Liquid Courage |Michael Jackson
summary: Denial is a river in egypt, Michael is in love with you girl. He just needed a little help.
warnings: underage drinking , pls don’t get in the comments bout it , like ya’ll weren’t doing shit you wasn’t suppose to when you were teens🤣)
word count: 7,031 (sorry it’s long lol)
pairings: Michael Jackson x black!reader
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The sun hadn’t even fully cleared the horizon over the San Fernando Valley, but the air inside the Jackson house was already thick with the smell of sweet potato pie, burnt toast, and expensive hair grease.
You were sitting on the edge of the kitchen counter with your knees pulled up to your chest, holding a lukewarm mug of instant coffee in both hands. Michael was standing right between your parted legs, completely unbothered by the fact that he was invading your entire personal space. He had one hand resting casually on your thigh, his thumb making slow, mindless circles through the soft fabric of your sweatpants while he used his other hand to try and untangle a stray curl near the nape of your neck.
"Hold still, Y/N," he muttered, his voice still heavy and rasping with sleep. "You got a knot right here. You ain't brush your hair before you came down here?"
"Boy, take your hands out my head," you said, swatting at his wrist without any actual force behind it. "First of all, it's six in the morning. Second of all, you’re the one that pulled me out the bed by my ankles 'cause you wanted somebody to watch you eat cereal. So don't start coming for my hair."
Michael let out a soft, high-pitched giggle that vibrated right against your knee where his chest was leaning in. He didn't move away. In fact, he leaned in closer, resting his forehead right against your shoulder for a second, letting his entire body weight slump against you like he was made of wet clay.
"You’re always talking loud in the morning," he mumbled into your collarbone. "Just hush up and let me fix it."
"Get off me, Michael, you’re heavy as hell," you laughed, though your fingers automatically found their way into the thick, soft dark hair at the back of his neck, massaging the base of his skull. You didn't push him off. You never pushed him off.
That was just how it was. It had been like that when you were five years old, sharing a single juice box on the porch steps while your mamas talked mess about the neighbors. It was like that when you were twelve, hiding in his bedroom behind the giant stuffed giraffe while the rest of his brothers were downstairs making noise. And it was like that now, at nineteen, when everybody else in the damn house was looking at the two of you like you had lost your mind.
The kitchen door swung open, hitting the wall with a sharp bang that made Michael jump just a fraction, though he still didn't remove his hand from your leg.
Jermaine walked in first, wearing an unbuttoned silk shirt and an expression of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. Marlon was right behind him, reaching into the fridge before he even had both feet inside the room.
Jermaine stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the two of you tucked together in the corner by the stove. He looked from Michael’s hand—which had now shifted up to rest possessively over your knee—to your hand, which was still loosely weaving through Michael's curls.
"Man, look at this," Jermaine said, shaking his head and sighing like a man who had been carrying a heavy weight uphill all day. "Every single morning. Y'all don't ever get tired of acting like this?"
You rolled your eyes, taking a slow sip of your coffee. "Acting like what, Jermaine? We just sitting here."
"Sitting where?" Jermaine raised an eyebrow, pointing a long finger at the two of you. "Michael, the girl is sitting on the counter and you practically inside her lap. There are four empty chairs at that table right behind you. Four."
Michael turned his head slowly, looking at Jermaine over his shoulder with those big, innocent dark eyes that made everybody else in the world fold, but just made his brothers want to throw things at him.
"I'm just fixing her hair, Jermaine," Michael said, his tone entirely smooth, like he was explaining basic arithmetic to a small child. "She’s got a knot."
"ShE gOt a kNot," Marlon mimicked from inside the refrigerator, leaning out with a carton of orange juice in his hand. "Right. And last night when I came into the den, she had her feet resting right in your lap while you was rubbing AND KISSING her toes. What was that? She had a knot in her foot and you had to fix it with your mouth?"
"She was tired!" Michael snapped back, his voice rising into that defensive tenor he got whenever anybody questioned what he was doing with you. He shifted his stance, stepping even closer into the space between your knees, instinctively blocking you from his brothers' glare. "Y'all always got something to say. Y'all just jealous 'cause nobody want to rub y'all feet."
"Jealous?" Jermaine let out a short, bark of a laugh. "Man, I got a whole wife! I don't need to sit up in my best friend's face breathing her air every five seconds! Y'all look ridiculous. Tell him, Y/N. Tell him he weird."
