the guest list, Jackie looked completely resigned to his fate, and Tito had clearly accepted his doom hours ago. Even LaToya was now arguing about which entrance they should use to avoid the crowd.
Michael let out a massive, theatrical sigh. "I've completely lost control of my own birthday."
Elea smiled softly, a gentle warmth in her voice. "Michael, I don't think you ever had it."
He looked down at her. Then he looked at the sheer, unbridled madness of his siblings across the room. Then he looked back at her. Finally, the sheer comedy of it broke through his defenses, and he laughed—that high, bright sound that filled the room.
"...Probably not," he admitted.
Across the suite, Randy’s ears must have been burning. He pointed a triumphant finger across the room. "I heard that! Defeat accepted! Excellent! Everybody be downstairs in an hour, dressed to impress!"
Michael looked at Elea one last time, a playful glimmer in his eyes as he leaned down slightly. "...Can we at least leave them behind and go get burgers?"
She laughed, shaking her head as she turned to unpack. "Not a chance, Mr. Birthday."
And somehow, despite having absolutely zero say in the matter, Michael found himself smiling, genuinely looking forward to whatever beautiful chaos the New York night had in store for them.
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
Exactly one hour later, the hotel suite’s living room looked less like a temporary residence and more like a backstage dressing room for a massive variety show. The air was thick with the scent of LaToya’s expensive French perfume, heavy hairspray, and the sharp, clean aroma of cologne.
"If anyone borrows my comb without asking, I am throwing their shoes out the window," LaToya called out, standing in front of the full-length mirror as she made final, precise adjustments to her ensemble.
Marlon strolled out of his room, looking incredibly sharp, and immediately did a dramatic spin on the carpet. "Please. Nobody needs to borrow your comb, LaToya. The curls are already immaculate." He turned toward the hallway. "Matty! Hurry up! Studio 54 won't wait forever!"
"I am a man of taste and leisure, Marlon, I do not rush," Matty’s voice drifted lazily from the adjacent room.
Michael stood near the center of the room, looking exceptionally handsome. He wore a crisp, tailored jacket, a sleek shirt, and his trademark loafers—dressed perfectly for a night meant to celebrate both his twenty-first birthday and the triumphant release of *Off the Wall*. He was nervously adjusting his cuffs, his eyes darting toward the door of the bedroom Elea was using.
When the door finally clicked open, the room seemed to go quiet for a fraction of a second.
Elea stepped out, and she looked absolutely spectacular, perfectly embodying the vibrant, dazzling energy of the late '70s disco era. Her outfit was a head-turning, show-stopping masterpiece of liquid metallic silver. She wore a high-waisted pair of ultra-reflective, form-fitting silver trousers that caught every single drop of light in the hotel room, flaring out dramatically at the knees into wide, theatrical bell-bottoms. The stunning fabric gleamed like molten chrome with every step she took.
Matching the trousers perfectly was a sleek, metallic silver crop top. It featured a bold, geometric halter-neck design with a sharp cutout just below the collar, showcasing a modern, confident edge while revealing just a hint of midriff. To complete the look, she wore a stack of chunky gold bracelets chiming on her wrist and stepped out in towering, metallic copper platform boots that gave her an effortless, statuesque presence.
Marlon let out a loud, appreciative whistle. "Okay! Move over, Michael, the real star of *Off the Wall* has officially arrived."
"Wow, Elea," Jackie said, looking up from his watch with a genuine smile. "You look incredible. You’re definitely getting us past the velvet ropes tonight."
LaToya paused her mirror routine, turning around to look Elea up and down. She gave a slow, approving nod—the ultimate praise. "Very chic. The silver is gorgeous on you, El. Good thing, too, because if you had worn gold, we would have clashed, and I would have had to make you change."
Matty finally wandered into the room, holding a glass of water, and stopped. He looked at Elea, then slowly looked over at Michael, a massive, knowing grin spreading across his face. "Mike... buddy... look alive. Your jaw is on the floor."
Michael blinked, suddenly realizing he had been staring in absolute, breathless silence. A warm, deep blush crept rapidly up his neck, and he quickly cleared his throat, pulling at his collar as his brothers immediately began to chuckle.
"I—I'm alive," Michael stammered softly, his eyes darting away for a split second before locking right back onto her. He walked over to where she stood, his expression softening into something incredibly sweet and lovely. The playful chaos of the family seemed to fade into the background for a moment. He looked down at her, his dark eyes shining with pure admiration. "You look... absolutely beautiful, Elea. Truly. You’re dazzling."
Elea’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, a warm, genuine smile gracing her lips at his words. The metallic fabric of her outfit shimmered as she stepped closer to him, reaching up to gently straighten the lapel of his jacket. "Thank you, Michael. But tonight isn't about me. Look at you. Twenty-one, and the biggest album in the country." She looked up into his eyes, her voice dropping to a softer, incredibly affectionate tone. "Happy birthday, Mike. I'm so proud of you."
The moment was profoundly sweet, filled with a quiet tenderness that grounded them both amidst the whirlwind of the trip. Michael’s smile widened, reaching all the way to his eyes, completely captivated by her.
"Alright, break it up, lovebirds!" Randy’s voice suddenly boomed as he burst out of his room, wearing an impossibly bright outfit and waving a fancy walking stick he had apparently found somewhere. "We have an appointment with destiny and a dance floor! The limousine is downstairs, and I fully intend to be the first one through the doors of Studio 54!"
"Not if I beat you to the elevator!" Marlon yelled, instantly sprinting out the suite door.
"Marlon, wait! My shoes!" LaToya shrieked, grabbing her clutch and dashing after him in her high heels.
