btw if u write michael with huge age gaps and have reader like 18 years old and him at 50, and include weird daddy kinks, and make y/n deliberately really childish (doesn’t know how to kiss??) and make y/n call him “dada” and him call her “little girl” - then you’re a pedo
girl u insulting me isnt gonna help that hes a pdf or a groomer either way he did it and yall just keep writing for him bc hes cute, talented bro wtf yall dragging more diana ross than mj
je vais continuer à insulter ta grosse daronne la folle et tu vas rien faire petite victime qui sait que ouvrir sa gorge derrière l’anonymat 😂🫵🏼 nous on parle par ce que on a les preuves qu’il est innocent par contre toi t’es même pas capable de nous sortir un truc vieille salope (j’espère que tu vas bien traduire ce message)
◟miyanda 'mi.ne' isiaka mabiala … studio lp discography, overview.
⋆ৡ ⋆˚࿔ WATASHINONAMAEHAMAIENIDESU! ( 1988 / age 16 / jazz fusion, experimental, punk rock, alt metal )
01, b i g f e e l i n g s. 02, lower one's eyes. 03, (looping the room). 04, koi geba. 05, scars of a lighthouse. 06, abnormality, dancing girl. 07, PAiNT iT BLACK. 08, chuchu lovely munimuni muramura purinpurin boron nururu rerorero. 09, reason LIVING. 10, akatsuki.
𝜗౿ supporting tour... mi.ne: live! / 1988.
ৡ ⋆˚࿔ WHOWHOWHO! ( 1990 / age 17 / experimental, industrial, j-pop, rock )
01, reckless battery burns. 02, disease. 03, christ. 04, delirium. 05, doncamatic. 06, patchwerk. 07, t r a n s p a r e n t s o u l. 08, esuenuesunijyuyoji (sns24ji). 09, benomu (venom). 10, naive. 11, changE. 12, hyperventilation.
𝜗౿ supporting tour... none.
ৡ ⋆˚࿔ IFORGOTWHATIWASGONNASAY! ( 1994 / age 21 / electronic, rock, art punk, trip hop )
01, im back. (intro). 02, oh my god. 03, desert theater. 04, dignity. 05, usseewa. 06, dare dare dare. 07, i need u back. 08, some type of skin (feat. akina nakamori). 09, shadow of a man. 10, flight of the crows. 11, debt collector. 12, every planet we reach is dead. 13, risk, risk, risk!. 14, unexplainable. 15, hana musou (peerless flowers).
𝜗౿ supporting tour... you may hear new music on this world tour / 1995-1996.
ৡ ⋆˚࿔ MAKI ASAKAWA IS MY JANIS JOPLIN! ( 1999 / age 26 / synth-pop, psychedelia, funk, neo-soul )
01, independant girls & nasty evil gays. 02, let it happen. 03, tranz. 04, dead to me. 05, the less i know the better. 06, lights down low. 07, humility. 08, aries. 09, home again. 10, andromeda. 11, after the storm (feat. BUSK & bootsy collins). 12, dark red. 13, strobelite. 14, baby queen. 15, souk eye.
𝜗౿ supporting tour... none.
ৡ ⋆˚࿔ MIYANDA! ( 2001 / age 28 / alt r&b, avant-garde, neo-soul, alt pop )
01, holy mystery. 02, symptom of life. 03, she's my collar. 04, one step closer. 05, good good. 06, eden. 07, edward scissorhands. 08, wait a minute!. 09, female energy, pt 2. 10, your power. 11, lilith. 12, i wish you roses.
𝜗౿ supporting tour... miyanda world tour / 2002-2004.
ৡ ⋆˚࿔ ICHIBAN! ( 2005 / age 32 / electropop, indie, math rock, edm )
01, essa hoisa (feat. nanase aikawa). 02, toryanse (feat. morning musume). 03, odo. 04, I I I (feat. ayumi hamasaki). 05, IRIS OUT. 06, senbonzakura. 07, one heart. 08, kowaki no ameku. 09, KING. 10, itsuka no tegami. 11, shizumerumachi. 12, ice melt. 13, zutto soba ni. 14, kioku (feat. utada).
𝜗౿ supporting tour... mi.ne: live at the hamamatsu arena! / 2006.
01, saturn. 02, CHIHIRO. 03, wildflower. 04, heartbeat. 05, cross my heart. 06, what was i made for?. 07, the lost chord. 08, glimpse of us. 09, skinny. 10, skyfall. 11, cry. 12, young and beautiful. 13, as the world caves in. 14, sienna. 15, drag me under. 16, letter to my 16 year old self.
𝜗౿ supporting tour... say your goodbyes tour / 2010-2012. mi.ne: meet hellion! / 2014.
ৡ ⋆˚࿔ RABURI MIYANDASAN! ( 2016 / age 43 / math rock, djent, gothic metal, grunge )
01, gravity. 02, yukikosan. 03, no temple. 04, kaisarion. 05, lachryma. 06, de profundis borealis. 07, darkness at the heart of my love. 08, circle with me. 09, for they know not what they do.
ৡ ⋆˚࿔ NIKU NO AJI! ( 2020 / age 47 / vocaloid, electronica, j-pop, yami-kawaii )
01, aishiteitanoni. 02, sono manma sono manma sono manma zutto sono manma (feat. qixuan). 03, rolling girl. 04, menheramen. 05, binomi. 06, rakuraku anrakushi. 07, dendenshindenzu. 08, ii ko to youko. 09, rainborn menoko (feat. hatsune miku).
𝜗౿ supporting tour... none.
𑣲⋆（ 𝕯𝙴𝙼𝙴𝚃𝚁𝙸𝚄𝚂 ） tumblr limits how many visuals i can post so i've decided to do it by types of releases. hope you enjoyed! :D
𝜗𝜚 rammstein!reader grieves michael's passing! (cw: death, depression & grief)
inspired by look to the dawn by yoe mase in honor of michael jackson.
you remember your mouth being open. your room was loud, full of noise, but no sound came out of your mouth. to be honest, your grief made it hard to tell if you were screaming or crying. you didn’t sleep…no. you couldn’t sleep. you barely ate. your best friend was dead, & nothing else would stay in your head for long. your mind kept replaying that moment like a broken record worn by decades of use. the phone on your nightstand wasn’t helping either. sometimes you’d be deep in thought, & there it was again. fritz’s devastated voice crackling through with the worst news you’d heard.
‘what..?’
fritz’s voice was quiet. ‘they just confirmed it. it’s everywhere.’
your mind was spinning. michael. & not just any michael. michael jackson. the michael jackson you’d spoken to just hours prior was dead. gone. gone, & he wasn’t coming back.
‘you’re lying.’
fritz sighed. ‘i know—’
‘friedrich. don’t lie to me.’ you begged.
silence came from the other end. a laugh escaped your throat so violently you thought you’d choke.
‘it’s on the news.’
your face tensed. you fumbled around for the tv remote &, when you found it, turned the tv on. sure enough, it was everywhere. live coverage. helicopters surrounding some california hospital. reporters & anchors reciting some rehearsed headline they clearly weren’t expecting, as if repeating it would prove itself wrong.