You looked down at Michael, whose eyes were wide as he stared up at you, silently pleading with you to take his side like you always did. His lips were parted slightly, soft and full, and without thinking about it, you raised your thumb and wiped away a tiny speck of dried toothpaste near the corner of his mouth.
Michael didn't flinch. He just leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a fraction of a second while you did it.
Across the room, Jermaine threw his hands up in the air. "See! Look at that! What was that? Why you wiping his face like he your husband?"
"Because he’s dirty, Jermaine!" you yelled back, though your cheeks suddenly felt a little warm. You cleared your throat and gently poked Michael in the ribs until he finally stepped back an inch. "Y'all need to leave us alone. We been doing this since we was in pull-ups. Ain't shit changed."
"That's the problem!" Marlon barked, taking a long swig from the juice carton. "Ain't nothing changed! Y'all nineteen years old! Y'all hold hands when we go to the movies! Y'all share milkshakes with two straws! I saw Michael kiss you right on the mouth before we left for the studio last Tuesday, held your face and everything!"
"It was a peck!" Michael yelled, his face turning a deep, rich shade of reddish-brown. He folded his arms over his chest, his shoulders hunching up toward his ears. "It was on the corner of her lip! It wasn't no real kiss!"
"A peck on the lip ain't innocent, Mike!" Jermaine said, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs with a heavy thud. "I don't peck my homies on the lip. Marlon don't peck me on the lip. If I went up to Randy and kissed him on the corner of his mouth, he'd knock me into next week!"
"You and Randy are brothers you fucking schmuck. I would hit you too!" you shot back, hopping down off the counter. The moment your feet hit the marble, Michael’s hand instinctively shot out, his fingers catching the hem of your shirt just to keep you tethered to him for a second longer. You caught his wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting go. "Y'all just talk too much. Me and Mike are best friends. That's it."
Jermaine looked at you, then looked at Michael, who was now standing right beside you, his shoulder pressed firmly against yours even though the entire kitchen was empty.
"Y'all are insane," Jermaine said softly, almost to himself. "Both of y'all. Dead serious. Y'all are completely blind."
"We ain't blind," Michael mumbled, reaching over to grab an apple out of the fruit bowl on the counter. He took a bite, then immediately held it out to your face. "Here. Take a bite. It's sweet."
Without even thinking, you leaned down and bit right into the exact spot where he had just bitten, chewing thoughtfully while Jermaine watched the entire exchange with a look of profound, agonizing headache.
"I'm leaving," Jermaine declared, standing up so fast his chair screeched against the floorboards. "I can't do this today. I cannot watch two grown people act like they married while calling each other 'bestie.' It's unnatural."
"Bye, Jermaine!" Michael called out cheerfully, not even looking as his brother stormed out of the kitchen. The second the door swung shut, Michael turned his whole body toward you again. He wrapped both arms around your waist from behind, resting his chin right on top of your shoulder while you washed your coffee mug in the sink. His lips connected to your skin lovingly, he paid it no mind.
"They just don't get it, do they?" Michael whispered right into your ear, his breath warm against your neck.
"They don't know what they talking about," you agreed, turning the faucet off and leaning back against his chest. "Now move your big head so I can dry my hands."
"No," he mumbled, tightening his grip around your waist and dragging you back a half-step. “I wanna stand here."
You shook your head, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you laid your wet hands over his arms. It was just Michael. It was always just Michael. Nothing to figure out, nothing to name. Just the two of you, right where you were supposed to be.
The sun was beating down hard over the Hayvenhurst backyard by mid-afternoon. It was one of those rare days where none of the boys had studio sessions scheduled, which meant the entire house was bursting at the seams with chaotic, restless energy.
Jackie was sitting under the shade of the patio umbrella with a notepad, trying to go over some schedule logistics, while Tito was tinkering with an old speaker box on the lawn, wires scattered all around his feet. Joseph was out of the house for a meeting, which meant the atmosphere was lighter than usual—slapstick jokes were flying, music was blaring from the stereo near the pool, and the smell of fried chicken was floating out from Mrs. Jackson’s kitchen windows.
You were sitting on one of the long, padded lounge chairs near the shallow end of the pool, your legs stretched out in front of you. You had a pair of dark sunglasses resting on top of your head, a cold glass of lemonade balanced on the edge of the concrete, and a magazine resting open in your lap.