Jackie and Tito sighed in unison, picking up their jackets and following the stampede, while Matty casually strolled behind them, taking a slow sip of his water. "Take your time, you two. I'll make sure Randy doesn't accidentally sign us up for a dance battle in the lobby."
As the door clicked shut behind the loud, laughing exit of his family, the suite grew wonderfully quiet again.
Michael looked at the empty doorway, then turned back to Elea. He offered her his arm, his expression a perfect mix of humor and deep fondness. "Well, Miss Silver Trousers... are you ready to go rescue New York from my brothers?"
Elea laughed, a bright, musical sound, and looped her arm securely through his, her platform boots clicking against the floor. "Only if you promise to dance with me first."
"That," Michael smiled, leading her out into the hallway, "is an absolute promise."
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
By the time the limousine pulled up to the curb of Studio 54, the energy of the New York night was vibrating through the concrete. The line of hopeful partygoers, dressed in their finest sequins, silks, and metallic threads, already stretched halfway down the block under the flashing neon marquee. Bright, theatrical lights spilled from the entrance onto the sidewalk, and the heavy, intoxicating pulse of the bass bled directly through the walls, setting the rhythm before they even crossed the threshold. People in line were already laughing, talking, and dancing in place, desperately trying to catch the eye of the doorman.
The city felt so much louder, brighter, and more chaotic than Michael remembered. Or perhaps, he thought with a soft smile, he was simply happier this time.
Randy peered through the tinted glass of the limo window, looked at the massive crowd, and smirked. He adjusted his jacket collar. "...Watch this."
Michael let out a long, preemptive sigh. "...Randy."
"It's a good look, Mike. It’s my winning look."
"It never is," Michael muttered, though his eyes were wide with amusement. "Please don't cause a scene."
"LaToya, tell him I don't cause scenes," Randy scoffed.
LaToya, who was currently applying a fresh layer of lip gloss in a compact mirror, didn't look up. "You cause nothing *but* scenes, Randy. But if it gets me inside faster so I don't ruin my heels on this pavement, I fully support it."
Exactly five minutes later, they weren't standing in line at all. In fact, they were being escorted past the velvet ropes with VIP flair.
Michael looked over at his younger brother in sheer bewilderment as they walked down the entry corridor. "...How did you do that?"
Randy smiled proudly, dusting imaginary lint off his shoulder. "I made friends."
"You bribed someone," Michael countered flatly.
"I prefer the term..." Randy thought for a grand second, gesturing vaguely with his walking stick. "...strategically encouraged."
Jackie pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. "I don't even want to know. Just keep walking before the manager realizes what happened."
The doorman offered a wide, welcoming smile as the group stepped through the final set of doors. Immediately, the music swallowed them whole.
It was a sensory overload of the highest order. Vibrant disco lights swept across the packed, writhing dance floor, painting the crowd in neon pinks, electric blues, and deep purples. High above, a massive, mirrored disco ball spun lazily, scattering hundreds of tiny, dazzling reflections across the ceiling and walls like a galaxy of stars. People were dancing everywhere—not just on the floor, but up on platforms, on the edges of cocktail tables, and right on the staircases. The energy was thick, sweaty, and completely infectious.
Michael stopped just inside the entrance, taking a breath. For one brief, quiet moment, a flash of memory hit him. He remembered the last time he’d stood right here in this very club. He’d been completely exhausted, barely having slept, overwhelmed by the looming pressure of his career, and entirely unsure if he even wanted to come out. Back then, he had barely known the quiet, polite young woman standing beside him.
Now, he glanced toward Elea. As if sensing his gaze, she caught him looking, her metallic silver outfit catching the flash of a strobe light.
"What?" she asked, leaning in slightly over the roar of the music.
He smiled, his eyes softening. "...Nothing."
Elea narrowed her eyes suspiciously, a playful smirk dancing on her lips. "You've got that smile."
"The one that means you're thinking too much."
"I wasn't, really," he insisted, a soft laugh escaping him.
"You absolutely were, Michael Jackson. I know that expression."
He laughed fully now, the sound lost to the bass. "I was just... looking around. Remembering."
Elea’s expression softened instantly, the teasing look fading into something incredibly warm and lovely. She looked out over the crowded dance floor, then back at him. "...Me too."
Neither of them needed to explain a single thing. They were both remembering the exact same night. The quiet sanctuary they had found in each other amidst the madness. The literal beginning.
"Oh no," Matty's voice abruptly interrupted the moment, shattering the romance with pure dramatic flair.
Both of them turned. Matty was already staring toward the center of the dance floor, his eyes lighting up with dangerous levels of inspiration. "Oh *yes*."
Randy followed his gaze, and his grin grew twice as wide. "Oh, absolutely yes. They’re playing the good stuff."
Michael’s internal alarms immediately went off, his posture tensing with concern. "...What? Randy, what are you doing?"
Nobody answered him. Instead, with perfectly synchronized brotherly mischief, Randy grabbed one of Michael's wrists, and Matty grabbed the other.
Michael looked between them, his eyes wide. "...No."
"I'm not dancing yet! I literally just got here!"
"Exactly," Matty shouted over the music, tugging him forward.
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"It means you're fresh, Mike! You’ve got no excuses!" Randy yelled.
Before Michael could formulate another logical argument, he was pulled directly onto the roaring dance floor. Jackie laughed so hard he nearly spilled his cocktail, holding his drink high above the crowd. "Told you! He never stands a chance!"
Tito shook his head in quiet amusement, taking a slow sip. "We've lost him to the wolves."