MICHAEL JACKSON, THE KING OF POP, DIES AGED 50
MICHAEL JACKSON DIES AT AGE 50
MICHAEL JACKSON DEAD
the headlines amalgamated together into one cruel & fucked up frankenstein-ish monster. michael. michael jackson. king of pop. dead. dies. died. 50. 50. michael jackson dies at age 50.
you were on the brink of hyperventilating at that point, you remember. you hung up the phone & threw it across the cold & hard wooden floor. switching every news channel expecting. hoping. praying that you’d find some niche place that’d have proof he was still here.
there wasn’t.
you didn’t step one foot outside your room since that day. not to see the rest of the band. not to see his family & give your condolences. not even for the damn funeral they broadcast internationally to the tune of millions of people. it got messy. cans of beer were strewn around. it smelled weird in there. it was dark too.
a knock on your door interrupted your mournful walk down memory lane. then it creaked open. it was fritz.
‘alter..! did you die & let your body rot in here? it smells like shit!’
okay, not the greatest of jokes to make at this time. you didn’t say anything. you were lying on the far side of the bed & your back was turned. fritz rolled his eyes & sighed.
‘i know this is…well, hard. but you need to get out of there.’
nothing.
‘hey, i’m talking to you..!’
still nothing.
fritz was getting annoyed by your apathy. he got ready to yank you off the bed.
‘look, if you’re not gonna listen—’
‘i can’t cry.’
fritz’s brows furrowed & stopped his movements.
‘what?’
your voice was raspy & tired. ‘i can’t cry. our best friend is in the ground & i can’t cry.’
fritz’s face morphed into one of sadness. michael had affected you all in some way, but not as significantly as you. you were—as karl liked to put it—two sides of the same coin. ‘hey,’ he sat beside you & shook your frame. ‘doesn’t mean you aren’t sad about it.’
you got angry at that. you even spoke through your teeth. ‘why didn’t he say anything?’
fritz shut his eyes tightly.
‘all that pain & all that sadness people forced out of him. he didn’t say anything. not even on the phone.’ your voice cracked. ‘i hate him. ihatehimihatehimihatehim. always had to make it hard.’
fritz rubbed your shoulder.
‘he could’ve just said something.’
fritz looked at the ceiling, deep in thought. if he were to say anything afterwards, he was actually trying to stop his tears from flowing.
‘he spoke to me once, you know.’ he said.
your ears perked up. this was news to you. fritz & michael were never particularly that close.
‘it was during filming for that comeback concert we did back then. said he was jealous of you.’
you raised yourself out of the dark cave your covers provided.
‘jealous of your freedom. jealous you could be wild & he was stuck in some big, golden cage.’ he let out a small chuckle. ‘he said people were trying to tell him he was free. but you & i know better than anybody else that asking for freedom doesn’t make it happen.’
you were silent. you thought michael hated you. all this while, he was envious. two birds stuck in a golden jail. & yet only one made it out. you. he never made it out. people slicing pieced of him for themselves, eating their fill & leaving him as is until one day he left & there was nothing left to give.
your body shuddered. & then, a tear fell down. then another. & the flood came from your eyes & you wept like a baby. for michael & for the freedom he never got to find. feeling your hurt, fritz came close & hugged you tightly. your tears said one thing only: now you can do whatever you please mike. now go enjoy yourself to your heart's content.
at least he was free now. even if he wasn’t there to enjoy it with you.
𑣲⋆（ 𝕯𝙴𝙼𝙴𝚃𝚁𝙸𝚄𝚂 ） happy day guys. i hope you all got tissues & ice cream. sending virtual hugs your way :)
◟c'est ça, monde arabe … sapeur!michael jackson, headcanons.
0.7k words of . . . ) straight foolishness. crackfic. average congolese experience. really bad google translate lingala (blame my mother & her colonized mind not me 😭).
✶﹔ bismillah, waku mani wa him, salaam-alaikum ...
⋆.˚ sapeur!michael jackson, who is affectionately nicknamed mukalenga wa kasongo by his friends & the children in his neighbourhood. the greatest entertainer of all time by day & proud member of the société des ambianceurs et personnes élégantes (la s.a.p.e) by night, he navigates the seven seas of high fashion & prosperity with playful ease. his life's motto? you either own it or you don't. so own it.
⋆.˚ sapeur!michael jackson, whose wardrobe looks like a time machine threw up, consisting of a multicolored vomit in the form of his cherished three-piece suits (tailored, of course), tens of pairs of those fuckass aviators he lovesssss wearing, quality walking canes & branded socks that clash with his premium leather oxfords. did i also mention he owns an abacost, as well as a classic leopard-skin mobutu hat? & don't ask about the oddly placed cowboy boots staring from the dark corner of the closet. or the floral printed umbrella leaning by his bedpost.
⋆.˚ sapeur!michael jackson, who wears flashy, oriental inspired accessories. the man did a whole photoshoot whilst dressed as a maharaja. a maharaja. headdress, rows of beads circling his neck & dressed in white. he went to a wedding, dressed to the nines like that once. you know that one song, héros national by koffi olomide? yeah, well, he’s that song in human form. literally dressing the same way his waist was moving on the dance floor, outshining the ngayas (those who lack knowledge), the nbéndés (the ignorant), & the tindongos (those who speak without purpose) as he shouted along to koffi olomide's selfie (♪ ekoti te, ekoti te ♪) & classic soukous songs, posing for the camera as he struts his stuff.
⋆.˚ sapeur!michael jackson, whose sapologue tendancies bleed into his stage fashion, standing against the test of time. silver lined military jackets. that golden leotard. the iconic, glittering one-handed glove &—is that a wwe championship belt?? & leopard print?! WITH A SLICKBACK?? oh my god this man just be wearing EVERYTHING.
⋆.˚ sapeur!michael jackson, who settles for nothing below high-luxury brands. j.m weston shoes, gucci socks, giorgio armani brooches, yves saint-laurent cologne, etc. as innovative as he is high maintenance, he flaunts his wealth like two wings on the back of a free flying dove. they call it trashy. he calls it freedom.
⋆.˚ sapeur!michael jackson, who refuses to learn color theory or pattern combinations, even if it would save his life one day. black & white houndstooth socks & a gingham plaid kilt. sparkling black suit pants on top of leopard print. graphic printed jorts (only the creator god knows what the hell the print is) & a pith hat (don't ask where he found it). military-style camo print mixed with stripes. leather & ruffles. complete & incomplete. does it look good? hell no. does he make it work? somehow.
⋆.˚ sapeur!michael jackson, who poses for a camera that's nowhere to be found & walks like the whole world's his catwalk. they call it la diattance. he's laughing as he joyfully wonders out loud how wonderful of a day it is. he slides, careful not to scuff his versace loafers whose tips slightly spiral up like a damn elf, looking up at the sun peeking behind his wide-brimmed hat & dior shades as he holds a pipe in his right hand. his outfit, however, is the loudest. his royal purple slacks. the tacky prada belt, decorated with ties of many colors tied around it. the bubblegum pink blouse. a black waistcoat. & the tie showing some renaissance painting (is that michaelangelo nigga???) that's probably the most daring piece of the amalgamation he calls an outfit.
⋆.˚ sapeur!michael jackson, who for all his kitsch taste in clothing, is actually a light-hearted man. visiting sick children in hospitals & around his neighbourhood, performing makeshift danses des griffes (label dances) with exaggerating gestures & positioned feet as he shows off his prized two-piece purple zoot suit, the world falling in love with his chaotic fashion sense.