Or at least, you had been trying to read it, until Michael decided that the chaise lounge wasn't meant for one person.
He had dragged himself out of the pool ten minutes ago, dripping wet, his skin glistening in the California heat. Instead of taking one of the four empty chairs surrounding the patio table, he had walked straight over to you, ignored your loud protests, and practically tossed himself right into your lap.
"Michael! Man, your wet get off me!" you shouted, slapping at his dripping shoulders as he settled himself comfortably between your legs, his back pressed up against your chest.
"Shh, it's hot out here, you'll dry off," Michael giggled, completely ignoring your complaints as he reached up, grabbed your hands, and pulled your arms around his chest so you were holding him. "Hold me. I'm cold."
"You in the sun, boy! How you cold?"
"I got a chill from the water," he said smoothly, resting his head back against your collarbone. His skin was slick and cool against yours, smelling faintly of chlorine and Cocoa Butter soap. He pulled one of your hands up to his face, casually inspecting your nails, turning your hand over to trace the lines in your palm with his index finger.
From under the umbrella, Jackie lowered his notepad and stared at the two of you over the rim of his reading glasses.
"Look at them," Jackie said loud enough for Tito to hear. "Tito, look at your brother."
Tito didn't even look up from his speaker wires. "Which one? If it's Michael, I already know what he doing. He sitting on Y/N again?"
"Sitting on her?" Jackie snorted. "He wrapped around her like a blanket. Y/N, how you let him do that? It's ninety degrees outside and you got a whole grown man laying in your lap like a lapdog."
You looked up, squinting through the sunlight at Jackie. "Jackie, mind your business! He ain't hurting nobody."
"He’s wet!" Jackie pointed out, standing up and walking over toward the pool with his hands on his hips. "You soaked! Look at your pants! They completely wet through!"
"They’re shorts, Jackie, they'll dry!" Michael snapped back, glaring at his older brother without moving an inch. He took your hand—the one he had been playing with—and brought it up to his mouth, casually biting down on the fleshy tip of your thumb just to be obnoxious.
"Ouch! Boy, stop!" you yelled, pulling your hand back and slapping the side of his shoulder.
Michael just laughed, that high, musical sound that filled up the whole yard, and leaned back further, burying his face into the crook of your neck to block out the sun. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss right against the warm skin below your ear—a sweet, lazy gesture that he did without even thinking, pure muscle memory from a lifetime of being physically tethered to you.
Jackie stopped dead in his tracks right at the edge of the concrete, his mouth slightly open.
"See?" Jackie said, pointing a finger directly at Michael's head. "See that? What was that? Mike, why you kissing her neck?"
Michael raised his head, looking up at Jackie with genuine confusion on his face. "What are you talking about? I didn't kiss her neck, I was just putting my head down!"
"You put your mouth right on her skin and made a kiss sound, Michael!" Jackie shouted, though there was more amusement than actual anger in his voice. "I got eyes! I saw it! Y/N, you just gonna let him kiss on you like that?"
"Jackie, he always does that," you said, shrugging your shoulders, though you could feel the heat rising in your neck. "He been doing that since we were ten. It don't mean nothing."
"It don't mean nothing to you," Jackie said, shaking his head slowly. "Because you just about as crazy as he is. But if anybody else walked back here right now—if a whole stranger walked into this yard—they'd think y'all been married for five years. They'd think y'all got three kids in the house."
"We don't care what strangers think," Michael muttered, his tone suddenly dropping into that stubborn, quiet register he used whenever he felt backed into a corner. He reached up, his fingers catching the collar of your shirt, pulling it just enough so he could lean back down and rest his forehead against your neck again, completely tuning Jackie out. "Ignore him, Y/N. He just wants to argue."
"I don't want to argue, I want my brother to act like he got some sense and lock that down!" Jackie said, throwing his hands up. "Tito, tell him!"
Tito finally wiped his hands on a rag and looked over. He took one look at Michael practically curled into a ball on top of you, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the damp curls at the top of his head while he closed his eyes, looking completely content.
"It's a lost cause, Jack," Tito said simply, shaking his head. "They been like that since the day she moved down the street. Remember when Mike broke his arm falling out the tree? He wouldn't even let the doctor put the cast on until Y/N held his other hand. The doctor thought they were little husband and wife."
"And they still doing it!" Jackie yelled. "That's my point! They nineteen! You can't be nineteen years old sitting in a girl's lap, kissing her neck, holding her hand, and then going 'Oh, we just best friends!' It's weird!"
"It ain't weird," you said firmly, glaring at Jackie. "We close. like family."
"You ain't related to us, Y/N," Jackie said softly, a smirking grin finally breaking through his serious face. "Thank God for that, 'cause if you was, the way Michael looks at you would be an actual crime."
"Jackie!" Michael practically screeched, sitting up so fast he almost cracked his forehead against your chin. His face was burning red now, his chest heaving as he stared his older brother down. "Stop talking! Just go inside! Leave us alone!"
"All right, all right," Jackie laughed, holding his hands up in surrender as he turned back toward the patio. "I'm going. But when one of y'all finally wakes up and realizes you in love with the other one, I don't wanna hear no complaining. I'm gonna say I told you so."
Jackie walked back toward the house, still chuckling to himself.
Michael sat there on your lap for a long moment, his back stiff, his chest rising and falling quickly. He looked deeply annoyed, his dark eyes fixed on the sliding glass door where Jackie had disappeared.
You looked down at the back of his neck, feeling a sudden, strange tightness in your chest that hadn't been there two minutes ago. You cleared your throat, trying to keep your voice light.
"He just playing, Mike. Don't let him get you all worked up."
Michael didn't answer right away. Slowly, the tension left his shoulders. He relaxed back against you, but he didn't lean all the way down this time. Instead, he reached down, catching your fingers in his own, intertwining them tightly, pulling your hand up to rest against his stomach.
"He doesn't know what he's talking about," Michael said softly, his voice low and quiet now, meant only for you. His thumb rubbed over the back of your knuckles, steady and slow. "He thinks everybody gotta be like him. He thinks everything gotta have a label."
"Yeah," you whispered, looking down at your intertwined fingers, ignoring that feeling in your chest. "Yeah, exactly."
"You're my best friend, Y/N," Michael said, turning his head slightly so he could look up at you out of the corner of his eye. His dark eyes were soft, completely devoid of the sharp bite he had used with Jackie. "Nobody else knows me like you. Nobody."
"I know, Mike," you said softly, squeezing his hand back. "I know."
He stayed like that for a long time, holding your hand against his chest, listening to the soft rustle of the palm trees in the breeze, completely oblivious to the fact that his heart was beating against your palm at a frantic, erratic pace that had nothing to do with the heat.
By eight o'clock that evening, the rest of the family had cleared out of the main living room, leaving the large, dimly lit space quiet except for the low hum of the television screen. A late-night comedy rerun was playing, throwing flickering blue light across the carpet and the plush, oversized dark leather sofas.
You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaning back against the front of the sofa, a large bowl of homemade popcorn sitting between your legs.
Michael was sitting on the sofa directly behind you. Or, more accurately, he was draped over the top of you. His long legs were stretched out on either side of your hips, his chin resting comfortably on the crown of your head, and his arms were slung casually over your shoulders, his hands hanging down against your chest.
Every couple of minutes, his hand would dip into the bowl between your thighs, snatch a handful of popcorn, and retreat back to his mouth. Half the time, he didn't even bother putting it in his own mouth—he’d hold a piece up to your lips until you opened up and took it from him.
"Mike, I got my own hands," you mumbled around a mouthful of popcorn, though you didn't pull away when his fingers brushed against your bottom lip.
"It tastes better when I give it to you," he said simply, his voice vibrating through the top of your head. He leaned down, burying his face into the side of your neck again, sniffing deeply. "What's that smell? You put that lotion on?"
"Yeah. The cocoa butter one."
"It smells good," he murmured. He didn't move his head away. He just left his nose resting right against the warm spot behind your ear, his breath slow and rhythmic.
The front door opened softly, and footsteps echoed down the hardwood hallway. A second later, LaToya walked into the room, wearing a silk robe, holding a glass of water. She stopped at the edge of the carpet, looking at the two of you illuminated by the blue light of the TV.
She stared for a long, silent moment.
Michael had one arm wrapped tightly around your throat like a human scarf, his cheek pressed flat against yours, his eyes half-closed as he watched the screen. Your hand was resting over his forearm, pulling him closer instinctively whenever he shifted.
LaToya took a sip of her water, shaking her head with a small, knowing smile.