Marlon was already grooving right beside Randy, throwing his hands in the air. Somehow, within thirty seconds, the sheer gravity of the music absorbed every single one of them. Even LaToya was swaying her hips near the edge, looking effortlessly glamorous.
And eventually, even Michael succumbed. It started with a reluctant, rhythmic clap. Then a small, tentative step. Then another. And soon, the pressure melted away. He was laughing—actually, genuinely laughing. He wasn't performing for a crowd; he wasn't entertaining executives; he wasn't overthinking a single step. He was just a twenty-one-year-old guy having fun on his birthday.
Elea watched him from across the floor, a brilliant, proud smile spreading across her face.
Matty leaned closer to her ear, yelling over the track. "You see that? I told you!"
"You were right," Elea admitted, her eyes never leaving Michael.
"I usually am!" Matty preened.
"He really needed this, Matty."
They both looked toward Michael, who was currently attempting—and hilariously failing—to copy a wildly dramatic, exaggerated disco move that Marlon was doing. Michael ended up nearly tripping over his own feet, laughing so hard he had to lean on Marlon’s shoulder.
Elea laughed, the sound bright and free. "He looks so happy."
"He looks twenty-one," Matty corrected with a warm smile. "As he should."
Two songs later, the drinks had started flowing. Nobody was throwing-up drunk; it was that perfect, golden-hour kind of buzzing where everyone was just delightfully loose, incredibly happy, and completely uninhibited.
The alcohol hit the Jacksons in the most hilarious ways. Jackie somehow became the funniest man alive, cracking jokes and laughing at his own punchlines. Randy somehow became three times louder than he already was, cheering at every song transition. Marlon became even more theatrical, treating the dance floor like a Broadway stage. LaToya was giggling, fanning herself with a cocktail napkin and gossiping with a group of socialites she had just met.
And Matty... Matty was entirely impossible.
He slammed his empty glass onto the bar, a wild glint in his eye. He looked at Elea, then slowly turned his gaze toward one of the small, sturdy cocktail tables sitting just off the edge of the main dance floor. His eyes widened in wicked delight.
"Oh," Elea murmured, recognizing that specific, chaotic look immediately. "No."
Matty turned back to her, a massive grin on his face. "Oh, yes."
"Matty, no. Absolutely not."
He held out his hand dramatically. "Come with me."
"You remember what happened last time we were in New York!"
"I do!" Elea yelled, laughing. "Which is exactly why the answer is absolutely not!"
"You're lying, you want to!"
"You are," Matty smiled, leaning in. "How many drinks have you had, El?"
She looked at him, then glanced at the tempting table, then back at him, her wild side definitely starting to take the wheel. "...Maybe three."
"I KNEW IT!" Matty shrieked in victory.
Before anyone could stage an intervention, Matty grabbed her hand, and the two of them disappeared into the shifting crowd.
Michael, who had been chatting with Tito, blinked and looked around. "...Where'd they go? Where’s Elea?"
Randy, smirk firmly in place, simply pointed upward.
Michael slowly followed his finger, and his jaw dropped. "...Oh no."
Standing right on top of one of the cocktail tables, Matty was already living his absolute best life, dancing like nobody was watching—or rather, like *everyone* was watching and he loved it. And right beside him, Elea climbed up, her liquid metallic silver trousers flashing magnificently under the disco lights. The crowd immediately surrounding the table erupted into loud cheers, loving the energy.
Michael stared in complete, utterly delighted disbelief, taking a step closer. "...Elea!"
She looked down from her high vantage point, grinning from ear to ear, her hair bouncing around her shoulders. "What?"
"You can't dance on tables!" Michael shouted up, though he was smiling so wide his cheeks structural integrity was threatened.
"Apparently..." Elea did a spectacular, unbothered spin on the tabletop, her copper platform boots catching the light. "...I can!"
Matty pointed dramatically toward the ceiling like a proud mentor. "I HAVE TRAINED HER WELL! SHE IS A NATURAL!"
Michael laughed despite himself, cupping his hands around his mouth. "I don't think that's something to be proud of, Matty!"
"It absolutely is!" Matty yelled back.
The music shifted into a heavy, infectious groove, growing even louder. Elea laughed, completely uninhibited, the wildness of the drinks fully kicking in. The reserved, quiet, hyper-professional woman from CBS Records had completely vanished into the New York night. Instead, she danced with total, beautiful abandon, her silver outfit gleaming like molten chrome as she laughed so hard she briefly lost her balance, catching Matty’s arm with a giggle.
Michael couldn't stop staring. He couldn't stop smiling. He had never seen her quite like this—so entirely free, untethered from the world's expectations.
She looked down, catching him staring for what felt like the hundredth time that night. A playful, bold spark lit up her eyes. She pointed a finger directly at him. "You!"
Michael looked to his left, then to his right, playing dumb. "...Me?"
"Yes, you, Mr. Birthday!" she called down, holding out both of her hands dramatically. "Come dance!"
He laughed, moving his shoulders. "I am dancing!"
"That's not dancing!" she teased, leaning over slightly and pointing down at his loafers. "You're counting!"
"I'm keeping time! It's a habit!"
"Exactly! Stop doing it!"
The surrounding crowd chuckled, and Matty gasped with theatrical horror, clapping a hand over his mouth. "Oh my God, El, you're right. He's counting. He’s doing math on the dance floor!"
Randy immediately caught wind of the mutiny and joined in, bounding over. "Michael! No counting! No rehearsing! Dance!"
Michael threw both hands into the air, completely defensive but loving every second of it. "I AM DANCING!"
"You are absolutely not!" Marlon shouted from behind him.