⋆.˚ sapeur!michael jackson, who's dandy eccentricity wins the hearts of millions around the world, fullfilling the 2 greatest commandment of sapologie written: to convert those who are hostile to la sape & practice it in earth as he shall in heaven with those he loves. as he says: 'bato na bomoi ekotika yo. kasi bilamba ekozala ntango nyonso na mokɔngɔ na yo.' (the living will leave you. but clothes will always have your back) <3
𑣲⋆（ 𝕯𝙴𝙼𝙴𝚃𝚁𝙸𝚄𝚂 ） i had WAYYYY too much fun with this. i did hear that the jacksons supposedly have nigerian ancestry, but everything about this man's fashion sense just SCREAMED brazzaville to me 😭. hope you enjoyed! feedback is always appreciated :D
tags: @blkemblem @mizermouse @polyqueen101
I just read somewhere that "Not x. Not x. But x." in fanfics is perceived by many people as AI 😭 I love writing those so much, I also love writing with em dashes, I've been a fanfic reader for over half my life, so naturally when I started writing fics, my writing style was influenced by the fanfics I read and I adopted a lot of it from fanfics. But it's crazy that that writing style is now seen as written by AI. 😭
𝜗𝜚 rammstein!reader lulls michael to sleep with their voice! (cw: familial dysfunction)
inspired by alle tage ist kein sonntag by till lindemann & david garrett
one thing michael liked to do more than perform was call and ask you to sing him to sleep. ‘pleaseeeeee…’ he’d beg. never mind your sleeplessness because you’d give in regardless if you were tired or not.
“i can’t sleep.”
michael could practically hear your eyes rolling at the back of your head as he told you the reason he called you at what seemed to be a soul-sucking, ungodly hour of the black night.
“…what does that have to do with me?”
silence came from the other line. michael was on tour, and touring meant jet lag, screaming, and overstimulation beyond human comprehension. you sighed.
“michael.”
“yeah?”
“it’s 3 in the fucking morning.” you swore.
“i know.”
“you’re halfway around the world.”
“i know.”
“i got work in the morning.”
“i knowwww.”
“i’m not sure you doooooo.” you mocked.
you could almost hear the insomnolent desperation in his voice as he whined.
“you ever try anything other than blowing up my phone in early morning?”
“you’re the only one who’s actually done something that works.” he admitted. a weird sense of sleepy pride swelled up in your chest, but you were half dozing off at this point to care or comment on it. this conversation wasn’t gonna go anywhere, was it?
“pretty pleaseeeee?”
you groaned. “fine.”
scheiße.
“yayyy!” michael exclaimed.
yeah, i bet you are.
you cleared your throat as you began to sing.
Alle Tage ist kein Sonntag, alle Tage gibt’s kein Wein
it was an old folk song you’d hear on your neighbour’s busted radio. oftentimes when you’d go to their house after a fight with your parent, they’d play it, swaying their head as carl ferdinands’ voice filled your ears.
Aber du sollst alle Tage, recht lieb zu mir sein
michael felt his eyes get heavy and smiled as you continued to sing.
Und wenn ich einst tot bin, sollst du denken an mich
you were beginning to close your eyes as well, but fought off slumber.
Auch am Abend eh du einschläfst, aber weinen sollst du nicht
michael could hear the rasp of your deep voice as you crooned. and slowly…
Auch am Abend, eh du einschläfst
…but surely…
Aber weinen sollst du nicht
…he fell asleep.
you let out the last note of the song before calling out michael’s name.
“…michael?”
no response. nothing but the soft snores an insomniac. you smiled and chuckled. then in a drawn out, exhausted voice, you said three words.
“i love youuuu.” you confessed, drawing out the you.
this will sound crazy but sometimes i genuinely feel like some michael fans view this man as white. it’s already annoying enough because a lot of people are still ignorant about his vitiligo, thinking michael could control it, which is insensitive in itself. the reason why i believe some michael fans view him as white is through some fan art, the way he’s written in some fanfic, and overall perceived in and by the media. i know what i am saying is not anything new, but it is bothering me, while having the knowledge that michael, when alive, was always proud to be a black man, and had to basically force people to see that. you’re contributing to a harmful narrative if you do view michael as a white man, in any way, shape, or form, that’s an undeniable fact. i could go on about why i feel this way and how i do think that even some of his non-black fans are a contributor to why, not just press, weirdly enough, if that makes sense, even a little. because my conversation on how some non-black fanfic writers exclude black readers when it comes to making michael x reader fics ties into this a bit. also, going back to fan art, and how some non-black artists draw michael to have skin as pale as an actual white man, which is, problematic in itself. i am not even trying to offend anyone, it’s just something that’s been on my mind for a while.
LIEBE IST FÜR ALLE DA, NICHT FÜR MICH! — pyromaniac!rammstein!reader, frontman of neue deutsche härte band LIFAD, that forges an unlikely friendship with the king of pop, michael jackson, and their stories throughout the years.
michael jackson x rammstein!gn!reader 𑣲 ← to 𝑚asterlist
synopsis watch & read as the lives of industrial LIFAD and innovator michael jackson change when they meet.
author's note due to the popularity of my last 2 rammstein!reader fics i've decided to make this an actual universe 😭 there's just so much for me to imagine & work with.
includes google translate german. period-typical bigotry. xenophobia. anti-immigrant/anti-black sentiment. bullying. mild to heavy mentions of self-harm. sexual content. pyromania. explicit language. tabloids being tabloids. troubled childhoods. alcoholism. mentions of ptsd. some suggestiveness. michael's in his sassy era. more 2 be added!
𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓄧 ꒷ GEN. OVERVIEW .ᐟ
— general headcanons. — band side characters concepts.
𓂃 ࣪˖ 𓄧 ꒷ SIDE STORIES .ᐟ
𝜗౿ ich hab keine lust... full fics (1.5k+ words)
⋆ৡ ⋆˚࿔ hier kommt die sonne! (3.2k words)
— in which the king of pop clashes with a screaming pyromaniac at the 1988 grammys.
⋆ৡ ⋆˚࿔ nennt mich den sandmann! (7.2k words)
— in which you and the king of pop find out you have more in common than you'd like to admit. hkds, part II.
⋆ৡ ⋆˚࿔ konnen herzen sprechen! (?k words)
— in which you shock michael with just how committed & dedicated you are to your craft. hkds, final part.
⋆ৡ ⋆˚࿔ hab keinen nabel auf dem bauch! (?k words)
— in which the past comes back to haunt you.