"Y'all look like a pair of shoes that come in the same box," LaToya said quietly, her sharp, sweet voice cutting through the dialogue of the TV show.
You turned your head slightly, squinting up at her. "What’s that supposed to mean, Toya?"
"It means you can't separate 'em without ruining the set," she said, leaning against the doorframe. "Michael, you got your own bed upstairs. Why you sleeping on top of Y/N like she’s a mattress?"
Michael didn't even open his eyes fully. He just squeezed you tighter, humming low in his throat. "Go to bed, LaToya."
"I am going to bed," LaToya said, turning around to head back toward the stairs. But before she left, she paused, looking back over her shoulder at you. "Y/N... you know he ain't gonna let no other boy come around you, right? You know that, don't you?"
You froze, your hand pausing where it was resting on Michael's arm. "What you talking about, Toya? I ain't looking for no other boy."
"Good," LaToya laughed softly, her slippers padding softly up the wooden stairs. "'Cause if you did, Michael would probably set their car on fire and claim it was an accident."
"She’s crazy," Michael muttered into your neck, though his arm tightened around you just a fraction more. "Don't listen to her."
"I ain't listening to her," you said quietly.
But as the house settled into complete silence, and the TV screen flickered with endless commercials, you found yourself staring at the shadow of Michael's hand wrapped over yours. His fingers were long, delicate, and familiar—fingers you had held while walking to the corner store when you were seven, fingers you had held when his father was yelling upstairs, fingers that knew every inch of your hands better than you knew them yourself.
You felt his breath slow down, becoming deep and even as he drifted off to sleep, his entire weight leaning heavily into your back. You tilted your head back, looking up at his sleeping face—the long, dark eyelashes resting against his cheekbones, the soft curve of his lips, the absolute peace that settled over him only when he was right next to you.
You squeezed his hand. He made a small, soft sound in his sleep and turned his face further into your neck, nuzzling against your skin like he was trying to get as close as physically possible.
"Crazy," you whispered to the empty room, closing your eyes and letting yourself fall asleep right there on the floor, anchored by the weight of the boy who belonged to you, even if neither of you had the guts to say it out loud.
The shift didn't happen overnight, but it crept in like a slow tide over the next few months.
It was in the way Michael looked at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. It was in the sudden, sharp tension that filled the room whenever a male friend from your college class called the house asking for you.
Michael wouldn't say anything directly—he was too sweet, too polite on the surface—but he would sit on the edge of the counter while you were on the phone, his eyes dark and burning, taking the phone out of your hand under the guise of "needing to talk to you right now," hanging it up before you could even say a proper goodbye.
"Michael, why you hang my phone up?!" you had yelled at him in the hallway back in July. "That was DJ! We was talking about the history project!"
“talk too much," Michael had grumbled, folding his arms and looking away, his jaw tight. "He taking up all your time. You supposed to be helping me listen to these new studio demos."
"He was asking for the notes, Mike! Stop being childish!"
"I don't care," he had whispered, stepping right up into your personal space, taking your face in both of his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones with a sudden, desperate intensity that left you breathless. "I don't like him talking to you. He sounds fake."
"He don't sound fake, he sounded normal!"
"I don't like him," Michael repeated, his eyes searching yours, pleading and possessive all at once. "Don't talk to him no more. Talk to me."
And you hadn't. You had let DJ's calls go to the machine, because making Michael happy felt as natural as breathing, even when it made no damn sense.
By the time late autumn rolled around, the tension had reached an absolute boiling point, whether you wanted to admit it or not.
It was a chilly Friday night in November. The Jackson house was quiet—Katherine and Joseph were out of town visiting relatives in Gary, the girls were out with friends, and the older brothers had gone out to a private industry party at a club in downtown Los Angeles.
Michael had been invited, of course. He was the star. He was supposed to go, dress up in one of his sharp jackets, make small talk with record executives, and smile for the cameras.
You had stayed home, sitting in your small but luxurious apartment a few miles away from Hayvenhurst, curled up on your sofa in an oversized sweatshirt, watching the rain beat against the windowpane. You had expected Michael to call you around midnight to complain about how boring the party was, like he usually did whenever he was dragged to those things.
Instead, midnight came and went.
One in the morning passed.
By two in the morning, you were standing in your small kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water, feeling a strange, persistent knot of anxiety tightening in the pit of your stomach. Michael didn't drink. He hated the smell of alcohol, hated the way people acted when they were messed up—a residual fear left over from watching his father and brothers over the years. So wherever he was, he was probably just stuck talking to people he didn't like.
Suddenly, loud, heavy pounding echoed from your front door.
You jumped, almost spilling your water. "Who the hell...?"
You walked quickly toward the door, checking the peephole.
Outside, in the dimly lit hallway of your apartment building, stood Jackie, Jermaine, and Marlon. They were all dressed in slick suits, looking completely exhausted and thoroughly disheveled.
And trapped between Jermaine and Marlon, dragging his feet like they were made of solid lead, was Michael.
You threw the door open immediately. "What in the world—"
"Just move, Y/N, please, just move," Jermaine groaned, his face slick with sweat as he and Marlon hauled Michael through the doorway.
Michael’s head was hanging down, his afro now damn near flat, he’s sweaty, his messy curls falling over his face. His expensive velvet jacket was unbuttoned, hanging off one shoulder, and his black loafers were scuffing along the carpet. As soon as they dragged him into the warmth of your living room, the overwhelming smell hit your nose—champagne, heavy scotch, and sweat.
"Is he... is he drunk?!" you shrieked, your eyes wide as saucers as you backed up to let them through. "Michael?!"
"Shit-faced," Marlon wheezed, dropping his side of Michael onto your plush sofa. Michael collapsed into the cushions like a sack of bricks, letting out a long, pathetic groan. "Absolute, total, mess drunk."
"How?!" you yelled, rushing over to the couch. "Michael don't drink! Y'all know he don't drink! He’s nineteen for christ sakes! The fuck y'all do to him?!"
"We ain't do nothing to him!" Jackie barked, leaning against your doorway with his hands on his knees, panting for breath. "The boy went wild! We was at the VIP table, talking to some producers, and some executive's daughter came over and tried to sit in his lap and talk to him."
You froze, your heart giving a sharp, sudden thud against your ribs. "A girl?" Saying that made your heart stop.
"Yeah, a girl!" Jermaine said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "A fine one, too! She was flirting with him, touchy-feely, asking him if he wanted to go back to her place. And Michael was fine at first, just being polite, but then she asked him if he had a girlfriend."
You swallowed hard, staring down at Michael, who was now laying flat on his back, staring up at your ceiling with heavy, glassy eyes. "And what he say?"
"He told her he had you," Marlon snickered, shaking his head. "He said, 'No, I got Y/N.' And the girl goes, 'Who's Y/N? Your sister?' And man... Michael snapped."
"He didn't snap," Jackie corrected. "He got depressed. He grabbed a whole bottle of sweet champagne off the ice bucket, poured himself a full tumbler of scotch from the bar, and started chugging it like it was Kool-Aid!"
"He was mad as hell," Jermaine added, throwing his hands in the air. "He started yelling about how nobody understands, how everybody keeps asking him stupid questions, and then he drank half the bar! Within thirty minutes, he couldn't even stand up! He threw up in the alley behind the club, started crying, and said if we didn't bring him to your house right now, he was gonna jump out the moving car!"
"I—I was gonna," a low, slurred voice mumbled from the sofa.
You looked down. Michael was staring up at you, his eyes bloodshot, heavy-lidded, and completely unfocused. His lower lip was sticking out in a dramatic, childish pout.
"Y/N..." Michael slurred, reaching a long, trembling arm up into the air toward you. "Y/N, tell 'em. Tell 'em to go away. Too loud."
"Michael, you absolute idiot," you gasped, dropping down to your knees right beside the couch. You reached out, taking his lifted hand. His skin was burning hot, his palm sweaty, but the moment his fingers felt yours, he gripped your hand with a terrifying, iron-tight intensity. "What were you thinking?! You can't drink like that! You gonna poison yourself!"
"I don't care," Michael whined, his voice thick and raspy. He pulled on your hand, trying to drag you down onto the couch with him. "I don't care about none of them. I wanted to see you. They wouldn't bring me to you."
"We brought you straight here, you ungrateful little shit!" Jermaine shouted from the foyer. "We drove forty-five minutes with him crying in the backseat calling for 'Y/N'! I'm sick of it!"
"All right, all right, quiet down," Jackie sighed, grabbing Jermaine by the shoulder. "He's her problem now. Y/N, you good? You need us to stay?"
"No," you said, not looking away from Michael, who was now using his free hand to reach up and clumsily cup your face, his thumb smudging across your cheekbone. "No, y'all go ahead. I got him. Just... make sure y'all call me when you get home."
"Good luck," Marlon said, shaking his head as he backed out the door. "He's in a mood, Y/N. A real bad one."
"Bye," Jermaine grunted. "Don't let him choke on his own spit."
“Bye Jermaine I got this!”
The front door clicked shut, leaving the apartment echoing with a heavy, sudden silence.
The only sound left was the pitter-patter of the rain outside and Michael's ragged, heavy breathing.
You sat on the floor, kneeling beside the sofa, looking at him. Michael was ninety-nine percent mess right now. His curls were flattened on one side, his white button-down shirt was unbuttoned at the top three buttons, revealing his chest, and his eyes were glossy and wet as he stared up at you.
"Michael," you said softly, your voice tender despite your annoyance. "You’re an idiot, you know that?"
"Y/N," he slurred, his hand on your face moving down to your neck, his fingers resting over your pulse point. He pulled gently, his dark eyes wide and full of an overwhelming, terrifying emotion. "Come here. Sit down."
"I am sitting down, Mike. I'm right here."
"No," he grumbled, his voice dropping an octave, turning into that quiet, stubborn rumble. "Get up here. With me."
"Mike, you stink like liquor and sweat," you said, trying to laugh it off, though your heart was hammering against your ribs so hard you were sure he could feel it through your neck. "Let me go get a cold towel and fix you some water—"
"No!" Michael yelled suddenly, his grip on your neck tightening—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor you completely. He sat up abruptly, his head swaying slightly as the room spun around him. He wrapped both of his long arms around your waist, dragging you up off the floor and straight into his lap, burying his face into your neck with a deep, shuddering gasp.
"Woah, woah! Michael!" you gasped, trying to balance yourself as you ended up straddling his lap on the couch, your knees planted on either side of his hips.
"Don't get up," Michael whispered, his voice muffled against your throat. He was trembling. You could feel the heat radiating off his body, the frantic beating of his heart right against your chest. "Don't leave me. Please. Don't go away."
"I ain't going nowhere, Mike," you said softly, your hands automatically rising to wrap around his shoulders, holding him steady. "I'm right here. I'm just trying to take care of you baby."
"You always take care of me," he whimpered, his breath hot against your skin. He shifted, pulling back just enough so he could look at your face. His head tilted, his glazed eyes searching every single inch of your features—your forehead, your eyes, your nose, down to your lips.
He looked at you like a fish looking at water.
"Mike... what's wrong with you?" you asked gently, reaching up to push a damp curl out of his eyes. "Why did you drink like that tonight? You know you can't handle that stuff."
Michael let out a sloppy, bitter laugh, shaking his head. "They... they kept talking, Y/N. All of 'em. At the club. The girls... the guys... Jermaine..."
"Talking about you," Michael said, his voice suddenly cracking with a raw, desperate emotion that made your breath catch in your throat. He gripped your waist tighter, his long fingers digging into the plush fabric of your sweatshirt. "They asked me why I don't get a real girlfriend. They asked me why I let you sit around with me all day if we ain't... if we ain't nothing. That I should let you be happy with someone..."
You froze. The room felt entirely still, the sound of the rain fading into the background. "Michael..."
"And then that girl... she touched my arm," Michael continued, his voice shaking, tears suddenly welling up in his dark, glassy eyes, spilling over his eyelashes and tracking down his cheeks. "She touched my arm, Y/N, and it felt wrong. It felt nasty. 'Cause it wasn't your hand. It's never your hand."
You stared at him, your heart dropping into your stomach. "Mike..."
"I hate it!" Michael cried out, a real, heartbroken sob escaping his chest as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. "I hate when people look at you! I hate when that boy from your school calls you! I want to break his face! I want to tell everybody to leave you alone!"
"Michael, why?" you whispered, your own eyes filling with tears as you looked into his broken, beautiful face.
"Because you're mine!" Michael gasped out, the words bursting out of him like a floodgate opening after years of pressure. He was shaking violently now, his hands sliding up your back, gripping your hair, pulling you as close as humanly possible. "You're mine, Y/N! You been mine since we were little kids! I don't want no other girl! I don't want nobody else touching me! I only want you!"
You couldn't speak. You couldn't breathe. The air had completely left your lungs.
"I love you," Michael sobbed, his warm tears wetting your cheeks as he pressed his face into yours. "I'm in love with you! I been in love with you for years, Y/N! Everyone knows it! Jermaine knows it, Jackie knows it, Joseph knows it, my mama knows it! Why don't you know it?! Why you gotta act like we just friends?!"
"Michael..." you choked out, a tear slipping down your own face as you cupped his wet cheeks in your hands. "I didn't... I didn't know you felt like that... I thought—"
"You thought I was just playing?" Michael cried, his voice small, terrified, and utterly vulnerable. He looked right into your eyes, his dark pupils wide. "You think I let anybody else sit in my lap like this? You think I let anybody else hold my hand or kiss on my face? I only let you do it 'cause I want to belong to you! I want you to be my girl!"
He didn't wait for you to answer.
Before you could say another word, Michael leaned in and pressed his lips against yours.
It wasn't like the quick, innocent pecks on the corner of the mouth he had given you on the way out to the studio. It wasn't the playful lingering touches in the kitchen.
It was messy, desperate, and overwhelming. His lips were warm, tasting of sweet champagne and salty tears, pressing against yours with an urgency that made your whole body melt. He kissed you like he was drowning, his fingers tangled deep in your hair, holding your head still while his mouth moved over yours, open and trembling, pouring every single unsaid word, every jealous look, every hidden touch from the last ten years straight into your soul.
You let out a soft gasp against his mouth, and the moment you did, your hands tightened around his neck, pulling him closer, kissing him back with everything you had held inside yourself for just as long.
The moment you kissed him back, a soft, high-pitched whimpering sound broke from Michael's throat. He pulled you even tighter against his chest, deepening the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a slow, agonizing sweetness that made your toes curl. He tasted you, breathed you in, his entire body trembling against yours on the couch.
When he finally pulled back just a fraction to catch his breath, his forehead remained rested against yours. His eyes were closed, his chest heaving, his mouth swollen and wet.
"Don't tell me no," Michael whispered, his voice barely a breath, trembling with pure terror. "Please, Y/N... don't tell me no. I can't... I can't go back to just being your best friend. I'll die. I swear to God I'll die."
You looked at him—at this boy who had shared his juice boxes with you, who had held your hand through every scary moment of his rise to fame, who had loved you so loudly and so obviously that the whole damn world had seen it before you did.
You reached up, gently wiping the tears from his wet cheek with your thumb.
"You big dummy," you whispered, a soft, tearful laugh breaking through your throat. "You really think I'd tell you no?"
Michael's eyes snapped open. He searched your face, wild and desperate. "What?"
"I love you too, Michael," you said, leaning in and pressing a soft, lingering kiss against his lips—slow, sweet, and entirely certain. "I been loving you. I was just waiting on your silly ass to realize it."
Michael stared at you for one long, silent second, his mouth slightly open.
And then, like a child who had just been given the greatest gift in the world, his whole face broke into the radiant, beautiful smile you knew better than anything else in the world. A fresh tear spilled over his eye, but he laughed—a high, joyous, bubbly laugh—and buried his face right into the crook of your neck, wrapping his long arms around your waist so tight you couldn't move.
"You're my girl," he mumbled repeatedly into your skin, his voice muffled, kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone over and over again until you were squirming and laughing in his arms. "You're my girl now. You said it. You can't take it back."
"I ain't taking it back, Mike," you laughed, holding onto his head, feeling the warmth of his body completely covering yours. "Now lay your drunk ass down before you throw up on my carpet."
"No," Michael hummed happily, his voice growing heavy as the alcohol, the emotion, and the sheer relief finally began to drag him under into deep sleep. He pulled you down flat onto the sofa with him, shifting until you were laying completely on top of his chest, his arms locked firmly around your back like a vice. "We staying right here. You're mine."
"I'm yours, Mike," you whispered into the dark room.
He didn't answer—he was already drifting off, his chest rising and falling in a deep, rhythmic pattern beneath you, his face completely peaceful, his hands anchored tight around your waist.
You laid your head down over his heart, listening to the steady, strong rhythm beating inside his chest. The rain continued to fall softly against the glass outside, but inside, wrapped up in the arms of the boy who had always been yours, everything was finally exactly where it was supposed to be.
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AN! The discourse with Jermajesty has been throwing me off. lol this is why I don’t write about him now. And I may not ever will, Idk. We shall see!