Within seconds, the chaos amplified. Randy and Marlon, completely fueled by the high-energy vibe, climbed right onto the opposite cocktail table, starting an impromptu, incredibly extra dance-off against Matty and Elea.
Jackie looked at the spectacle, horrified but thoroughly amused. "Tito. Look at them. We should stop them before security kicks us out."
Tito took a calm, slow sip of his drink, completely unfazed. "...How?"
Jackie looked at the four of them dancing wildly on tables, looked at the crowd cheering them on, and sighed. "...Fair point."
The four of them—Randy, Marlon, Matty, and Elea—were now ruling the club from above. Michael stood right at the edge of the floor, laughing so hard his stomach physically ached, his eyes locked entirely on Elea.
Seeing him, Elea decided she’d had enough of the distance. She carefully, gracefully climbed back down from the table, her silver bell-bottoms swishing, and walked straight toward him through the parting crowd. She was glowing, flushed from the dancing and the drinks, completely mesmerizing.
She stopped only inches away from him, the heat radiating off her. "You know..."
"What?" Michael asked, his voice dropping, his eyes scanning her face with intense fondness.
"I think..." She stepped even closer, the gold bracelets on her wrist chiming softly as she gently reached out and took both of his hands in hers. "...you're still counting in your head."
He looked down at their joined hands, feeling the warm spark of her touch, and realized she was completely right. He chuckled softly. "I can't help it, El. It's just how my brain works."
"I know," she smiled warmly, her eyes looking up into his with a beautiful, intoxicating sincerity. "So don't let it. Just let go."
Before he could offer another witty retort, she pulled him firmly into the center of the dense crowd, away from the tables, away from the watchful eyes of his brothers.
"No choreography," she commanded playfully, moving her hips to the rhythm, still holding his hands. "No rehearsals. No perfection. Just dance with me."
Michael looked at her. Then he looked around the room. Nobody here expected anything from him tonight. Nobody cared whether every single step was mechanically flawless. Nobody was judging his technique. There were no cameras flashing in his face, no journalists waiting for a quote, no rigorous rehearsals. There was just the music, the heavy bass, and the girl in front of him.
A breathtaking smile broke across his face. Then, for the first time all night, Michael entirely stopped thinking. He stopped counting the beats. He simply danced, letting his body move naturally, fluidly, matching her energy step for step.
Elea burst into a bright, joyful laugh. "There he is."
"The real you," she said softly, her eyes shining.
He smiled, stepping closer to her, his movements entirely effortless now. "...I think I like him better, too."
They laughed together, stepping into a shared rhythm, completely and utterly unaware of the world around them.
Across the room, Randy leaned his elbows against the bar next to Jackie, a knowing, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. Without taking his eyes off the dance floor, he nudged Jackie. "...Hey. Remember the first time they came here?"
Jackie nodded, a nostalgic smile forming. "Yeah. They barely spoke two words to each other. Michael was so shy he looked like he wanted to hide under the table."
Randy watched Michael and Elea laughing, their bodies moving in perfect harmony, completely lost in each other’s space in the middle of the crowded room. Now, they finished each other's jokes. They pulled each other onto dance floors. They stole lingering smiles when they thought no one was looking, and they effortlessly found one another in every single crowded room they entered.
Jackie’s smile widened. "They've come a long way."
"They have," Randy agreed, taking another sip of his drink. He paused, then smirked. "...They're still total idiots, though."
Jackie let out a loud laugh. "Oh, absolutely. No doubt about it."
Neither of his brothers noticed, and frankly, neither did they, that Michael and Elea had unconsciously drifted even closer together as the song slowed into a deeper groove. It wasn't because the music demanded it, and it wasn't because the frantic crowd pushed them into each other's space.
Simply because, somewhere between the streets of New York, the long hours in the studio, the constant phone calls, the quiet lunches, the shared laughter, and the completely ordinary days... being close to one another had entirely stopped feeling like a conscious choice.
It had simply become as natural as breathing.
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
Nearly an hour later, the atmosphere inside Studio 54 had crossed the line from energetic to completely suffocating. The music had somehow grown even louder, the heavy bass rattling the very ice in the glasses, and the club was undeniably hotter.
Michael exhaled a heavy breath, loosening the collar of his shirt as a sheen of perspiration gleamed on his neck. "I need air."
Elea, her cheeks flushed a deep pink from the combination of dancing and the steady flow of cocktails, looked over at him and nodded eagerly. "...Me too."
Without saying another word to the chaotic hurricane of siblings still occupying the VIP area, the two of them quietly slipped through a side exit.
The cool, crisp August night wrapped around them instantly, a blissful shock to the senses. The roaring, overwhelming noise from inside died down, becoming nothing more than a dull, rhythmic thump behind the heavy, closed doors. For the first time all evening, it was beautifully quiet.
New York stretched lazily around them in the late-night hours. The amber glow of streetlights reflected across the sidewalks, and yellow taxis drifted past like glowing beetles on the avenue. Somewhere a few blocks away, the lonely, soulful notes of a street musician's saxophone echoed through the night.
Neither of them spoke for a while. They simply walked, letting the silence ground them. It felt remarkably, beautifully familiar—just like the walk they had taken almost two years earlier.
Eventually, a fond smile broke across Michael's face. "You know..."
"What?" Elea asked, her head tilting back as she looked at him.
"I actually remember this."
She looked over, her platform boots clicking a slow rhythm on the concrete. "Our first walk." A soft, breathless laugh escaped her lips. "You barely said three words to me the entire time."
"I was tired," Michael defended playfully, his eyes crinkling.
"You were completely exhausted."
"I almost didn't come out that night."