𝜗౿ meine haut gehört den herren... drabbles (-1k words)
✮ rammstein!reader singing michael to sleep
✮ rammstein!reader grieves michael
imagine a yt woman having you in such a chokehold that you resort to making a whole ass hate page, be borderline transphobic, and even go as far as inviting her to a groupchat to make fun of her.
sounds stupid, right? bc that's what some of you look like when y'all be talking abt maddie. STUPID 😑
yall like calling yourselves woke knowing DAMN WELL you'd fuck other ppl in the ass raw with no lube just for a nigga that dont know you (or better yet, a DEAD one) to look at you ONCE.
a wise enby (aka me fn) once said: if you're gonna hate, hate within reason AND in truth. maddie's a zionist. that is COMMON KNOWLEDGE. but that's not what we're going after, isn't it? you know good and hell well why.
it's because you're not the one who got picked. because the man who you see as a status symbol and your dead idol, and not a regular ass nigga, didn't pick you, but another woman.
at what point do you look yourself in the mirror and notice your internalized misogyny? at WHAT point do you stop talking and realize that you sound like a man who's been brainrotted by manosphere content? at what point do you read what you type and realize that you sound like jk fucking rowling? we're all crying 'fuck the system!' and we wishing for the system to fuck us because we know it'll feel good -_- some of you are out here crying misogyny meanwhile sucking oppression & patriarchy dick because you think it'll make you look cute. it doesn't.
you look like a desperate piece of shit. nobody's keke-ing over here.
you don't have to like maddie. you can call out the bullshit. but jesus fucking christ yall could be out there doing something productive like organizing for palestine or smth like that but noooooo all that anger is going towards maddie and by extension, jafaar, for being taken.
bitches suck. like, REALLY suck. if the shoe fits perfectly i got a favor to ask you and that is to TAKE THAT SHIT OFF.
the mj fandom is a case study on how desirability and misogyny can create an environment in which whoever is in proximity to the subject of admiration is a victim of intersectional bigotry.
would yall be willing to listen? (i saw @rlm-11 ‘s post and wanted to add some food for thought)
Imagine !Rammsteinreader writing and releasing Amerika. (especially the music video) maby because the band was tired of how they were treated and decided to write it .
I forgot they also mentioned Micky mouse and it reminded me Michael his love for Disney.
omfg or LIFAD & michael fooling around on set while shooting the keine lust mv with the fat suits 😭 i know it was HAWTTTTT beneath them bitches
𝓼𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚜𝚒𝚜 ⭑ almost 4 years have passed since your band's debut at the Grammys, and the press has always taken a chance to take a dig at you ever since the infamous barbara walters interview. but when an attempted conversation with michael jackson leads to hurt feelings, the both of you are forced to look at each other in a different light. or, in which you and the king of pop find out you have more in common than you'd like to admit. 7.2k words ( part i here!
𝓰𝚎𝚗𝚛𝚎 ⭑ angst angst ANGST to comfort. some fluff if you squint hard enough.
𝓬𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 ⭑ pyromaniac!reader. reader is a troubled kid. mentions of child abuse, political unrest & xenophobia. black-coded!descriptions (reader is called 'dirty', implied to be an immigrant). timeline innaccuracies (just pls pretend he was in schwerin in october '92). michael is lowkey jealous of you. — inspo tracks: mein herz brennt (piano version) by rammstein 𓂅 diamant by rammstein
𝒕𝚊𝚐𝚜 ⭑ @softformj @nata-de-coconuts
When the band first came crashing the pop music party of the 80s with your industrial debut project, it had opened doors you didn't even know existed for the six of you. Of course, you knew it'd be hard. You'd have to deal with sleazy record labels who wanted to water you down, bad faith critics who looked into your songs too deeply and parents condemning your antics, but it was all worth to see the millions of people who saw past your abnormal behavior and infernal addiction and saw the true stars you all were. But the day of that interview in '88 changed something. Both in you and the public's perception of LIFAD. Nobody saw the band as its own entity with interests and unique ways of doing art. They all started to see you as a laughing stock, a punching bag for artists as to what not to do. The five got a jab here and there. But you? Oh, you got it worse than any of them.
It started off tamely at first. A headline here, a badly edited photo there. But what initially began as friendly fire with you clapping back with satirical statements and provocative poses amalgamated into something meaner. Brutal. Words started cutting deeper than usual. Journalists went out of their way to find you in public and embarrass you in private behind their writing. The public shamed you and pointed their fingers as they mocked your tendencies. All of a sudden everybody started turning up their noses and nobody wanted anything to do with you.
And it was all thanks to Michael fucking Jackson.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
"Mein Gott¹, they're really going in on you." Karl exclaimed. Your house smelled faintly of Radler and the carbonated scent of beer already going flat and warm after hours of being untouched. You had just finished recording the last song on your upcoming second studio album and you were all exhausted. Karl's words made you close your eyes in an effort to mentally hit the pause button and prepared yourself for the circus that was gossip and outlandish rumors.
"What is it this time?" You asked, bored out of your mind. Karl handed you the newspaper. Big, bolded letters caught your attention as you read the header out loud.
The caption was neatly placed over a photo of you while on your supporting tour. You wore a wide smile with your tongue out (oh come on! You didn't even smile that wide!), your eyes wide with makeshift insanity as fire shone brightly behind you. The fire retardant on your face and body defined the muscles under your skin, highlighting the scars on your chest and shoulders. And did they lighten your skin? You let out a bitter laugh. It's been 4 years. 4 years since you found out what most of the music industry thought of you. And apparently the world wouldn't let you hear the end of it. The room was uncomfortably silent. Fritz was the first to speak, although even he couldn't seem to find the proper words to describe the low-blow.
"Fuckkkkkkk." he slurred.
Your eye twitched. Then in an action of impulse, you ripped up the paper to pieces and threw them in the nearby fireplace, your eyes reflecting the heat of the blaze as you watched the journal incinerate itself to mere ash. The fire ate up the paper like a greedy dog starved for days.
"Y'know," Emmett started, feeling the tension in the room. "I'm surprised they've been going on for this long."
The rest hummed in agreement. You, however, knew exactly what he was referring to. The interview with Barbara. Since then, you've started doubting yourself and what your band mates, what everybody, thought of you. Did they really see you as this genius writer, the child of local poets who knew how to use language to evoke emotion? Or did they see you as what everybody else saw: a fire-obsessed freak who loved drowning in controversy and scarring themselves for masochism's sake? You used to believe you knew the answer. But now? Your mind started to question whether you ever truly possessed what it took to make it here. You groaned loudly. "That's the tenth one in, what, three months?"
The rest shrugged. Walter yawned, then chimed in: "At this rate, I don't know what they'll eat up more. You or the album when it drops."
Everyone laughed at his words as they took swigs of beer. That brought the mood up a bit. "Alright," you said, getting up and clapping your hands twice.
"Who's up for currywurst²?"
Cheers filled the room.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
AUGUST 1992, NEVERLAND RANCH
5 months later, and LIFAD's album had finally released to the public. Being the biggest thing in metal since Megadeth, the public was itching to hear your work again. And sure enough, when Streichholz made its way to the radio, they ate it up. Sure, there was the classic SCARS & GUITARS!!! headline that made its way through all the praise. But with hits like Keine Lust and Weit weg, teens and stressed out college students were blasting it all over the country, moshing and headbanging to the sound of cymbals and guitar dirt. That was enough for them.
But it still wasn't enough for Michael Jackson to understand just what people liked about you.
Sitting in his living room, papers scattered across the wooden floor, a bored look on his face. Dangerous had come out 2 years prior, and even though it reached number one on the charts and received unanimous praise for its artistic reinvention, it still wasn't enough to satisfy him. The biggest star in the world, and yet, he had no reason as to why his mind was still bothering him, or any idea what would come afterwards. Shocker. Scrolling random channels on the big screen TV, he stopped when he caught a glimpse of a close-up of your face during a TV show performance. He tried telling himself it was out of boredom. Although the way his body began to sway to the music told a different story.
The stage was scarce, and to his surprise, there was only three people: you, Emmett and Fritz. He must've been dreaming, because there was no distortion, headbanging, inferno or screaming for the entirety of the performance. The three of you simply sat on bar stools, the acoustic chords of what sounded like one of your recently released hits serenading the set you were in. Emmett and Fritz, the former on the piano and the latter on strings, occasionally came in with harmonies, complimenting your deep, gruff-like vocals.