"I'm glad I did," he said softly, his voice dropping to a rare, vulnerable register.
She smiled up at him, the metallic silver of her halter top shimmering under the streetlamp. "...Me too."
They turned a familiar corner, and almost immediately, both of them came to a synchronized stop. There it was. The little bookstore, sitting exactly where it had always been, entirely unchanged by the passage of time. The display lights inside still glowed warmly against the night, casting a golden hue over the pavement. And sitting proudly right in the center of the front window was that familiar green cover.
Michael let out a bright, incredulous laugh. "No way."
Elea looked at the display, her eyes wide, before turning her head back to him. "I completely forgot this was here."
Michael narrowed his eyes at her dramatically, a theatrical accusation in his posture. "...You planned this."
She burst out laughing, shaking her head. "I didn't!"
"I promise I didn't, Michael!"
He smiled, stepping a little closer to her. "...That's exactly what someone who planned it would say."
She gently bumped her shoulder against his arm, her bracelets chiming. "You're impossible."
They stood there for another quiet, magical moment, looking through the glass of the bookstore window. They were just staring at the book, but they were really looking at their history. Remembering.
"So much has changed," Michael said, the words slipping out almost absentmindedly as he watched the reflection of the city lights.
Elea looked up at his profile. "It has."
He turned his head to look at her, his expression incredibly sweet. "I actually know you now."
She laughed softly, her voice carrying a trace of the alcohol's happy warmth. "I should hope so by now."
"I mean..." He held her gaze, his voice softening even further. "Back then... you were just the girl from CBS Records."
"And now?" she asked, her breath hitching slightly.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, a devastatingly charming smile spread across his lips. "Now you're El."
The casual sweetness of the nickname made her heart flutter violently against her ribs. She quickly looked away toward the window display before he could notice the sudden intensity in her eyes. A comfortable, thick silence settled between them. The city carried on around them—cars passing, people shouting in the distance, music drifting faintly from nearby restaurants—but none of it seemed to matter.
Elea looked back over at him. A few of his tight curls had escaped from all the frantic dancing inside, resting damply against his forehead. He was still smiling, actively laughing to himself about something ridiculous Randy had done earlier.
Twenty-one. She couldn't believe he was finally twenty-one.
Fueled by the liquid courage of two glasses of champagne and one too many cocktails, she didn't really think. She just stepped closer, closing the distance between them.
Michael noticed the movement and looked down at her, his dark eyes curious. "What?"
She smiled, a little softer, a little more tender than before. "...Happy birthday, Michael."
Before his brain could process the shift in her tone, Elea leaned forward. She went up slightly on her tiptops, and gently, deliberately pressed her lips against his cheek.
It lasted barely a second. Just long enough for the warmth of her lips to register against his skin, smelling of her sweet perfume and the crisp New York air. Then, she stepped back, smoothing down her silver trousers as if absolutely nothing unusual had just occurred.
Michael froze. Completely and utterly.
His brain simply... stopped working. The entire gears of his mind ground to a screeching halt. She had kissed him. Actually kissed him. His cheek felt like it was practically on fire, a radiating warmth spreading rapidly down his neck. He opened his mouth, his chest rising as he tried to form a single coherent sentence.
But before another syllable could leave his paralyzed lips—
Both of them jumped, instantly breaking apart.
Randy's booming voice echoed down the quiet sidewalk. He came jogging toward them around the corner, with Matty strutting close behind him, looking entirely amused. Matty took one single look at the two of them, his sharp eyes darting between Elea's smug expression and Michael's utterly stunned face.
Matty's lips slowly curled into a massive, knowing, wicked smile. "...Were we interrupting something?"
Michael nearly choked on his own breath, his voice hitting a frantic, high note. "No! Absolutely not!"
Elea, completely unfazed thanks to the cocktails, offered a smile that was entirely too innocent to be believable. "We were just looking at Peter Pan."
Matty looked at the bookstore window, then back at Michael's face, staring intently at the unmistakable, deep pink tint rapidly creeping across the singer's cheeks. "...Uh-huh. Right."
Randy folded his arms across his chest, completely missing the romantic tension but highly annoyed by the logistics. "You two disappeared for twenty minutes. The family came looking. And now..." He pointed a commanding finger back down the street toward the neon lights of Studio 54. "...the birthday boy is required back inside."
Michael still hadn't recovered. His hand was still hovering near his face. "I..."
Randy blinked, frowning at his brother's comatose state. "...You okay, Mike?"
Matty answered for him, letting out a delighted chuckle. "Oh. He's gone, Randy."
Michael blinked out of his trance, glaring weakly at him. "What?"
Matty grinned, thoroughly enjoying the psychological damage Elea had inflicted. "Our birthday boy has officially left the building."
Elea couldn't stop laughing, the sound bright and musical in the night air. She stepped up beside Michael and smoothly slipped her arm through his, grounding him. "Come on, Mike. They're waiting for us."
Michael let her lead him back down the sidewalk toward the pulsing lights of the club, his feet moving on autopilot. He was still completely speechless, his mind entirely occupied with trying to process the ghost of her lips on his skin.
Behind them, lagging a few paces back, Matty leaned in closer to Randy's shoulder. Very quietly, a massive smirk on his face, he muttered, "So..."
Randy nodded once, a matching, devious grin spreading across his face. "...She kissed him."
"She absolutely kissed him," Matty whispered back in victory.
Neither of them said another word. They simply exchanged identical, chaotic grins of pure satisfaction and followed the world's two most oblivious almost-couple back into the roaring madness of Studio 54.