Du bist schön wie ein Diamant
Michael felt the way he did back 4 years prior, at the Grammys. Like you put a spell on him and he couldn't look away. But this was different. It sounded…surprising? No sky-high belts like the ones on Stein um Stein, no earthquake-causing lows like the ones from Du hast.
Schön anzusehen wie ein Diamant, Doch bitte lass mich gehen
Your voice sounded surprisingly nice (so you could sing!); not screeching, yelling or off-key like back then. You sounded soft here. Almost like you were begging for something. Your voice cracked a bit, but it felt fitting. Like you had never stopped pleading. Like you were crying for someone to stop.
Welche Kraft, was für ein Schein
Michael's eyes began to sting and it was then that he realized he'd forgotten to blink, his eyes providing tears to combat the gritty, dry visual environment he'd accidentally caused for his vision. Huh, he thought. Who'd have thought a hyperactive twenty-something year old (now pushing thirty), known more for their incendiarism and vulgarity towards the tabloids than actual work, would have him so captivated he'd forget basic human functions.
Wunderschön wie ein Diamant, Doch nur ein Stein
Your voice slowed down, signaling the end of the track as your vocal folds produced one long, deepened note to finish off your performance. The crowd thunderously applauded , as you, Emmett and Fritz got up and took a bow. The host came forward and shook your hand. Michael noticed your face. You looked dazed, as if you were in a completely different world than where you were now. "Wow!" the host praised. "What a performance!"
You smiled shyly. "Thank you." you said, a twinge of northern German dialect slipping through.
For a person with a deep, booming voice capable of commanding heaven and hell, you were surprisingly quiet. Michael had also noticed your English had gotten better since—since…
Oh God, not again.
Michael cradled his head in his hands as he was hit with the memory of seeing you on TV back in '88, witnessing silently as Barbara humiliated you live in front of not only the rest of the band, but thousands as they watched you watch him grimace at the sight of your impulsiveness on stage back at the Grammys. He remembers it all too well. Your laugh. Your face. God, that look on your face. It haunted him. It was the look he more often than not had on his face when he was younger, dissociating as his father insulted his face and made him the scapegoat for everybody's insecurities. His once 'too big' nose, making theirs look small and narrow, their extroversion standing astride his shyness. Your behavior afterwards made him feel worse, as you barely spoke more than a sentence and tried to power through the interview, almost like you no longer wanted to be there. Rubbing the back of your neck, eyes darting to your lap, awkwardly laughing and fiddling at the ends of your sleeves… He'd seen it all and done it all. He should've felt some way. You never took yourself seriously, after all. The infernal circus everybody called the 'performance of the night' 5 years ago was nothing but a joke. Michael Jackson, the singing sensation who'd held the record for most albums sold worldwide, who'd been in the business since before double digits, managed to have what was widely considered one of the best performances in Grammy history, outshined by a pyromaniac's wettest dream. A frontperson in their early twenties stole the show in '88's New York City and all they did was slap their leg till it stained purple-blue and nearly burn the building down. LIFAD's talk with Barbara ought to have satisfied him. All that verbal fighting with the press made your head big; Barbara just did what you deserved: she knocked you down a peg and brought you back down to Earth. Your face would have made him chuckle.
But it didn't and instead it dug a deep, dark, nasty pit in his stomach. Because he was the reason behind your shutdown. Because behind all the middle fingers to the press, infernal blazes and leg-hammering, you, the face of the first German band ever to win Best New Artist; seemed to be genuinely upset that the Michael Jackson didn't like you or your music. Michael shook his head, wiping the memory from his immediate conscience and fixed his attention back to the screen, where the host asked you a question.
"So, I think you know what everybody here wants to know." he said. You simply laughed, bringing your hands together in one soft clap. The host continued, oblivious to your nervosity. "Back in '88, you shocked America with your explosive Grammy debut."
"Yes, that's right." you said.
"The entire world commended your showmanship, and those effects! Nothing short of amazing!"
"Thank you!"
The host then sported a devilish smile, his clean suit & tie failing to hide his ulterior motives. "Unfortunately, however, not everyone was impressed… and you later found out Michael Jackson didn't seem to share similar feelings."
Your smile slightly fell and you squeezed Fritz's hand, already knowing what came next.
Back at Neverland, meanwhile, Michael rolled his eyes and sighed loudly.
"What do you have to say about that?"
Oohs and giggles meant to tease filled the room as everybody's eyes were laid on you, eagerly awaiting your answer. But time had stopped for you. Ringing began to fill your ears as you tried your best to keep your composure.
Again with this nonsense?, you thought, your mind racing to come up with any statement. An excuse, a lie, a stupid joke, just…anything. Luckily for you, Emmett saved the three of you. His accent dripped from his English like a viscous liquid.
"I'd say he shouldn't knock it till he tries it." he smirked.
A unanimous laugh came from the live audience. The host let out a chuckle with a sleazy grin. "To be fair, you do invite the scrutiny a bit." He laughed. "With your crazy pyromania and scary voice, who wouldn't be put off?"
Now what did that mean?
You silenced the smart ass in you and replied politely. "Well, it is a nice change of pace."
The host's grin was too wide to show good faith. "An artist in denial! Well folks, we all know how this one ends." He sneakily said as the audience laughed out loud. You visibly flinched, your eyes downcast to the stage. You really did want to say something back. But years of mouthing off to the press left you with the lesson that some things were better left in the deep crevices of your mind.
Ouch.
"Anyways, LIFAD's long awaited second album, Streichholz is out now! Give it up one more time for them everybody!"
The crowd gave one last cheer before sending you off as the three of you all waved goodbye before walking off the stage.
Michael rubbed his temple. He really hadn't meant to make you suffer. But what did he expect? He, of all people should have known the press would have a field day with that clip of his reaction. He was Michael Jackson, how could be possibly think he had a chance of escaping that? Although he hadn't said anything explicit, he'd completely undermined your achievements. He'd done the exact same thing Joseph would do when he was younger, rarely ever praising the good while overexposing the flaws and mistakes during shows.
Tired from the dread of his mind making him stay up late, Michael sighed before turning the TV off.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
OCTOBER 1992, SCHWERIN, GERMANY
"LIFAD! LIFAD! LIFAD!"
The adrenaline was racing through your veins, like a car on an F1 race track at maximum speed. A raucous crowd of over 85 thousand people stood in front of you, jumping and screaming for an encore as they chanted your name as you did forward arm circles, your pyro wristbands shooting out sparks and fireworks as you sang.
Your band was headlining a festival, one that celebrated the two-year reunification of Germany. Asche zu Asche, Feuer frei!, Ich Will—whatever you played, the crowd knew every word by heart. It was surreal, to be frank. Even you, who came from a small house in the North, to unexpected heights of worldwide stardom, could feel the happiness of the public mass. Thousands with their hands up, losing their minds to the energetic riffs and drums as they sang along to the music in unison, too hyped to care about their surroundings. Eventually, after 10 songs, and what felt like an eternity, you bidded your farewells to the crowd, laughing and cooing at them as they awww'd at the announcement of your departure. The six of you all held hands then bowed.
"Vielen Dank, meine Lieben!"³
Backstage, you quickly made your way to your dressing room. Sitting in the nearby chair, you quickly made good use of the nearby makeup remover wipes, erasing the drying fire retardant that already began to irritate your eyes due to the sweat. It wasn't long before you heard the door open, a soft, whispery tone taking you out of your concentration.
"What are you doing in here?"
Shit.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Michael walked around the backstage of the festival, doing vocal warmups & exercises as he waited for his set time slot, wearing that iconic gold leotard. The booming, earth-rattling screams of the crowd making his chest rattle. Things made sense once he realized that your infamous band was playing. His eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head when he was informed.
Even now, you both still managed to find each other.
Of course the crowd was loud. The noise you proudly called your music had the crowd in a daze, almost like you were controlling them. You weren't even singing (you were talking musically, he'd like to say), yet the crowd knew your every word, chanting the chorus to your biggest hits as you commanded them to sing along. That kind of crowd control was insane, even by his standards. Despite being a rookie in the business, your charisma's ability to hypnotize the crowd was something to be commended. Nevermind your vulgar tongue, chaotic demeanor, arsonist tendencies and screaming voice, the crowd seemed to love you regardless. A life that Michael Jackson, the king of pop, wouldn't dare even dream of. His image needed to be pristine. Like the little boy who made a splash back in '69 with his voice that could incite a romantic craze in women and girls.
Michael started to feel a hot bubbling start to merge within his body. The cheering crowd began to sound like a unanimous, annoying shriek. He started getting heated. LIFAD, coming onto the scene out of nowhere, leaving wherever they arrived a blazing trail of mosh pits and the scent of singed hair, made him heated. You were completely free from the clutches of any higher power who hid marketability behind champagne flutes and smiley handshakes. Out of control, he thought. Too impulsive. Why you?, he thought. Just what made you so special? Where did you get it? How come they left you to your own devices—whatever that even meant anymore—right out the gate—like it made complete sense? It was one thing to be completely careless to the art he loved so much.
But this? To take gunpowder and bring the underworld to Earth; to say what you wanted, when you wanted, how you wanted—made his jealousy rise in a way even he hadn't anticipated. Freedom and the right to enact one's free will didn't belong to you. It didn't belong to somebody who didn't care about the quality of their work, who didn't even know what it's like to be thrown in a cage and told you were free and that the cold, dark and damp feeling of iron bars didn't exist, and probably never would. Who'd never feel the hot stinging and nearly invisible welts from Joseph's belt—receiving adult beatings as a child and of a child as an adult simply because his pubescent voice cracked on one note. And the more his mind ate away at him, the more the dreaded feeling of incompetence consumed him.
And Michael Jackson wasn't incompetent.
He decided to power walk back to his dressing room. It wouldn't be long before they called him to the stage. So he walked, to counter the vehemence of his psyche caused by your cluelessness at how you fueled his envy. Everything was suddenly too loud. Too noisy. Shaky, even. His breathing, uneven, went against against his instincts as he fought to get it back under his control in time. His ears started to ring. And it was then and there that he noticed his dressing room door. Slightly opened. Creaking the door open, his eyes widened as he scanned the figure in his chair. Using his makeup wipes.
"What are you doing in here?"
The question came out faster than he could catch it. You jumped, slowly turning your head to face him, still holding one of the thin, wet cloths to your cheek. Sensing your embarrassment, he pointed one of his taped fingers to the door.
"I think you're in the wrong place…"
You quickly stood up, dusting yourself off and throwing away any used wipes.
"Oh, sorry! I just entered the first room I saw. I didn't care to check any names…" you trailed off. Michael thought you were trying to lighten the mood.
"Are you…okay? Your breathing's all wrong."
You were right. His breath was still uneven. And your face made his heart sting and sharpened his mouth. Because you were oblivious to his self-consuming self-esteem. He felt like a child. Not in the cute, adorable way that weirded everybody out. But the one everyone looked down at in pity, with nothing but words of encouragement and condolence and no action. So when you mentioned something so inconspicuous, so small, it felt like somebody pulled back the curtain, leaving him naked and exposed for them to examine. It made him feel sick. His voice was sharper, all of a sudden. Like knives cutting through.
"I'm fine."
You recoiled at the sudden change in his tone. And he noticed the slight reflex.
Please stop looking at me like that.
"Um, alright. I was just wondering if you—"
"I'm fine." Michael interrupted you. The venom lacing his voice was fully taking effect. "I'll be okay. "
You deadpanned. Liar. "Riiiiiiight…" you dragged out. "Because no one's ever barged in their dressing room on the brink of a damn panic attack."
Another stab. Michael didn't like that—that you could tell what was going on with him. He snapped. "You don't have a clue what's going with me."
"And you do?" you asked.
"Could you just leave, please?" he asked back. He was practically begging you at this point. You raised your hands to your chest in surrender.
"Alright, alright… I was just trying to help." you muttered.
I heard that.
"Help? What were you going to do? Set the stage on fire and scream with that noise you call music?" Michael's heart raced. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. But he saw the hurt in your face. And your confused mixed in with your devastation pained him even more. But at this point, the angry heat he held in his body was doing all the talking.
You, however, just needed to get the final word in. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know anything."
"No need to have seen a trainwreck to know what it looks like. And I'm looking at one right now."
You recoiled in shame. Because what he said was half-true. You were a pyromaniac. You were an uncontrollable, walking matchstick who couldn't keep their mouth shut. All the tabloids did was show everyone just how severely untamed and wild you were. No use in convincing anyone any differently. The damage was already done. No wonder he hated your guts. Tears threatened to brim your eyes as you blinked them away. You subconsciously held your shoulders together, covering your scars as you contained yourself, like oxygen fire on the verge of spreading any further. You were trying to change. Trying so hard. Michael must've secretly known too, because he stopped talking and let the loud silence say what it wanted.
No wonder Michael hated your guts. You hated them too. Probably more than anybody else. "I'm gonna leave now." you said. You wasted no time in waiting for an answer. You made your way out, walking faster than normal. Michael wanted to go after you. He cursed himself out for keeping his feelings to himself.
He'd hurt you again.
He was about to make his way to find you, when suddenly: "Michael! You're on in 3!"
Sighing his feelings away, he closed the door behind him and made his way to the stage, pushing the last few moments and that dark, ugly resentment back deep down. Exactly where it should've been. Michael, with his breathing now even, got ready to perform.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
As for you, you made it back to your dressing room (your actual one), opening the door to be greeted with the five LIFAD instrumentalists drinking beer and eating to their hearts' content. Sylvester noticed you first.
"Where the hell have you been?"
You put on a brave face, not wanting to sour the mood with the anecdote of the petty fight that just went down.
"A walk. I needed some fresh air after the show."
Fritz immediately noticed your discomfort. He might've been wasted, drunk off his ass, but he'd spent enough time with you to know your habits when something was wrong. But for your sake, he didn't press further. "Well then, join us!" he shouted, drunkenly laughing. "You're lucky we love you, otherwise we'd have downed all the Schnapps!"
You jokingly gasped. "You wouldn't!"
The laughter that ensued made you feel warm again. You came in as you cracked open a bottle of the liquor, joking and singing along to folk songs as the hours passed.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
JANUARY 1993, AMERICAN MUSIC AWARDS
The cold winter of '92 came and went and along with it arrived the early year award season. Streichholz successfully got the attention of the masses again, and was, once again, nominated for over 3 awards (Best Heavy Metal/Hard Rock Song, Album & New Artist). But despite all of the accolades and the acclaim you'd received, you never stopped thinking about your encounter with Michael. To be specific, your first encounter with the man. Everybody had nothing but good things to say about him; how compassionate, generous, hard-working and understanding he was. It left you wondering if you did something wrong. Why you were the only one he seemed to coldly brush off like an unpleasant stench. You were ready to apologize for what you'd done to offend him (whatever the fuck that meant) and let bad feelings go. But you were incapable of not internalizing his words. Those words that made it absolutely clear that he wanted nothing to do with you.