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
The cool night air greeted them once again as they stepped back onto the bustling sidewalk, the heavy doors of Studio 54 closing behind them. The club continued to buzz with manic energy, a living thing throbbing against the pavement, but out here, the late-night city breeze was a welcome relief.
Elea adjusted her brilliant metallic top, laughing quietly as she glanced backward. "I think Matty is currently in the middle of trying to teach Marlon a brand-new dance step."
Michael followed her gaze back toward the chaotic entrance, a wide, genuine grin stretching across his face. "Honestly, I think they're both teaching each other."
"I don't think either of them actually knows what they're doing," she teased, her eyes bright with the lingering warmth of the cocktails.
"I don't think they care, either."
She smiled up at him, her silver bell-bottoms swishing as they took a few slow paces down the block. "You know what? I think you're entirely right."
They had barely taken another few steps away from the flashing marquee when a polite, melodic voice called out over the ambient noise of traffic.
Both of them stopped and turned around in unison. A man was standing on the sidewalk just a few feet away, a professional-looking camera hanging securely around his neck and a canvas bag of film resting at his hip. He offered them a warm, friendly smile. "Picture for the night? Souvenir of the city?"
Michael instantly slipped back into his polite, reflexive public persona, smiling apologetically as he raised a hand. "Oh. No, thank you, sir. We're alright."
The photographer nodded easily, completely respectful. "No problem at all, brother." He started to lower the heavy lens, preparing to scan the crowd for his next potential clients.
But then... his eyes drifted.
He took a closer look at Elea, standing there looking absolutely dazzling in her shimmering silver outfit, her arm still casually looped through Michael's. Then his gaze drifted back to Michael, noting the relaxed, easy way the young singer was carrying himself, the guards completely down. A knowing, incredibly fond smile slowly spread across the photographer's face.
He lowered the camera completely. "You two look happy."
An immediate, profound silence fell between them.
Michael blinked, the words hanging in the air. Elea blinked, her breath catching slightly. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them scrambled to correct him. For one very long, suspended second, they simply stood there on the New York sidewalk, staring at the man as the rest of the world seemed to fade into a blur.
The photographer chuckled softly at their sudden deer-in-the-headlights expressions, assuming it was just youthful shyness. "I'll leave you kids to your evening. Enjoy the night." He tipped his hat respectfully, turning on his heel to continue down the sidewalk in search of his next customers.
Michael slowly, cautiously turned his head toward Elea. She was already looking right up at him, her lips parted slightly, her eyes wide.
Neither of them knew what to say. The air between them felt suddenly charged, thick with a sweet, terrifying tension that neither was brave enough to break. But before either of them could attempt a clumsy, rambling explanation—
The heavy doors of Studio 54 burst open, and the rest of the group spilled out onto the sidewalk like a loud, colorful tidal wave.
Randy led the charge, stopping short when he looked between the two of them. He noticed immediately that neither Michael nor Elea had moved an inch; they were practically frozen in place. "...What happened? Why do you both look like you just saw a ghost?"
Michael answered a little too quickly, his voice jumping up an octave. "Nothing."
Elea answered at exactly the same fraction of a second, her tone entirely too breathless. "Nothing."
Randy narrowed his eyes, looking back and forth between them like a detective on a high-profile case. "...Okay, that is highly suspicious. Matty, look at them."
Matty strolled up, adjusting his jacket, his sharp eyes instantly analyzing the scene. He looked from Michael's wildly flushed face... to Elea's sudden intense fascination with the sidewalk... and then his gaze drifted down the block toward the photographer who was just walking away. A brilliant, devious smile slowly bloomed across Matty's face.
"Oh..." Matty purred, his voice dripping with wicked delight. "What did we miss?"
Michael aggressively rubbed the back of his neck, trying to erase the heat warming his skin. "...Nothing, Matty. Seriously."
Right at that exact moment, the photographer happened to glance back over his shoulder one last time. Seeing the larger group gathered around the handsome couple, he raised a hand, pointing toward Michael and Elea with a friendly, encouraging grin. "You two have a wonderful night together!"
Then, he turned the corner and vanished into the city.
Randy frowned, completely bewildered by the stranger's parting words. "...Why did he say 'you two?' We're literally a group of eight people standing right here."
Another heavy silence descended on the pavement.
Matty's smile stretched so wide it looked structural. "Oh... Oh no..." He looked at Elea's bright red cheeks. Then he looked at Michael, who looked like he wanted the sidewalk to open up and swallow him whole. Then, Matty completely lost it. He burst into a dramatic, hysterical laugh. "He thought you two were together!"
Randy's eyes went entirely wide for exactly one silent second as the realization clicked in his brain. Then, he erupted.
It wasn't a polite laugh. It wasn't a quiet, controlled chuckle. It was the absolute, unfiltered kind of younger-brother laugh that made him bend completely double, holding his stomach as he nearly collapsed onto Jackie's shoulder. "I..." Randy gasped for air, his face turning red. "I can't... I literally cannot breathe!" Another booming laugh escaped him. "Oh my God!"
Marlon immediately caught the infectious energy, clapping his hands and laughing loudly right along with him. "No way! Seriously?!"
Jackie, trying to maintain some semblance of oldest-brother dignity, simply pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Tito looked at Michael's impossibly bright crimson face and couldn't help but let out a quiet, amused smile. even LaToya was giggling behind her clutch.
Michael groaned loudly, burying his face in his hands. "It isn't funny, Randy. Stop it."
"It is incredibly, historically funny, Mike!" Marlon managed to choke out between gasps.
Randy finally straightened up just enough to point a dramatic, trembling finger at the two of them. "He took one look at you..." Another fit of giggles interrupted him, making his voice pitchy. "...he took one look and immediately assumed you were a couple! Oh, this is the best birthday gift ever!"
Matty wiped a theatrical tear from the corner of his eye, giving a casual shrug. "I mean... look at them. I completely understand why the man jumped to conclusions. The aesthetic is flawless."
Elea looked down at her towering copper boots, biting her inner cheek as she tried very, *very* hard not to smile. Michael's sharp eyes caught the subtle twitch of her lips.
"...You're laughing too," he accused softly, looking down at her.
She looked back up, her eyes dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief. "I'm trying not to, Michael. I swear I am."
"You are definitely laughing at me."
"I know," she failed completely, a bright, musical laugh finally escaping her.
Michael let out a dramatic, long-suffering sigh, looking up at the New York sky. "I have been completely betrayed by every single person on this eastern seaboard."
Randy slung a heavy, affectionate arm around his brother's shoulders, still grinning like a maniac. "Don't worry about it, birthday boy."
Michael looked at him suspiciously. "Why?"
"Because," Randy smirked, casting a side-eye toward Elea. "This definitely won't be the last time somebody assumes it."
The entire group erupted into another chorus of laughter and teasing comments, the joy of the night carrying them down the sidewalk as they finally began walking back toward the limousine.
Michael looked across the small distance over to Elea. She met his eyes through the crowd. Surrounded by the beautiful, chaotic noise of his family, both of them shared a quiet, private smile.
And neither of them corrected Randy.
And somehow, in the midst of all the bustling movement and loud laughter, absolutely no one noticed... that they were still walking completely shoulder to shoulder. Exactly the way the photographer had first seen them.
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
By the time they finally left Studio 54, stepping back out into the cool air, it was well after midnight. Yet, New York hadn't slowed down in the slightest. If anything, the city seemed even more alive, pulsing with late-night energy under the ambient glow of streetlights and neon signs.
"I'm hungry," Randy announced dramatically, slinging an arm over Marlon's shoulder as if he were structurally collapsing from starvation.
Marlon didn't skip a beat, immediately pointing a finger toward a tiny, unassuming pizza shop down the block, its front window glowing warmly beneath a flickering neon sign. "Pizza. Right there. Let's go."
Michael let out a bright laugh, shaking his head. "We literally just had dinner before the club."
"Mike, that was hours ago," Randy countered, horrified by his brother's lack of an appetite.
"It was exactly a few hours ago!"
"Exactly!" Marlon grinned. "A few in New York time is basically a whole day. I'm starving."
Matty nodded in complete, unwavering agreement, his platform boots clicking as he stepped up beside them. "I support this decision wholeheartedly. Pizza is a midnight requirement."
Jackie sighed, though a smile cracked on his face. "Of course you do, Matty. Of course you do."
Twenty minutes later, the entire group was crowded into the tiny pizza shop, wedged happily between two older brick buildings. The aesthetic was pure, unpretentious New York comfort: paper plates stacked high, grease-stained napkins scattered across the laminate tables, and the heavy, intoxicating smell of fresh, bubbling cheese and marinara filling the entire room.
Randy loudly insisted to anyone who would listen that New York pizza tasted infinitely better than anything in Los Angeles. Marlon aggressively argued that he needed "just one more slice" to sustain himself, and Matty somehow magically ended up with four slices on his plate. Michael had completely lost count of who ate what, entirely content to just sit back, eat his slice, and absorb the easy warmth of the room.
By the time they finally walked back toward the hotel, everyone was laughing, talking loudly over one another, and eagerly reliving the best moments of the night.
When they finally reached the hotel lobby, it was nearly two in the morning. The heavy exhaustion of the long day and night finally began to settle over them. One by one, the group started drifting toward the elevators, their voices dropping to sleepy murmurs.
Jackie let out a massive yawn, rubbing his eyes. "Alright, I'm going to bed before I fall asleep standing up."
"I'm right behind you," Tito agreed, adjusting his jacket.
Randy pointed a warning finger at Michael as the elevator doors pulled open. "Don't you dare try to disappear on us tomorrow, Mike. We have plans."
Michael smiled softly. "I'll try."
"No," Randy grinned, stepping into the elevator. "You won't. We'll come drag you out."
Everyone laughed, waving their goodnights. Soon enough, the quiet hotel hallway grew completely still. Heavy doors clicked closed one after another down the corridor, silencing the last echoes of the Jackson family chaos until only two people remained standing in the softly lit hallway.
Michael looked over. Elea was still standing there beside him. Her posture was slightly nervous, and she was holding a neatly wrapped, flat box securely against her chest, her fingers lightly digging into the edges.
He offered her a warm, gentle smile. "...Everything okay, El?"
She looked down at the package in her arms, then back up at him, a sudden, delicate flush warming her cheeks. "I almost forgot."
He tilted his head curiously, his tight curls shifting over his forehead. "What is it?"
She smiled nervously, stepping a fraction closer. "...Your birthday present."
Michael's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "El... you didn't have to get me anything. Tonight was already more than enough."
"I know," she murmured, her voice incredibly sweet as she held out the package toward him. "But I wanted to. Really."
He accepted it carefully, his hands brushing against hers. Some instinct deep down, even before he broke the seal, told him that this wasn't just something she had simply walked into a department store and bought off a shelf.
He slowly untied the neat ribbon, letting it fall away. He folded back the crisp wrapping paper, then carefully lifted the lid of the box.
Michael froze. Completely.
Inside, resting beautifully on top of pristine white tissue paper, was a stunning, custom-made garment, it was a magnificent, shimmering gray shirt. Hundreds upon thousands of tiny, immaculate rhinestones covered the front panel, reflecting the warm overhead hallway lights like a dense, dazzling field of scattered stars. Resting neatly beside the shirt was a matching pair of dark socks, equally encrusted with rows of gleaming crystals.
Every single crystal had been meticulously sewn into place by hand. Every cuff, every line, every precise detail showed an extraordinary level of dedication.
Michael reached out almost hesitantly, as if afraid he might disrupt the magic of it. His fingertips brushed across the glittering, textured fabric, feeling the weight of the stones.
"...You..." His voice barely existed, a breathless, stunned whisper floating in the quiet hallway. "...You made this?"
Elea nodded shyly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "It took me a little while."
"A little while?" Michael repeated, his eyes never leaving the sparkling shirt.
She laughed softly, a bit embarrassed. "Okay... a lot of while. A lot of late nights."
He continued staring down into the box, running his fingers carefully across the sparkling panel. As he looked closer, he noticed the tiny, subtle variations in the placement of the crystals. They weren't flawless machine-made lines; they were beautifully organic. They were proof. Proof that human hands had poured hours into creating it. That *her* hands had made it just for him.
"...Every single crystal?" he asked, looking up, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion.
She nodded again, her eyes searching his face. "Every single one."
A profound, heavy silence filled the hallway. Michael looked at her, his throat catching. He truly didn't know what to say. Nobody... nobody had ever made him something quite like this before. Not because a stylist ordered it, not because a stage performance required it, and not because it was expected of them. Simply because they wanted to. Because she wanted to make something beautiful for him.
His chest tightened with an intense, overwhelming warmth. "...El..." He let out a quiet, breathless laugh, looking down and shaking his head. "I don't... I don't even know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything, Michael."
"No," she smiled warmly, a beautiful, liquid sincerity in her eyes as she reached out to lightly touch his arm. "You really don't."
He looked back down at the shirt, entirely captivated. As he gently lifted a section of the fabric, something else caught his eye. Tucked carefully beneath the folded sleeve was a small, handwritten note. He picked it up, unfolding the paper gently.
*I hope when you wear this... you remember that someone believes in you more than you'll probably ever know.*
Michael read the words once. Then he read them a second time. Then a third, his vision blurring ever so slightly around the edges as the sentiment hit him straight in the heart. He folded the note back up with extreme care, placing it safely back into the box like a precious artifact.
Then he looked at her. For a long, suspended moment, neither of them spoke a single word. The entire city outside seemed to fade into absolute nothingness.
Finally, Michael reached out and took both of her hands, holding them gently, reverently, between his own. "...Thank you." The words felt entirely too small, too completely inadequate for a gift that clearly held so much of her time, her thoughts, and her heart.
He stepped a little closer, his gaze locked intensely onto hers. Then, very softly, he leaned forward.
He pressed a gentle, lingering kiss right against her cheek. It lasted only a second—shy, hesitant, and entirely tender—but the warmth of it radiated straight through her.
When he pulled back, a brilliant, determined smile lit up his face. "I know exactly when I'm wearing this."
Elea looked up at him, her heart hammering. "You do?"
He nodded firmly, his eyes shining. "Oh, yeah. There isn't another outfit in the world I'd rather wear."
She smiled, her cheeks pink. "You don't have to pressure yourself to wear it on stage, Mike. It can just be for you."
"I know," he said, looking down at the shimmering rhinestones once more before meeting her eyes with absolute certainty. "But I want to."
Before either of them could say another word, the absolute peace of the moment was violently shattered.
Randy's unmistakable, booming voice echoed down the corridor. Michael and Elea jumped apart so quickly it was almost comical, their hands instantly breaking contact.
Randy came rounding the corner, with Matty strolling casually beside him. Both of them stopped dead in their tracks. Randy looked at Michael's guilty face, then down at the flat gift box, then at Elea, then back to Michael.
Matty slowly crossed his arms over his chest, a massive, knowing smirk taking over his features. "...Were we interrupting something important?"
Michael answered far too quickly, his defensive reflexes kicking in. "No! No, we were just—"
Randy stepped closer, his eyes catching the light bouncing off the box. He gasped softly. "...Whoa. What is that?"
Elea laughed nervously, rubbing the back of her neck. "It's... just his birthday present."
Randy carefully reached into the box, lifting one side of the sleeve to let the rhinestones catch the hallway light. He stared at the hand-sewn precision. "...You *made* this, El?"
She nodded. "I wanted him to have something completely one of a kind."
Michael looked down at the garment, his brilliant, proud smile returning in full force. "It is," he said softly. He took the box back from Randy, folding the lid closed almost protectively against his chest. "As a matter of fact..." He looked directly at Elea, his eyes dancing with excitement, before glancing at Randy. "I'm going to wear this shirt and these socks for my very first television performance for *Off the Wall*."
Elea blinked, her jaw dropping slightly. "Really? Michael, you don't have to—"
He smiled, a deep, unshakeable certainty in his voice. "There wasn't ever another choice. It's perfect."
Neither of them noticed, in that sweet moment, that Matty was quietly looking over at Randy, and Randy was quietly looking back. Both brothers exchanged a rare, silent, and incredibly soft smile to themselves.
Because in all their years of growing up together, neither of them had ever seen Michael treasure a gift... quite like this one.
And neither of them, in their wildest dreams, could have ever imagined... that in only a few short weeks, this beautiful, hand-crafted birthday gift... would become the absolute center of the most painful, heartbreaking misunderstanding either of them had ever experienced.
₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁₊ ⊹✮.*🪩:.𖥔 ݁