"No need to have seen a trainwreck to know what it looks like. And I'm looking at one right now."
Is that what you were? Truly? Your mood never recovered since that day. Sitting in the black limo, you looked out to the night skyline. You did everything the same, though. Got drunk, laughed boisterously, trolled the tabloids again, but it no longer felt like you were doing it for fun. It felt…dehumanizing. Like a mask sewn to your face you couldn't take off, lest its threads tear your skin apart.
"..? Hey, you there?"
Karl's voice took you out of your own thoughts. The rest of the band looked at you, faces of concern painted across their faces. You recomposed yourself and laughed, reassuring the rest that you were still there.
"You sure? You've been out of it since we left." Sylvester noted. The 5 hummed in agreement.
shitshitshitshit. Was is that obvious?
"Just thinking about the performance." you nervously laughed.
Karl ohhhh'd at the reply. "Still can't believe you decided on that. You sure you're gonna be okay with being the center of attention?"
Emmett chimed in. "I still remember how the label reacted when you said you weren't gonna do any pyro. Their eyes nearly bulged out." he laughed.
You rolled your eyes. "It's something I've been thinking of for a while. We've been going fast and heavy since we started, we deserve to slow down for a bit, no?"
"By dressing up as the Sandmann⁴?"
You all laughed out loud. It was a weird idea, yes. But the idea filled you with childhood nostalgia. You remember just how tired you would be after watching Unser Sandmännchen⁵ when you were younger. 7pm, on the dot, to be exact. Recently you'd started watching it again. You chuckled at the image in your head of you—the obscene frontperson of LIFAD—sitting down in your house, watching a stop-motion show meant for children as your eyes never looked away from the screen. The limo stopped, and you all came out of the vehicle, the flashing lights of paparazzi cameras reflecting your silver futuristic themed wear (you were all matching this time!) as you posed for group photos. Before you made your way to your seats, Fritz held you back, whispering in your ear.
"I don't know what's going on with you, but you're gonna kill it. We trust you."
That made you feel better. They trusted you. You held your head high, the extra reassurance boosting your confidence.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
A few hours passed and awards were given, and before you knew it, it was your turn to close the show. Again. Slowly, you made your way to the stage. Dressed in a shapeless black dress and what could possibly be mistaken for corpse paint, you stood on the stage, waiting for the curtain to raise. Emmett was on the piano not far behind you.
Slowly but surely, your time came close as the host announced your performance.
"And finally, performing their smash hit, Mein Herz Brennt, from the eastern corner of Germany, please give a warm welcome to LIFAD!"
The curtain raised, and with your still sore heart, you poured your all.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Michael didn't know what to expect. That day had haunted him ever since, more than the Barbara interview even. He'd tried searching for you; appearing at events in same areas, asking those who knew you where you'd be popping up next. But you always eluded him, almost like you didn't want to see him again. Michael was sure the bad blood would be permanent, he wanted to make it up to you. So when LIFAD was announced to perform at the American Music Awards, he found an excuse to show up. Sure, Dangerous was nominated (and won), but he wanted to see you. He had so much to tell you.
The curtain raised. Michael's brows furrowed as a light shone from the floor, exposing your creepily painted face, holding your hands together as if you were praying. The dress (could you even call it that..?) didn't help his confusion much. A pianist he recognized as your bassist started to play. Your head turned, looking around the stage, as you then set your eyes on the audience. Your face, hard, contrasted your soft voice, telling a story much rather than singing.
Nun, liebe Kinder, gebt fein Acht
This is different, Michael thought. There wasn't any pyro to be seen anywhere. No flashy lights, other than the one illuminating your shadow from below. The soft pluck!, pluck! of the piano, although feeling out of place, strangely complimented your vocals. It was dark. Deep. Some might even say you were doing a ritual.
Ich bin die Stimme aus dem Kissen
You flailed your hands around your forearms, pointing to the veins inside. Your hair, stringy from the sweat, stuck to your forehead.
Ich singe bis der Tag erwacht
You looked up to the ceiling. Your voice was much louder than before. You gestured to your heart, almost like you were trying to get something out of you, as if you wanted to rip out and expose the beating, red muscle that abided in your chest.
Ein heller Schein am Firmament, mein Herz brennt
You belted the lyric out as you gave a crooked smile, one that weirded out the crowd. Murmurs wafted through Michael's ears as he stared at your face, like you were in slow motion. The hairs on his neck stood and he felt chills run down his spine. Your eyes. Eyes that witnessed every kind of evil that befell the world around you. Despite showing rows of teeth, your eyes were filled with sadness. Sadness that lamented your loneliness. Sadness that, despite its own grieving heart, tried to imitate happiness it, simply put, couldn't understand. That smile disturbed him more than he wanted to accept.
Because under all that makeup, fire and obscenity, you and him were alike.
Mein Herz brennt!
You were both tortured souls, moving but always hiding, awake and never resting. Not even for a moment. Two beating, asynchronous hearts that ached, burned for kindness and rest. And in spite of the isolation and immeasurable anguish, you both did your jobs. And even if he had learned to hide it from scrutiny and morbid curiosity, your loneliness blessed you with a terrifying visage, scaring and warding away the very people you loved. The pyromania. The vulgarity. It was all there. A pang of guilt struck his chest. Is this what you've been carrying all this while? The burden of solitude? A burden that he added more weight to?
Mein Herz brennt!
The piano got heavier, louder whilst you finished your performance.
Mein Herz brennt, ja!
You screamed out the last word, making your way off stage.
Mein Herz brennt…
The piano had one last sad hurrah as they sent you off. The light below where you were once standing began to dim as a line of smoke escaped and traveled upwards. The bassist played the final note. You were finally gone. The crowd was silent at first. Then a clap. Then another. And what started as scattered applause ended in united acclaim as the guests clapped. Michael couldn't be helped. So putting his two hands together, he did the same.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
I'm never doing that again, you thought.
Singing in an operatic manner, with that getup? What were you thinking? Nobody was going to get the reference anyway. Sitting in your dressing room, you ripped off the arm warmers, almost as if they were contaminating you, as you rubbed your eyes, dragging your hands over your face. As if the whole world didn't already see you as a joke, you just had to dress up as the nightmarish eye-stealer version of Sandmann you knew from your childhood, decked in the shittiest makeup known to mankind. What were you planning on doing exactly? To throw rheum and grit in their eyes and make them go to sleep with goodie dreams and pluck out the eyes of the ones who didn't follow? You gripped the roots of your hair tightly as you tried to calm your racing mind.
why would you do that why would you do that you stupid son of a bitch nobody takes you seriously are you trying to make yourself look more like an idiot stupid the press is going to eat all of us alive and nobodys gonna want to work with us anymore youve ruined everything stupidstupidstupid—
A banging on the door interrupted your spiraling. Then it flew wide open as the rest of your band ran in, shouting and ranting incoherently with wide grins on their faces.
"What the hell was that? That was amazing!"
"That's it. We're all going out and I'm paying."
"You killed it out there!"
"Now that's our lead singer!"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" You held your hands up. "One at a fucking time, please?"
The screaming stopped. Walter was the first to speak up.
"Performance of the night."
The rest hummed in agreement, nodding their heads.
"You did so well! We're so proud of you." Karl added.
"The emotion was there." Sylvester said. "And that smile? Ten out of ten."
Your face got hotter with each compliment. "Uh…"
"We knew you could do it." Fritz said, a knowing smile on his face.
"Yeah," you dumbly replied. "Guess I was worrying over nothing."
Just as you were talking with your band mates, Emmett frantically came in through the door. He had an unknown expression on his face.
"Emmett? Where have you been?"
"Sorry, I meant to be here earlier," He apologized. "But this person wouldn't stop hounding me until I told you where you were."
Your brows furrowed. Who could that have been? "Can't it wait?"
Emmett shook his head vigorously. "He insisted I bring him with me."
"Who is it anyway?"
Emmett simply opened the door wider. The room fell into shocked silence as they set their eyes upon a familiar (well, not really familiar to be frank. But they'd seen him on TV) face. Fritz looked at you, whose eyes were wide and breath was picking up. There, in all his glory, was Michael Jackson. His behavior now contrasted the one he had during his performance. On stage? Confident and charismatic were his middle names.
But here? In front of you no less?
He was much…quieter. Not quiet as in not talking (although that too), but quieter as in he tried to take up as little space as possible. Shy. Small even. The 5 LIFAD members sensed the tension between you and the dancer. Sharing unspoken looks with each other, they one by one left the dressing room.
"We'll…leave you guys to talk." Emmett trailed off. He didn't want to be there for the inevitable explosion that was to come.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
Michael could feel his heart thumping in his throat. Any longer and he might've coughed it out like phlegm. You were there. That's what he wanted, right? You were there. You were there sitting down in that formless black dress and he didn't have anything prepared to tell you.
Just talk. Talk!
You broke the silence.
"Can I help you, Mr. Jackson..?"
Mr. Jackson. The level of formality dimmed the light of possibly making amends with you in his being. All he had to say was sorry. So why was it that no sound came from his mouth, despite it being open? His throat produced a small sound of vocal fry.
You frowned. "If you have nothing to do here, could you close the door on your way out? I have pl—"
"Wait!"
A beat.
"Uh… Nice performance."
You didn't look amused. Your face itself spoke volumes. Seriously?, it said. Michael felt his hands getting clammy and started sweating. The man, who could perform in front of over 70 thousand people, over screaming heads and fainting bodies, couldn't find anything else to say other than 'nice performance'.
"Thank you." you blankly said.
"I liked the rendition. Main Herz brent, was it?"
You deadpanned. The second time you've seen each other face to face and he decides to greet you with that horrendous German.
"It's Mein Herz brennt." you said, emphasizing the R.
"Oh, sorry."
"Your German’s horrible."
He flinched. You were blunt.
"Oh, uh… I'll try harder next time."
You were clearly getting annoyed, Michael could tell.
"Out with it. Why are you here?"
Here goes nothing. Ignoring the pounding in his chest, he spoke again.
"I'm sorry."
You froze.
"What."
Michael repeated himself. "I said I'm sorry. I really am."
You scoffed. "Really? For what? For everybody all of a sudden changing their minds about me when they saw you make a face 5 years ago, or for insulting my music and calling me a fire obsessed trainwreck 3 months back? Tell me, Mr. Jackson, which one is it?"
Michael's mouth dried up. He didn't know what to say. You, however, laughed loudly, albeit not a genuine one. It was a laugh that was ripping at its seams trying to contain the anger within you. " Listen. I know I—"
You interrupted him, your rage boiling over. You couldn't hold it in.
"No, you listen. Do you have any idea how hard I had to fight my since that day for even a shred of credit? Do you know just how much of a hell on Earth my life, my friends' lives, have been for the past 5 years? All because you didn't like my music? 10 years of working my ass off making sure nobody around me knew about what I wanted to do because I might get beat up by the People's police, of being called dirty by other people threatening me with deportation simply because didn't I look like your typical 'German'. Of risking jail time protesting government censorship. And none of it matters because a man people look to as their God gave them permission to hate me. Never mind what the fuck they thought before. They watched one clip and suddenly thought they knew me and my life. Fritz and Karl can't go anywhere without people spitting at them because, obviously, the tabloids said they were in a relationship, so it must be true!" you said sarcastically. "Walter and Emmett have murmurs thrown at them all the time. Sylvester no longer laughs the way he used to. Now it's popular to hate LIFAD and it's all because of you."
Your tears were freely flowing, washing away the leftover makeup from your earlier set. Pain. Grief. 5 year old mental agony you'd kept bottled in and only let go in forms of complex displays of fire and smoke gave way. Michael watched and listened in horror and guilt as you told him the backlash of your debut performance; a moment in your life that you held in bad regard because of what he did. What he didn't say, and yet showed for the world to see. A bitter chuckle escaped your mouth.
"You know what the worst part of all of this is?" you asked. Michael gave way to silence. "I know you'll never understand. You'll say your sorrys and beg for forgiveness. Then you'll let me fight alone and refuse to stick your neck out and come clean publicly because you know the tabloids'll treat you worse."
Shit.
Michael felt transparent. Too transparent. You were right. Everything you said was correct. Everybody else had left him to fight for himself. Even when the press was calling him all sorts of names like Wacko Jacko, he'd been there to absorb the blow and heal and tank and heal so often that by the time he had the chance to catch a breath, it'd feel too long. Too soft. Too quiet. How could he refute your claims when he'd done the same thing to you? Threw you to the wolves and forced you to fend for your bandmates? For yourself? How, when he'd disapproved of being seen as an oddity, yet endorsed your smearing campaign without a second thought?
You were still crying. Michael didn't know how to deal with it. So he simply came closer and hugged you. Snot, mucus and tears stained his shoulder heavily. He didn't care. Tears brimmed his eyes at the sound of your cries and sniffling. He was so truly, truly sorry. But how could he make you believe that?
I'll call a conference next week, he told himself. Yes, he'd do right by you this time. He'd tell the whole truth. He'd apologize till his voice was sore. But now, he'd just let you cry. The outside world no longer mattered. Just two people lamenting the hurt they suffered and caused.
And your crying was long, bottomless to the point of never-ending void. Just long, dragged out sorrow caused by the other tortured, burning heart who'd unintentionally made your dream into a nightmare.
𑣲⋆（ 𝕯𝙴𝙼𝙴𝚃𝚁𝙸𝚄𝚂 ） omgomgomg im FINALLY done. this took me like 3-4 days to finish 😭 i rlly hope this pt2 was enough to satisfy you pookies <3 i wanted to explore a more... humane(??) part of michael, which includes his envy towards your freedom. there's also some little references to my favorite authors 😁. also, i'd highly recommend you listen to the songs i've listed in the intro when they call for it (idk nigga do it 4 ambiance or wtv). hope you enjoyed! :D
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ 𝒊𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 — fic glossary.
¹ — mein gott : my god! 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
² — currywurst : german dish consisting of sausage & curry ketchup. 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
³ — vielen dank, meine lieben! : thank you so much, my dears! 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
⁴ — sandmann : german folk character. 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
⁵ — unser sandmännchen : german children's bedtime tv show. 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ
