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đđźđđĄđšđ«âđŹ đ§đšđđ. ââ àŒâ§ based on this thought i had at the beginning of the month. i believe it turned out fine .ᣠand way cuter than i thought . . . also, writing a drunk personâs dialogue is harder than i thought it would beđ enjoy .á thank you for reading and for the support .á
đđđ đ đąđ§đ . ââ àŒâ§ @unknwnbrii @moonwalker4you @platanita @holyfujjj @jenniversity @faerieglitter555 @trizixi1 @absdoesnothaveabs @ruby-angel052 @meowswrites @thebrunetteswan @peritinkers @mrsshamone @equallyshaw @hotnmysterious7 @parasolprincss @realgibby @emma3078 @feenin4dietcoke @eternal-life94 @miratate @edna-skiffens @michaelswifejackson @softformj @argentinemango @misscowboyhat @pytforever @a-motherfcking-fish @iwannarockwu @lestatress
ăWHEN MICHAEL CAST one last glance at the clock perched above the fireplace, he let out a tired sigh. The television screen was the only source of light in the room, its images throwing muted colours onto the singerâs exhausted face.
ăIt was almost three oâclock in the morning.
ăMichael was no stranger to sleepless nights â those endless nights when he would sometimes find himself swamped with work. Yet tonight, it wasnât that he lacked the desire to sleep. For once, he was utterly exhausted.
ăBut you still hadnât come home, so there was no way in hell he was going to go to bed without you.
ăHis fingertips rolled over his thighs in a rhythm meant to be comforting and patient. He had been wearing his checked pyjama bottoms and his old white t-shirt ever since you had left the house a good six hours earlier.
ăMichael was slumped on the sofa, a plate of ice cream abandoned on the coffee table, his eyes darting back and forth between Some Like It Hot and the clock, which, over the course of those six long hours, had become his worst enemy.
ăHe felt as though every tick-tock was actually mocking him, a way for it to remind him that you still werenât there and that, despite the hours ticking by, time was passing oh so slowly.
ăMichael had hesitated over whether to hurl the remote control at it or throw it into the fire. He wanted to put a stop to the taunts, but something told him that you wouldnât appreciate him destroying your Canetti, which you had paid a small fortune for to fill that wall that had seemed too bare to you.
ăHe regretted not having invested in a dartboard insteadâŠ
ăThe singer shot another glare at his arch-enemy and, realising that only two minutes had passed, threw his head back, his curls falling limp against the velvet sofa. His stomach seemed to knot up again, and he found his lip caught between his front teeth.
ăYou should have been home at least a good fifteen minutes ago. Not that Michael was keeping tabs on you or expecting you to come home at a set time â no, you were perfectly entitled to have fun, he had complete faith in you â but your friend had phoned him from the bar where you were partying to let him know you were on your way homeâŠ
ăAnd that had been twenty minutes ago.
ăMichael liked to tell himself that he wasnât the sort of boyfriend who made his girlfriend feel as if she were in prison with him but â damn â right at that moment he regretted it.
ăHe should have at least sent Bill.
ăThat was what his mind kept repeating over and over. He should have asked him to come and pick you up to make sure you got home safely, but your friend had told him that you had slipped away in a taxi, and it had been too late to send anyone to fetch you.
ăMichael decided to wait another three short minutes before phoning Bill to ask him to come and pick him up so they could search the whole state for you.
ăIf anything happened to you, it would kill him. You had been his whole world ever since he first met you a few years ago. Love at first sight, Michael had told you, and ever since then, he had been certain that if you looked up love in the dictionary, you would find your name in the definition.
ăYou were going to walk through that door safe and sound, Michael was convinced of it; it couldnât end like this. He took a twentieth deep breath, his foot unconsciously swaying from side to side on the coffee table.
ăWhere the hell were you?
ăThe metallic jingle of keys was enough to dispel the fear that was beginning to gnaw at him in the darkness of the living room.
ăMichael sprang to his feet and raced across the room, his long legs giving him the edge. His hands were trembling slightly as he grabbed the door handle and flung the door open. The wood banged against the wall; there would surely be a mark, but he didnât care.
ăYou had finally made it home safe and sound.
ă"Oh, God thank you," he whispered. "I was getting worried sick, babyâŠ"
ăYou had to cling to the door handle to stop yourself from falling. Your purse had slipped off your shoulder and was now dangling from your wrist, mirroring the pair of heels you were holding in your other hand. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lipstick had smudged and your eyeliner had run slightly at the corners of your eyes. You looked like a mess.
ă"âm fi⊠neâŠ" you hiccuped.
ă"Girl, youâre not fine," Michael chuckled, walking toward you. "Come here, let me help you get to bedâ"
ăYou flinched back, almost falling to the ground as you pressed yourself flat against the door.
ă"Noooooo!" you shouted suddenly. "Back⊠off! I have⊠a boyfriend, mis⊠mister. So⊠shoo!"
ăMichael blinked. He let his arms fall to his sides, his eyebrows gradually furrowing. He glanced behind him, as if to check that there was no one else there whom you might be addressing, before turning his gaze back to you, looking completely confused.
ă"You⊠you what now?"
ă"A boyfriend!" you declared, trying to stand up straighter. "Heâs tall and⊠handsome and str⊠ong⊠and he will⊠beat your ass⊠if you get too close to⊠me."
ăIf you hadnât been so heavily intoxicated, Michael would probably have burst out laughing at the way you were talking. He wasnât sure how you would react if he made fun of your hiccups.
ăHe opened his mouth to try to talk some sense into you, but when he saw how close you were to collapsing to the floor, he decided to take a different approach instead.
ă"Oh, you got a man, huh?" he asked, taking a step closer to catch you just in case â he needed to get you to bed as soon as possible. "Thatâs a real shame, sweetheart. Whatâs he like, this boyfriend of yours?"
ăYou beamed at the question, swaying lightly.
ă"The best⊠sings to⊠to me all the timeâŠ"
ă"Does he now?" Michael mused, taking another step. "And whereâs that man of yours now, mmm?"
ăYou face fell into a pout.
ă"Busy⊠works too muchâŠ" you answered sadly. "⊠but if you try anything heâll ki⊠ck you!"
ăHis amusement gave way to a sense of guilt. Michael knew he was working incredibly hard and was rarely at home these days. He had probably never realised just how much it might be affecting you until tonight, as he saw your eyes fill with tears. Michael panicked for a moment. He didnât want to make you cry â he hated seeing you sad â so he stepped closer and placed a hand on your forearm.
ă"Alright. I hear you, I hear you. Iâm not trying to steal you, I promise. Iâm just here to get you to bed safely. Your man would want you safe, right?"
ăYou looked at him suspiciously for a moment. His black hair curled around his face, with a stray lock resting against his forehead. He was looking at you with four large brown eyes that seemed strangely familiar to you. Surely, that wasnât normal.
ă"You know⊠you kinda look like him⊠like, a little bitâŠ"
ă"Oh yeah?"
ă"YeahâŠ" you nodded, stepping closer. "⊠Same eyes⊠same⊠same smileâŠ" you squinted harder. "⊠but my man is prettier⊠like way prettier⊠no offenseâŠ"
ăMichael let out a laugh.
ă"None taken. Iâm sure he is, baby," he was smiling now. "Come on, pretty girl, let's get you to bed. I promise, I'm just helping, that's all."
ăYou let him guide you, but you kept your distance, your body tense. He led you to the hallway, his hands firm but gentle around your waist. You were mumbling things, your head rolling down to the side opposite his neck. The guy smelled of sandalwood and musk just like your boyfriend and it was enough to send you spiralling.
ă"Miss him sooo much⊠like so, so much⊠you know how much?"
ă"Iâve a feeling youâre about to tell me," he murmured, walking you around a corner.
ă"He has those eyes⊠big, brown, doe eyes that just⊠he looks like Bambi, you know?"
ăMichael flashed you a smile.
ă"From Disney?"
ă"Oh, yeah⊠but Mikeâs waay cuterâŠ" you missed a step. "Love kissing his nose too... so perfect... and his hair⊠so soft⊠he likes when I⊠run my fingers through it⊠he even purrs."
ă"I do not purr," he chuckled sheepishly.
ă"âcourse you donât⊠you donât have nice hair like himâŠ"
ă"Right, right."
ă"... And his hands... things he does with his hands and his mouth, ohâ"
ă"Okay! Okay, wow," Michael cut you in, feeling the heat creeping up his neck. "That's enough detail, don't you think, sweetheart?"
ă"You're just jealous..." you hiccuped. "He's the best... so sweet to me... makes me breakfast in bed and lea... ves notes for me when he goes to wo... rk... and dances with me in the kit... chen..." you let out a lovesick sigh. "Just love him sooo much..."
ăHe gently eased you down onto the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you. Michael was looking at you with such a shy smile that he almost felt childish about it. No one had ever spoken of him as kindly and affectionately as you had.
ăHe knew you loved him, even though you werenât the sort to say it every day. In fact, you hardly ever said it, but he knew. It was written in all the small things you would do like giving him small things that made you think about him for no reasons at all or you staying up all night just to have a chance to see him after a long day at work.
ă"You really love that guy, huh?" he murmured, taking off your shoes delicately.
ă"With my whooole heart..." you patted your chest clumsily.
ă"He's very lucky to have you."
ă"âm luckierâŠ" you hiccuped once more.
ăYou peered down at him, your head tilted at an angle that was giving you a double chin. You could see white teeth flashing at you. Your eyes squinted, trying to focus on his face in the dim light.
ă"You look... familiar..."
ă"Do I?"
ă"Yeah... you kinda look like my Mi... ke... if i close one eye..." you squint harder. "... or both..."
ăMichael laughed at you, putting your shoes aside.
ă"Must be the lighting..." he bit his lips, trying to hide his giddiness. "Handsome guy?"
ă"Very..." you nodded eagerly. "... most handsomest of handsome perfectsome man..."
ă"Girl, that sentence makes no sense!" he threw his head back.
ăYou simply hummed and sank into the mattress, your eyes already fluttering closed.
ăThat was the moment Michael chose to get to his feet. He stood there for a moment, watching your chest rise and fall beneath your dress, which looked far too uncomfortable to sleep in. He would try to take it off you later, though Michael doubted you would let him in your current state. He was about to walk into the bathroom when he felt a hand grip his wrist.
ăHe looked down at you.
ă"Tell him âm home... safe, 'kay? He gets so... worried when I go out... Don't want him to be mad..." you mumbled sleepily.
ă"Don't worry, baby, he's not mad at all," Michael reassured you, sitting on the bed next to you, the back of his fingers caressing your cheek lovingly. "He could never be mad at you."
ă"I know... he likes when I've fun... but... don't want to worry him..."
ă"It's okay, he's not worried anymore, sweetheart, you can sleep," he cooed, his hand never leaving your face.
ăFor a moment, you seemed satisfied with his words, welcoming Morpheus gladly, but the very next second a wrinkle appeared between your eyebrows and your eyes flew open, your pupils almost swallowing your irises.
ă"You need to⊠back off... Told you I had a man... I'll tell him to... kick you..."
ăMichael laughed, pulling his hand away from your warm skin. He raised both hands in a gesture of peace.
ă"Alright, alright. I don't want any trouble."
ăHe got to his feet and continued on his way to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, as he reached for some cotton pads to remove your make-up, Michael looked at himself for a moment. His eyes scanned his face carefully and lingered on his nose. You had called it perfect, and it was true that you loved kissing him in that exact spot. Yet he was often embarrassed when you did it... But now that he had heard your drunken words, Michael couldnât help thinking that perhaps... you were right.
ăHe should see himself more often from your eyes.
ÖŽÖ¶ÖžÛ¶à§ËÖŽ Ë i wanna dance with somebody | michael jackson Û¶à§ËÖŽ Ë
pairing: !1988 m.jackson x !popstar reader
synopsis: you and michael drift apart because of fame, distance, and constant press attention, leaving your situationship unresolved. at the amaâs, your songs become responses to each other and you reconnect backstage.
cw: slight angst and fluff
inspired by: whitney houston - i wanna dance with somebody (who loves me)
ËËđąÖŽà»â a/n: hereâs a draft thatâs been sitting for about two weeks while I write part four of with love! I hope you enjoy ~ not proof read
michael had no idea that you had practically been living in the studio for the past few months. not because he didn't care, he did, but if anything, somewhere between his rehearsals, tours, interviews, and your own endless cycle of recording sessions, photo shoots, and press appearances, the two of you had stopped knowing the little things about each other.
there was never some big fight or dramatic falling out, things had just drifted, slowly. the same way that it always seemed to with the two of you. one missed phone call turned into a week without talking, one canceled plan turned into another, before either of you realized it, months had gone by with nothing but brief conversations and passing mentions through mutual friends.
you and michael had never actually been together, at least not in a way that made sense to anybody else. there was never a conversation about what you were. no official beginning, no labels, just a collection of moments that felt important enough to mean something, even if neither of you ever said it out loud.
there had been late-night phone calls that lasted until the sun started coming up, studio sessions where michael would show up unannounced and somehow stay for hours, award shows where you would spend half the night talking in some quiet corner while everyone else danced around you. the kind of moments that would've looked obvious to anyone watching.
whenever things got close to becoming something real, life got in the way. michael would leave for another city. you would disappear into recording. there was always another schedule, obligation, or reason to put things off until later.
after a while, you stopped trying to figure out what the two of you were. it was exhausting caring about someone so much while never really knowing where you stood with them. exhausting waiting for things to line up at the right time when the right time never seemed to come.
so you threw yourself into work instead.
the studio became your escape. it was the one place where you didn't have to think about unanswered questions or missed opportunities. you could sit behind a microphone for twelve hours straight and focus on nothing except the music. and lately, that was exactly what you'd been doing.
especially the press. they never let anything between you breathe without turning it into a headline.
at first, it had been easy to ignore. you would meet at events, after parties, studio sessions. there would be laughter, lingering conversations and moments that felt like they meant more than either of you were willing to say out loud. but over time, those moments became harder to reach. and silence started filling the space where consistency shouldâve been.
you stopped waiting and started going to the studio more. it was the only place where your thoughts didnât get interrupted by schedules, assistants, or the feeling of being half in someone life.
thatâs how âi wanna dance with somebodyâ happened. it wasnât meant to be a statement, it was meant to be something you could survive in. a bright song on the surface, something people could play in cars and clubs and forget their problems for a few minutes. but underneath it, it was about distance, about wanting someone who didnât feel like they were always halfway out the door, wanting love that didnât disappear every time life got busy.
you didnât write it thinking of michael directly. but you also didnât not think of him. that was the problem with whatever you were.
he was always somewhere in it.
you werenât even sure youâd put it out. you played it back in the studio more times than you could count, sitting on the edge of the console chair while kyle, the producer, leaned against the wall watching you spiral.
âyouâre overthinking it againâ he said eventually.
âiâm notâ you replied immediately.
mike raised an eyebrow. âyouâve rewritten the last line seven times in an hour.â
you frowned. âthat doesnât mean anything.â
âit means youâre scared,â he said simply.
that made you go quiet because he wasnât wrong. the fear wasnât about the song being bad. it was about it being too honest for something that was never defined in the first place.
âwhat if people read too much into it?â you finally said.
kyle shrugged. âthey always do.â
you released it and then immediately regretted thinking you could control what it would become.
at this point, you just woken up from a deep sleep, the kind that feels like itâs been stolen from you because your body finally stopped resisting exhaustion.
your eyes stung when the light hit them, your hair was a mess, and your brain still lagging behind reality.
then your phone started ringing, and didnât stop. call after call. messages stacking, notifications vibrating across your nightstand like something urgent had happened overnight.
âhello?â your voice came out rough, still stuck in sleep.
âfinally,â your friendâs voice shot through immediately. âiâve been calling you for ten minutes.â
you sat up slowly. âwhy are you yelling at me?â
âbecause your song is everywhere,â she said, like that shouldâve been obvious.
you blinked. âwhich one?â
a pause, then, louder âare you serious? i wanna dance with somebody.â
you went still.
ââŠokay.â
âitâs blowing upâ she continued quickly. âradio, clubs, charts. everyoneâs talking about it. andâŠâ
she hesitated, and that pause made your stomach tighten slightly.
âand what?â you asked.
âmichael heard it.â
your grip on the phone shifted.
ââŠright.â
your friend didnât stop.
âand not just heard it. people are saying heâs reacting to it.â
you frowned slightly. âreacting how?â
âhe didnât ignore it.â
you sat up a little straighter now.
ââŠwhat did he do?â
your friend exhaled.
âhe made something.â
silence. you already knew before she said it again.
âa song,â she finished.
your voice dropped without you meaning it to.
âwhat song?â
âi canât stop loving you.â
and suddenly, the space between you and the phone felt too small for what that meant.
the amaâs didnât feel like an award show when you arrived. it felt like waiting. like everyone had already decided something was going to happen, they just didnât know exactly when.
backstage was too busy to feel normal. too many people walking just a little too slowly when you passed. too many conversations cutting off mid-sentence.
âdid you see the songsââ
âapparently heâs hereââ
âtheyâre both performing tonightââ
no one finished the sentence. they didnât need to.
your performance came first.
âi wanna dance with somebodyâ hit the stage like it always did. bright, polished, alive. the crowd moved instantly.
but you didnât feel the usual distance between you and them tonight because you could feel something else.
eyes. not just the audience, but michaelâs.
you didnât see him at first, not clearly. but you felt the shift in your focus anyway, and when you turned slightly during the second chorus, you saw him.
standing just off-stage sightline, not sitting, not blending in, just watching like he couldnât not be there. not like a celebrity watching a show. like someone watching something they already knew the meaning of.
your breath caught, but you didnât miss a beat. the cameras caught him too. the reaction in the arena shifted immediately.
people noticed, people always notice.
backstage after your set, your assistant shoved a phone into your hand.
âlook,â they said.
on screen, clips were already circulating of you performing and michael watching. the cut lasting just a fraction too long.
you stared at it. ââŠthatâs going to be everywhere,â you said quietly.
âit already is,â they replied.
then it was his turn.
the energy in the room changed before he even stepped out. someone near you whispered, âthis is going to be about you.â
you didnât answer because you already knew.
the opening notes of âi canât stop loving youâ felt different from anything else in the night. not loud, showy, but intentional. and somewhere in the middle the camera found you.
standing near the side again, but you didnât move away fast enough and neither did the broadcast.
the cut stayed long enough for it to matter. long enough for everyone to understand what they were looking at.
when the song ended, the applause was delayed, somehow like the room had to remember how to react. you were already moving on instinct. backstage corridors blurred past too fast. too bright, and too many people stepping aside when they saw your face until you turned a corner and stopped.
he was there waiting like he had been the entire night for you.
michael looked up immediately when you appeared.
âyou watched it.â he said softly.
you nodded once. âi watched you.â
then you added quieter âyou didnât have to do that.â
he shook his head slightly. âyes, i did.â
you frowned a little. âwhy?â
âbecause i was tired of pretending i didnât hear you in everything you wrote.â
that made you stop because that wasnât press, that wasnât a headline, that was him.
you exhaled slowly. âand what am i supposed to do with that?â
michael stepped closer, not closing the space completely, just enough that everything shifted.
âdonât decide tonight.â he said.
you looked at him. âthen when?â
his eyes stayed on yours.
âwhen youâre not angry at how much it still means.â
that hit differently because you werenât angry, at least not anymore. just scared of what it meant to admit it out loud. you swallowed slightly.
ââŠyou made it real.â you said.
he gave a small, almost tired smile.
âit already was.â
a long silence followed, then you said it, finally honest in a way neither of you had been for too long:
âi didnât stop thinking about you. i just stopped knowing what to do with it.â
that made his expression shift immediately.
âyeah,â he said quietly. âme too.â
and for the first time all night, neither of you turned away first.
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america's sweetest feud (michael jackson x popstar!reader)
summary: the tabloids have painted them as rivals, (y/n) thinks michael hates her (and that he's an asshole!), and michael is simply shy, too shy, when it comes to talking to the princess of soul
or,
the story of how the king of pop and the princess of soul go from being rivals (were they even really rivals at all?) to friends to lovers
warnings: medical emergency (not detailed), canon(?) inaccuracy (tried very hard to stick to mj's real-life events and timeline, but there might be some inconsistencies), music industry inaccuracy? (i know very little of music, but i did my best i promise!)
word count: 18k-ish (longest fic i've ever written, i think i was quite literally possessed or smth)
a/n: bro never in my life would i have thought i would be writing about the one and only mister michael jackson, but this man has taken over my life lmao and i have absolutely no control once an idea strikes so here's my humble contribution to the mj fics! hope u enjoy <3
(quick disclaimer: this is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only. it is written with respect for michael jackson and it does not claim to accurately depict his life. the portrayal of michael is based on my own perception of him.)
INSIDE THE MUSIC INDUSTRY'S MOST FASCINATING FEUD
by Simone Faulk
Hollywood loves a good-old rivalry. Elvis had Boone. The Beatles had the Rolling Stones. And now, music may have found its newest and biggest battle yet: Michael Jackson and (Y/N) (Y/L/N). The King of Pop vs. The Princess of Soul.
Everywhere one goes, the other somehow follows. The two biggest names in todayâs music industry have spent the last few years locked in an endless race for dominance, battling over award nominations, album sales, concert attendance, you name it! If thereâs a music milestone to achieve, they are there!
"It is, in every sense of the word, a two-horse race," an industry executive commented. "But who will come out on top? That I cannot say."
It is hard, trying to measure them up against each other. After all, when Jackson shattered records with his album 'Thriller' and swept the award season, (Y/L/N) responded with her 'Recognition' tour, selling out stadiums from Los Angeles to London and setting a new historical attendance record. And, when (Y/L/N) released 'Midnight Confessions', a six-time platinum blockbuster that produced four Top 10 singles and spent twenty consecutive weeks in the Top 5, it didn't take long for Jackson to answer with the release of the âBillie Jeanâ music video, effectively taking over MTV, reclaiming the headlines, and reminding the industry why he remains the standard by which every pop star is measured.
That is, in essence, the story of Michael Jackson and (Y/N) (Y/L/N): neither stays ahead for too long. Time and time again, one artist's triumph is met by an equally impressive response from the other.
Despite their contrasting styleâof which we could talk about endlessly (turn to page 6 for more on that topic!)âthe similarities between these two young musicians has become impossible to ignore. Both started performing at a remarkably young age, both possess what seems to be an effortless ability to captivate audiences around the globe, both are on their way of transcending music itself, and they both continue to compete for the same prizes, the same headlines, and the same place at the top of the industry.
Whether the rivalry exists only in the minds of fans and reporters, or behind closed doors as well, one thing is certain: no two stars shine brighter in today's music world than Michael Jackson and (Y/N) (Y/L/N). And, as the decade marches on, the question remains: when the history books are finally written, whose name will stand tallest?
BAD BLOOD IN HOLLYWOOD! Michael and (Y/N)âs Secret Feud Exposed!
and
CAUGHT ON CAMERA! THE ICY-COLD MOMENTS BETWEEN THE MUSICâS BIGGEST STARS
and
The Smiles Are FakeâSources Say the Rivalry is Real
oh, and (Y/N)âs absolute favorite so far
EXCLUSIVE: (Y/N) (Y/L/N) TALKS ABOUT WHY SHE CANâT STAND MICHAEL JACKSON
(She really wants to know who they spoke to, because it certainly was not her.)
Itâs annoying, such an obvious sham, and of course everyone falls for it. The public loves it, the rumors, the whispers, the juicy gossip. There is something enticing about a battle of giants, she supposes, the taller they stand, the harder they fall.
If someone were to askânot that anyone every would, if you donât ask, you donât get direct answer, and without direct answer you can make up just about anything without technically lyingâ(Y/N) would vigorously deny hating Michael Jackson. Hate is too much of a strong word, it carries too much weight, settles too heavy. Hate implies passion which requires effort and those are two things Michael Jackson does not evoke from her.
Heavily dislikes, now thatâs more accurate, describes pretty accurately how she truly feels about Michael freaking Jackson. This, however, she would never admit. Her media training would never allow itâsheâs almost certain some perfectly crafted response would fall out of her lips if she dared tryâand Thomas Allen, her darling, sweet manager and publicist, would no doubt throttle her to death if she ever uttered the words âI donât like Michael Jacksonâ or anything of the sorts to anyone other than him. Oh, his nagging would be relentless. (Y/N) would rather avoid that.
But if she were to ever admit it, talk about the ugly feelings that fester at the bottom of her chest when she thinks too hard about Michael Jacksonânot that she does that often or anythingâshe would be adamant on the fact that they have nothing to do with the phoney rivalry the tabloids have fabricated. No, (Y/N) does not care about Michael Jacksonâs wins and awards and achievements, she does not care about the fact that their careers seem to constantly eclipse each other, following trajectories that are so similar it is almost eerie, she does not even mind the constant comparisonâfor all she dislikes him, (Y/N) cannot deny his talent, cannot deny he is one of the best to ever be, and she likes being in league with the best. (Y/N) (Y/L/N) heavily dislikes Michael Jackson because he, like almost every other man in the music industry, is an asshole.
(Y/N) vividly remembers the day she met Michael Jackson.
Hands down the most disappointing day of her life.
(Okay, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but she does recall deflating, just a little, after meeting him for the first time, nervousness quickly melting into something cold and paralyzing. Maybe not the most disappointing days of her life, but top ten for sure.)
The things is, (Y/N) had been a big fan of Michael prior to meeting him. Sheâd felt that they kind of grown up together, in an odd sort of way. After all, theyâd lived these two bizarre parallel livesâtwo kids thrown to the wolves to be devoured whole, childhood memories filled with music and work and pressure, so much pressure. Theyâd orbited each other, even back then, moving close but never meeting, like the universe knew better than allowing them to collide. And yet, despite not knowing him, (Y/N) would hear Michael Jackson on the radio, his voice fading in after hers would fade out, songs overlapping for the briefest of moments, and she would see him on TV, dancing and singing with his brothers, and some sense of fondness would bloom in her chest, a kinship built on that innocence that only children can have. If he performed like she did and was managed by his father like she was and lived on the road like she did, then they already had so much in common. They could be friends! As a child, (Y/N) had dreamt of meeting him. She hadnât had many friends back then, much less friends who understood what her life was truly like.
But they never met. Not really. They saw each other, of course. As children at local stage and regional theaters and later, as they got older and their careers began to really gain traction, at music events and industry parties. It was only logical, for them to catch brief glimpses of each other, they ran in the same social circles, worked with some of the same people, had a few acquaintances in common. So they knew of each other, sure, but had never been properly introduced, never exchanged a single word.
And then came that fateful day.
Their first interaction should have never happened. (Y/N) was not supposed to be anywhere near Quincy Jonesâs studio that day, she was supposed to be recording the music video for her latest single. But her director had cancelled last minute, something about a family emergency, and when she tried to start working on the last song for her albumâthe one thatâd been giving her a massive headache, stubbornly refusing to cooperate, apparently hell bent on tormenting herâsheâd found out her music director had mistakenly left some of her demos at Qâs studio.
And thatâs how she ended up there, awkwardly standing in a hallway covered with platinum records and framed photographs as she waited for Beth, Quincy Jonesâs very nice executive assistant, to retrieve the demos for her.
When sheâd heard footsteps coming down the hall, sheâd expected to see Beth. (Y/N) had turned, mouth ready to express her gratitude for the thousandth time, and had stopped short when sheâd seen him. Michael Jackson, in all his glory, standing right in front of her. (Y/N) had never felt awestruck the way she did at that moment, a weird fluttering creeping into her stomach.
Michael had frozen mid-step, too, when heâd caught sight of her.
For a second, theyâd just stood there. Two teenagers staring dumbly at each other.
Then heâd spoken, and the first words Michael Jackson ever said to her had been, âWhat are you doing here?â
(Y/N) had flinched, caught off guard by the curtness of his tone. Sheâd stuttered, like an absolute fool, âUmâ Iâ I am picking up some⊠stuff?â
Michael had looked at her, unblinking, for a long moment, his face twisted in some detached expression she couldnât quite decipher.
âI am (Y/N) (Y/L/N),â sheâd said, offering him her hand and trying to shake off the initial aloofness of their conversation. âIt's so nice to finally meet you.â
âI know who you are,â had been his response. Itâd come out very dismissive, and (Y/N) had felt her stomach tighten with unease.
Sheâd shifted a little, awkwardness slowly creeping in. Sheâd gone to pull her hand away, certain that he wouldnât shake it, and it was at that moment that Michael seemed to pay it any mind. Heâd looked at it, briefly, before hastily reaching for it, shaking it firmly before cringing away.
A few seconds of painful silence ticked by. (Y/N) had found herself praying that Beth would hurry and interrupt whatever this thing was, she could feel the awkwardness in every bone in her body.
âI should go,â Michael had mumbled, after it became evident neither of them was about to start speaking again. Looking everywhere but at her, heâd side-step her, and simply walked off.
âWhat the hell was that?â Sheâd whispered to herself, the remnants of the conversation enough to keep her feeling off-kilter.
Later that week, sheâd found out that heâd been working on a new solo album with Quincy, Off the Wall, and so, sheâd chalked off the weirdness of their interaction to stress.
But the weird interactions just kept happening.
Now that sheâd met Michael, talked to him, (Y/N) couldnât seem to escape him. It was as if the universe, which had fought very hard to keep them apart for so long, had suddenly decided it was no longer necessary to do so. It appeared to now be playing the âletâs throw them together at every given opportunityâ game, much to (Y/N)âs dismay.
Every interaction was painful. (Y/N) tried, she really did, but she was always met his terse words and clipped answers. Michael would look at her and go all stiff, like he would rather be anywhere else than around her. He was never cruel or mean, just cold and indifferent, like he was too good to spend time talking to her.
It took her a while to understand that his whole problem with her was her.
Because Michael seemed to have no issue talking to other peopleâexecutives, producers, actors and celebrities. He would easily make small talk, exchange stories, share a quick laugh. For whatever reason, he would only turn frosty with her.
It grew old very quickly. The way he dismissed her, so offhandedly, stopped being confusing and became annoying, really annoying.
(She spent years being cast asideâbecause she was a little, whiny girl, her voice too pitchy, too deep, too soft, because she was not pretty enough, not tall enough, not smart enough, not talented enoughâand she worked hard, paid with blood, sweat and tears, to not be looked down upon. When Michael did this thing of his, of giving her a tense, polite nod and then immediately avoiding eye contact, like the mere idea of talking to her sickened him, (Y/N) felt small. And sheâd worked hard to leave the pain and embarrassment of not feeling good enough in the past.)
And all that anger, once she rationalized it, mellowed into displeasure.
So now (Y/N) finds herself disliking Michael Jackson as much as he dislikes her, maybe even more.
She finds him to be absolutely insufferable.
And finding Michael Jackson to be insufferable is nothing if not an uphill battle. Because everyoneâliterally everyoneâ in the industry adores him. They have nothing but good things to say about the guy. Theyâll insist that heâs sweet and shy and gentle, and every time (Y/N) hears it she isnât sure if she wants to laugh or pull out her hair. Because yes, he is sweet and shy and gentle with everyone but her. Sometimes she wonders if itâs all in her head, if sheâs going insane, if sheâs meeting and entirely different Michael Jackson, but then she sees him again, at some award or dinner party, and she's met with short, stilted answers and that odd unreadable expression on his face.
It drives her mad.
On her lowest momentsâof which, she must admit, she is ashamed aboutâ, she wishes he was mediocre, talentless. That way she could dismiss him entirely, shake off whatever is wrong with him, roll her eyes and move on. But no, she canât do that, because the universe hates her and God evidently has favorites and He decided to give Michael Jackson the ability to breathe magic into music. It is unbearable, his talent. (Y/N) would die before admitting this, but sometimes, just sometimes, she sits on the couch and plays his music and obsesses over his vocal arrangements. Then, she fumes, annoyed over the fact that the man is a genius.
A genius that is so utterly unimpressed with her.
(That, too, might be something that bothers her more than sheâs willing to admit. Not because she wants his approvalâalthough would it be too bad if she did? everyone considers that she is at his level, but does he agree? she hates that, in some way, that matters to herâbut because sheâs built her career to a point where everyone else gives it so freely. Not everyone might like her, but they respect her music. Michael doesnât give the slightest indication of caring about either.)
(Y/N) wishes he would just come out and say it, that he finds her unremarkable, or doesnât like her character, or whatever it is that he so evidently dislikes about her. It would certainly make things easier; it would pull her out of this eternal limbo of unease. (Sheâs always so sure about how to act and what to say. With him, it is impossible to guessâwill she get a tight-lipped smile and a polite nod? will she be completely ignored, avoided even?âand it makes her feel unsteady. She hates unsteady.) Of course, that never happens. Michael, after all, has an image to maintain. The proper, gentlemanly image, a man who would never speak ill of a fellow musician. So (Y/N) is left to deal with this weird tension that follows them everywhere.
Whatever. So what if Michael Jackson ignores her at every public event? So what if he acts all strange and awkward when theyâre in the same room? She doesnât care. Really. She doesn't. Caring would require effort, and (Y/N) does not spend effort on just anyone, much less Michael Jackson.
There are days when (Y/N) heavily dislikes her job. And it is odd, because even when sheâs loathing it, when she would rather chew chalk than see one more music sheet, part of her, a big part of her, still loves what she does.
Itâs the reason sheâs still at the studio at half past three in the morning, even when sheâs been unable to write for days.
The thing is, being a musician is fun, until it isnât. Composing is great, until the beat and lyrics that have been bouncing around in your head relentlessly for weeks refuse to come out. It isnât often that she suffers from this musical diseaseâa creative block, some may call it, but she likes to be dramaticâbut whenever she does (Y/N) is plagued by headaches. She enters a never-ending loop of trying, and failing, to translate whatâs going on in her head into the real world. It is frustrating and the more annoyed she gets the less she's able to create and the more her head pounds.
A true dilemma for someone who doesnât know when to quit and likes to push through the pain.
(Y/N) sighs, laying on the ground and staring at the ceiling. With one hand she hold an ice pack to her head, just over her right eye. The other plays with a pencil, fingers twisting it around in circles.
She is tired. She also desperately needs to finish this song. She can hear it out perfectly in her headâthe ad-libs, the baseline, the pianoâbut when she strums the guitar the melody doesnât come out right. Self-control is the only reason she hasn't smashed her head against a wall. That and the fact that it already hurts enough.
Knowing that she will not get anything done if she lets herself keep cycling over the same thoughts, she drops the pencil and carelessly twists around on the floor, reaching upward to grab the remote control that she left by the mixer. It tumbles downward and, even in her sleep deprived mind, she manages to catch it before it slams against the ground. She huffs out in satisfaction, giving herself a mental pat in the back. At this moment sheâll take any small victory she can take, preventing the smashing of the remote control included. Itâs pathetic. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Her sudden movement makes some of the papers sheâd rested over her stomach fall to the ground beside her. She wishes they would disappear, stop haunting her. Better yet, she wishes the bridge of the song would write itself.
The TV that has been playing mutely in the background comes to life. (Y/N) allows the chatter of voices to fill the studio as she resumes her previous position and stares, hard, at the ceiling. Little droplets of water trail down her cheek, courtesy of the melting ice pack, and she wills herself to relax. Her thumb, as if having a mind of its own, presses the control's buttons, surfing through channels without any real purpose, as she tries to disengage from the world around her.
Itâs a testament of the terrible state of her mind, and a probable indication that she is losing whatever sanity she has left, that she doesnât recoil, doesnât immediately switch to the next channel, when she hears a familiar voice. Michaelâs voice is distinctive, soft and melodic. Usually, it fills her with dread and something akin to annoyance. Sheâs surprised when she reaches deep within herself and comes up empty. Against her better judgmentâbecause, really, she knows better than to engage with any sort of celebrity media, especially Michael'sâ she sits up and watches the rerun of his interview.
(It's annoying, that despite not liking him she is not immune to the gravitational pull of him, his natural charisma. Michael is like the Sun and everyone around him, (Y/N) included, is Icarus, willing to burn for a flicker of warmth. She detests it and yet, she watches.)
âYou and your brothers are about to set out on the 'Victory Tour',â the interviewers says and that's almost enough to make (Y/N) turn her TV offâbecause she knows the words that are going to come out of the interviewerâs mouth next, the inevitable comparison that follows them everywhereâ, but she doesnât, because she is curious. It was certainly a choice to decide to tour with his brothers after producing his biggestâand best, (Y/N) has to admit that 'Thriller' is really freaking goodâalbum to date. âIt is projected to be the highest-grossing tour, surpassing (Y/N)âs 'Recognition' tour'.â And there is it. âHow do you feel about that?â
(Y/N) wonders, as she shifts the ice pack from her right eye to her left one and rests back against the couch, if Michael ever tires of it, the way everything they do always ties back to the other. Sometimes, she does. It is hard, having every single detail of your career inspected and dissected and compared to someone elseâs.
She awaits his response, expecting the perfectly manicured PR words to fall from his lipsâhow she did a good job, how him and his brothers are trying to go for something different, bigger and unique, the subtle shift back to his own musicâbut it doesnât come.
He looks genuinely confused, âWhat do you mean?â
âWell, with the rivalry thing going on between you guys, how do you feel about beating her in this?â
âRivalry?â It sounds so demeaning that even the interviewer laughs in disbelief. Michael looked genuinely perplexed, like he cannot fathom the comparison between them.
What a dick.
Honestly, this is what (Y/N) gets for breaking her own unspoken rule of not consuming Michael Jackson media.
In the screen, Michael opens his mouth, but (Y/N) switches the channel before she can hear him utter another word.
That annoyance she hadnât felt a couple of minutes before makes itself present. (Y/N) looks down to her rumbled music sheets, at the annotations in the corners. The dismissive words (what rivalry?) replay over and over in her mind. She lets the ice pack, now barely even cool, drop against the ground. The sound resonates around the studio and, out of nowhere, triggered by the loud thud and those damned words, something clicks in her brain.
âOh my God,â she mumbles to herself, almost gleefully, as she lurches forward for her notepad.
She spends the rest of the early morning mixing, composing, trying out different beats.
And if Michaelâs words act as somewhat of an inspiration, she keeps that to herself.
TOUR WAR!
by Jaime Vynn
The Jacksons are preparing what insiders are calling the most ambitious concert tour in music history.
There's only one problem: (Y/N) got there first.
Last year's 'Recognition' Tour shattered attendance records, sold out stadiums across multiple continents and generated enough revenue to make industry executives dizzy.
Now, Jackson appears ready to challenge those numbers.
The question everyone is asking is, can he do it?
(turn to page 3 to read more!)
(Y/N) has decided, as the mature adult that she is, that avoiding Michael is the only viable option left.
He very much does not care about her and she is tired of being filled with a terrible sense of dread and uneasiness whenever she's attending an event she knows he will be at. (She knows the root of those emotions, much as she likes to ignore it. Sheâd realized it late one night, as sheâd furiously scribbled lyrics on a ketchup-stained napkin in the corner booth of her favorite diner. Itâs not being disliked that bothers her or being in the receiving end of scorn and contempt, she is much too used to that. It is having the coldness come from a person she, begrudgingly, admires, a person that everyone else regards as warm.)
She is tired of trying to figure the whole thing out, of trying to figure him out, of overthinking every interaction and feeling unsteadyâshe really does hate feeling unsteadyâ, so she just starts mimicking his actions.
Sheâs subtle with it, too. Gracefully avoids any possible interaction, tries to stay as far away from him as societal, and music industry, norms allow.
Four months in, sheâs going a great job, if she does say so herself.
Tonight, (Y/N) has managed to successfully avoid being anywhere near Michael a total of four times (a new record!). Sheâs about to move away from a conversation, having caught Michael in the periphery of her vision, when she catches Thomas glaring at her from across the room.
(Y/N) knows, immediately, that her attempts at having some peace of mind have not gone unnoticed are not being well-received.
She cringes to herself, smile faltering ever so slightly.
Tom is an angel. He's been by her side for ages, as long as she can remember. There are few people who truly care about herâ (Y/N) as a person, not as a celebrity or a symbol or a money-making machineâ, and Tom is undoubtedly one of them. The man practically raised her, he is probably more of a dad than her father ever was, and (Y/N) loves him. Up until the point where he tries to speak reason into her and starts making sense. Then (Y/N) sort of wants to fire him. Why must he have her best intentions at heart? It's so annoying.
He gives her another pointed look, and tilts his head, subtly, toward one of the side exits. (Y/N) knows that look, knows that signal. He wants to have some words with her, in private.
Great.
Trying not to draw much attention to herselfâsomething she's not really ever been successful at, especially not tonight, since her stylist decided to go all out and dressed her in a beautiful, deep emerald silk that hugs every curve and catches the light every time she movesâ(Y/N) politely excuses herself from the conversation she was already planning on extracting herself from and begins to cross the room.
The room blurs into movement around her. Conversation, laughter, music. Famous people, powerful people, the type who shape careers with a single phone call, all around. It smells like flowers and money and (Y/N) really wants to go home. Everything to avoid being reprimanded by Tom. The man might be an angel, but he's also the tough-love kind of guy, somewhat intimidating when he wants to be. He says it like he sees it, no filters and absolutely no sugarcoating.
People stop her along the way, and she takes her sweet time with every interaction, smiling and exchanging pleasantries. (Y/N) can feel Tomâs stare burning a hole through the side of her face. Apparently, sheâs not being subtle about wanting to delay this as much as possible and heâs not planning on relenting.
By the time she reaches him, heâs already moving, heading toward one of the side hallways without looking back.
Anxiety twists in her stomach. Itâs not like she was doing a bad thing. Sheâll be fine.
Tom stops near a tall window overlooking the city, Los Angeles stretching endlessly below them. He waits for her to join him before turning around.
Okay, maybe she will not be fine.
He doesnât look angry. Irked, is a better word for it, and Tom has had enough years to master that look to make it deadly efficient. (Y/N) has been on the receiving end of what she calls his 'disappointed dad' look many times before and not once has it ever failed to make her feel guilty.
âYou need to stop it,â he says, arms crossed over his chest.
(Y/N) squirms under his stare, just a little, before mirroring his position, âStop what exactly?â
He arches his eyebrow, a very clear do not play with me, girl.
âAvoiding Michael,â he specifies, even though there is no real need for it. (Y/N) knows what he is talking about and Tom knows she is just being difficult for the sake of it. âThe press is beginning to whisper about how it looks intentional.â
(Y/N) rolls her eyes. Well, duh, because it is.
âWhy does it matter, anyway?â she asks, âLet them talk. God knows theyâre already having a field day with the supposed rivalry thing we have going on.â A thing Michael had made very clear did not exist. He was too good for her.
Tom studies her for a second, and when he speaks again his tone is sterner, âGet out of your head, kid, and think. Do you really want to feed the beast? You always talk about how you feel like the press makes it seem as if you live in Michaelâs shadow,â (Y/N) opens her mouth to interrupt him, because those words have never left her mouth, but Tom raises a hand, âI know you, (Y/N). I can see it. You donât have to say it for me to know.â He knows her too well, it is an unfair fight. âThis thing youâve got going on will only make it worse. It will be all people will talk about. It will overshadow your music. Is that what you want?â This is what (Y/N) means when she says she hates when he starts talking sense. Why canât he just let her be petty, for once?
She sighs, frustrated, âWhat do you want me to do? Go up to him and strike a conversation? It's impossible! The man hates me!â
âHe does not hate you,â Tom says, placating, like sheâs a child. She does feel like a child, complaining to her father about the most stupid thing ever.
âPardon me if I disagree.â
âWhere did you even get that silly idea from?â Tom asks and (Y/N) swears that thereâs an amused glint in his eyes, one heâs trying very hard to hide, the one that always shows when he knows something she doesnât. (Y/N) really wants to fire him. âYou've spoken no more than six sentences to him!â
âAnd that was more than enough, trust me.â She breathes deeply, trying to get the simmering annoyance under control. Words keep spilling from her mouth, anyway. âHe looks at me like I killed his pet monkey or something.â
Tom lets out a startled laugh.
âHe does!â She exhales out and allows what she knows to be true to tumble out of her lips, spoken out loud for the first time. âAnd he has no respect for me, or my music, and heâs openly dismissive and always so short with me and it is unbelievably irritating. So, yeah, I know avoiding him is childish, but please, Thomas, do try to understand that I am doing this for my own mental health.â
Sheâs begging, but Tom is not looking at her anymore. Heâs looking over her shoulder.
His face morphs and he allows the amusement to fill his eyes completely.
(Y/N)âs stomach drops.
Oh, no.
Tom finds her eyes again, smiles cheekily. The audacity of this old man.
âI am going to get a drink.â He goes to move away, and (Y/N), quite desperately, grabs the edges of his sleeve to prevent him from leaving her. It is pathetic and ineffective.
âDo. Not. Leave. Me.â She mouths, eyes pleading.
âTalk. To. Him.â He parrots back, using the same whisper-shouting tone, and leaves.
What a traitor.
With dread, (Y/N) turns around and, yeah, just like she guessed, Michael is standing there, looking somewhat awkward. He rubs the back of his neck, nods his head at Tom as he makes his way past him and then looks back at her.
Oh, she hopes this one goes better than that one did.
(Y/N) opens her mouth, probably to blabber some nonsense, but he beats her to it.
âI needed some quiet,â he explains, words falling from his mouth in quick succession. âIt gets too loud sometimes, you know? And I just... well, I didnât mean to eavesdrop.â
Any hope she had that he, by some sort of miracle, hadnât heard them, immediately evaporates. God truly has favorites and she is, at the moment, apparently not on the list.
(Y/N) sighs, closing her eyes and rubbing her temple, where a headache is beginning to bloom. She feels like she's twelve again, caught doing something she shouldn't. It's embarrassing.
âIâm sorry,â is all she can say when she finds the willpower to meet his eyes again. âI shouldnât be...â Talking about you? Complaining that you very evidently hate me? She's not sure what sheâs going to say, but, once again, Michael beats her to it.
âI donât hate you,â he blurts out.
She stills, eyebrows furrowing in confusion, because thatâs not what sheâd been expecting from him at all. Sheâs actually surprised heâs still here, talking to her.
Michael shifts, from one foot to another, and (Y/N) catches a glimpse of that person everyone talks about, the one sheâs never been privvy to. Shy, gentle Michael.
âItâs okay if you do, you donât have to lie,â she responds, somewhat hesitant and a bit uncertain, like she is unsure if she should be providing reassurance on whether itâs okay to dislike her after just complaining about that.
âIâm not lying.â
She lets out a soft laugh, not particularly amused, âWell, I mean, you did say that thing, so excuse me if I donât particularly believe you.â
It's Michaelâs turn to look confused. âWhat thing?â
(Y/N) blinks, âAbout the rivalry?â
He stares at her for a long second, eyes completely blank, and (Y/N) realizes, with a start, that he has no idea what sheâs talking about, probably does not even remember the comment he made, the disdain that had coated his words.
(Y/N) shakes her head, âForget about it.â
âNo, no, wait. What rivalry thing?â
âIt doesnât matter.â She wants to extract herself from this conversation, have the earth swallow her whole, but Michael is looking at her intently and she caves, speaking fast to try to outrun the embarrassment thatâs began to prickle her skin. âThere was an interview. They were asking about the tour, wanted to know how you felt about beating me with the rivalry thing going on. You said something along the line of there being no rivalry.â
âBecause there isnât?â
And there it is, but he doesnât sound arrogant or dismissive when he says it. Not this time. That odd blank look he always gives her is also gone. Itâs like the confusion of this whole conversation has laid him bare for her.
âBecause you donât respect my music enough to consider me to be competition, right.â She's not sure why she says it. Maybe she wants to take a dig at him, pinch and hurt the way heâs done with her many times in the past, but the words come out too soft for that, somewhat vulnerable.
Apparently, confusion has laid her bare, too.
For a second, Michael only stares at her.
âWhat?â
And now it's her turn to stare at him, because what does he mean what?
He shakes his head and, as realization settles in, his eyes go wide, âOh my God. No, no, no. Thatâs notââ He runs a hand through his curls, looking distressed.
(Y/N) cannot do anything but just keep staring, eyebrows raised.
âWhy would you think that?â He seems genuinely appalled at the conclusion she has arrived to and (Y/N) cannot help the disbelieving, startled laugh that comes out of her lips.
âAre you serious?â
âYes!â Exasperation bleeds into his tone and then shifts to something kinder, âHow?â The question sounds almost pained.
(Y/N) blinks at him, parrots back his own question, âHow?â
Michael nods, âHow did you get that from what I said?â
(Y/N) stares at him and Michael stares right back. Itâs the first time they've ever held eye contact for longer than a second. The longest conversation theyâve ever had. And (Y/N) is hit with the startling realization that theyâre just not understanding each other. Maybe that's the issue, maybe they never have.
So, she relents, sighs, âIt wasnât what you said, it was the way you said it.â She sounds absolutely silly, like a brat throwing a tantrum, and Tom is to blame for all of this. She would be happy sipping champagne and making idle conversation if he hadnât dragged her here. Why couldnât he just let it be? She breathes deeply, forces herself to get this over with, âYou made it sound like the mere idea of a rivalry was ridiculous, like I wasnât good enough.â
(Y/N) does her best to talk matter-of-factly, objectively, but she can taste the hurt in her tongue. And the way Michael's face shifts, cracks a little, lets her know that he heard it too.
Embarrassing.
âNo, no.â He shakes his head, as if trying to organize his thoughts. âI mean it more likeâ like, why would they even compare us?â
It comes out all wrong. Michael cringes and (Y/N) cocks her head at him, chuckling in disbelief. âThatâs exactly what I meant, by the way, that tone.â
Michael groans, closes his eyes and turns his head to the ceiling, like heâs praying to the Lord for help. Itâs a bit amusing, the most human he's ever been with her.
âI am not good with words.â He says it softly, like itâs an admission that he doesnât make to most people. He looks shy, honest. And yet, (Y/N) doubts itâ she doubts that Michael Jackson, the man capable of filling albums with melodies and stories and emotions that people carry with them, is truly bad with words. He must read it on her face, her disbelief, because he rushes to explain, âSongs are simple, the music helps. I donât have to explain everything for people to get it.â He shrugs, helplessly. âTalking is much harder.â
She gets it, in a way. Journaling has always been easy for her, expressing her thoughts on pieces of paper is straightforward, trying to detangle said thoughts to properly articulate them is another thing entirely. Itâs why she sometimes struggles when writing songs, everything becomes too convoluted.
(And wow, wonât you look at that. Not only is she having an actual conversation with Michael Jackson, but sheâs also found they have something in common. (Y/N) from thirty minutes ago wouldâve never believed it.)
âI did not mean it like that, at all.â Michael tries again and (Y/N) feels like sheâs seeing him for the first time. His shoulders are tense, heâs fiddling with his fingers and there's this nervousness about him, one so at odd with the idea she has of him, one she hadnât glimpsed before. She wonders if itâs been there all along, if sheâd been too busy looking for other things in him that sheâd just missed it.
âWhat I meant wasâ I donât sit around planning how to outperform you, and I know you donât spend your time thinking of ways to beat me, either. Everything you do comes from a love of music, I can sense it in the way you perform. Youâre a professional.â She is listening, but she's mostly watching him. The softness and openness of his expression catch her off-guard. (Y/N) knows how to read peopleâan essential skill sheâd developed as a child to try to survive the music industryâand Michael Jackson is being earnestly honest.
It dawns on her, with some sort of terrible, comical horror, that she mightâve possibly, just maybe, misinterpreted everything. Every awkward, tense smile, every strange look, every curt comment. Because the Michael standing in front of her, trying to desperately get her to understand him, does not seem to hate her. Not even dislike her, really.
Oh God, he might just be impartial to her, uninterested.
(This is exactly what Tom meant when heâd told her, many years ago, that she has the terrible habit of jumping into conclusions and then refusing to change her mind. Had she simply been reinforcing a narrative sheâd created for herself?)
Throwing herself off the window suddenly sounds like an amazingly rational decision. It would be one hell of a way to ease the embarrassment thatâs now taken over every fiber of her body.
Sheâd been such an idiot.
(Y/N) tries to apologize, to explainâbecause goddammit Tom had been right, Michael did not hate her, and she would've known if sheâd spoken more than a total of six sentences to the manâ, but Michael keeps talking.
âAnd I just think itâs silly, for the media to create this rivalry thing when in reality I justââ
âLook, Michaelââ
âI just really admire you.â
Everything goes quiet.
Naturally, (Y/N) freezes, suddenly aware of the distant chatter in the ballroom around the corner, of the soft, velvety music, the clinking of glasses, the sound of laughter.
Sheâd just began to process the whole âhey! so maybe he doesn't hate me and iâve been wrong all alongâ thing. She was not, in any way, prepared for that admission.
What?
(Y/N) doesn't realize sheâs spoken out loud until she catches the glimpse of confusion and amusement in Michaelâs eyes.
âI admire you,â he repeats, slower this time. Hearing that isnât any less shocking the second time around. âTruly. There are things that you do that I cannot begin to even dream about. When you perform, itâs likeââ He struggles for a second. âItâs like watching somebody do what they were born to do.â
(Y/N)'s breath catches. That might be the most sincere thing anyone has ever told her, the best compliment sheâs ever received.
âYouâve seen me perform.â She says, stunned, because of course thatâs what her mind has decided to focus on.
âAt The Forum, yeah.â
âYou went to my tour?â Now she just sounds dazed.
Michael shrugs, like the answer is obvious, âThereâs no way I wouldâve missed it.â
She pinches herself, hard. Okay, good, not a dream.
âOkay. Wait. Hold on.â She has to get her bearings, process all the information sheâs received. Michael had bought tickets for her concert. Heâd seen her perform. How could she not know that? How had the tabloids missed that? âBut⊠youâre always so dismissive.â Thatâs the only thing that doesnât make sense, the part of the puzzle that doesnât fit. Because the way heâd acted, that hadnât been in her brain. He had been weird towards herâskittish, awkward, coldâand sheâs having a hard time reconciling what sheâs hearing and what she has experienced. âEvery time Iâve ever tried to talk to you, you shrugged me off.â
He opens his mouth, closes it.
âOh.â
The soft whisper bounces around in the hall.
âNo, Iââ A hand comes up to cover part of his face and when he lowers it (Y/N) can almost swear he is blushing. He bites his lip, annoyingly cute, before blurting out, âYou intimidate me.â
Michael recoils immediately, like he hadn't really meant to admit that much.
(Y/N) canât do much but blink at him.
âA little.â He adds, a bit softer.
âMe?â It comes out filled with disbelief. âWhy?â She lets herself walk a bit closer to him, a bit amused at the way Michael's eyes follow her as she closes the distance between them. âYouâreââ She gestures at him. âYou're freaking Michael Jackson.â
Michael lets out an incredulous laugh, his shoulders untensing. âAnd you are freaking (Y/N) (Y/L/N)!â He mimics her own actions, gestures at her.
Huh.
Guess she never thought of it that way. (Y/N) always judges herself through the harshest of lenses, in the most brutal manner. It makes it hard to see herself from an outsider perspective, the way others do. She is just, well, (Y/N).
Fair enough, she supposes. Still, itâs hard, to wrap her mind around the fact that Michael Jackson had been too shy to speak to her. That everything sheâd perceived as dismissal had been nervousness.
âSo, just to be clear,â she finds herself saying, âYou donât hate me.â
It comes out more as a question than a statement.
âNo!â He relaxes some more, like finally getting her to understand has settled something in him. âYou really thought I did?â
âYeah! For the last five years Iâd been trying to figure out why.â
Michael sputters, aghast, âFive years?!â
âYeah.â
âBut we met five years ago.â
âI know.â
Michael stares at her, âSo all this time you thoughtââ
âRight.â She nods, then amends, a tad bit playful, âWell, I didnât think you hated me, just heavily disliked me, or, you know, something like that.â
Michael chuckles, âOh God.â He shakes his head, âThat doesnât really make it much better. I feel terrible.â
It's bright, his laughter, sweet. And (Y/N) suddenly understands why people who know himânot Michael the popstar, but Michael the person, stripped from all headlines and myths and assumptionsâtalk about him the way they do.
Oh, sheâd really been such an idiot. Tom is not going to let her live this one down. Ever.
They look at each other, lingering smiles on their faces. Neither of them looks away.
âLet's rewind, then. Take it from the top.â She extends her hand for him to take, â(Y/N) (Y/L/N).â
Michaelâs smile widens. He takes her hand in his, âMichael Jackson. Pleased to meet you, Miss (Y/L/N).â
FROM RIVALS TO FRIENDS? THE INDUSTRY'S MOST TALKED-ABOUT DUO SPOTTED TOGETHER AGAIN
by Danielle Marks
For the third time this month, Michael Jackson and (Y/N) (Y/L/N) have been photographed together.
The two artists were seen leaving a charity gala on Thrusday evening after spending several hours speaking inside the venue.
Witnesses report that the pair arrived separetly but remained together for most of the night (...)
âTHEY'RE ALWAYS TALKINGâ
PEOPLE MAGAZINE
If you attend enough music industry events, you'll eventually notice a pattern: Michael Jackson and (Y/N) seem incapable of staying away from each other.
At last week's benefit concert, the pair were seen backstage, deep in conversation. Three days later, they appeared together at a record industry luncheon. Now, insiders claim (Y/N) has visited Jackson's recording studio on multiple occasions.
Whether friendship or something more is developing remains unclear (...)
SECRET ALLIANCE?!?
by Carl Kesterson
Fans are growing excited after a sudden increase in public appearances involving music icons (Y/N) (Y/L/N) and Michael Jackson. The pair have been spotted together at award shows, charity events, industry parties, recording studios and private dinners. One source claims the stars speak on the phone regularly, having become "nearly inseparable".
Coincidence? We think not. Are they planning a musical collaboration? A surprise project?
Stay tuned to find out more!
It's incredible, how easy they settle into a friendship.
(Y/N) had never had a friend who understood what it was like to carry the pressure and expectations of the world on your shoulders, whoâd been raised similar to the way sheâd beenâconstantly on the road, always performing, unable to make friends, permanently exhausted, chasing a dream that wasnât hers, not completely. Michael gets it. He gets her.
They make space for each other in their lives so quickly, so easily, that (Y/N) often forget he hasnât always been there.
The media eats it up. The blooming friendship between the King of Pop and the Princess of Soul becomes the hottest topic. They talk about a possible collaboration, about a secret relationship. It's all background noise for (Y/N), she just enjoys hanging out with Michael. Her social battery never seems to drain when it comes to him. Maybe, itâs because she doesnât feel the need to pretend, put up an act, as she does for others. Maybe, he is just that person for her.
They spend whatever little free time they have with each other. Michael comes over and they watch movies, the old ones he likes, or they play board games, the ones (Y/N) never got the chance to play as a kid, too busy working. He gives her the keys to his house and sometimes, when everything gets too loud and her head starts to pound, she hides there, even if heâs not around.
They talk on the phone, all the time. (Y/N) feels like a teenager again, especially when Tomâwho does not let her forget that their friendship exists thanks to him and that she should forever be grateful and maybe start listening to him moreâgives her that amused, knowing look and she pokes her tongue out at him in response. Heâs such a dad, honestly.
âDid I wake you?â Michael asks, sheepish. It is three in the morning and the only reason she picks up is because she knows itâs him.
âWell, Mike, it is the middle of the night.â She yawns, her voice thick with sleep. Michaelâs soft chuckle manages to efficiently cut through the fogginess of her brain.
âSorry,â he says, not sounding very apologetic at all.
The thing about Michael is that once the nerves leave him, once he gets comfortable and comes out of his little shell, he becomes surprisingly teasing and self-assured. (Y/N) finds it unbelievably endearing.
âNo, youâre not.â
"I am!â Michael protests, laughing a bit. The sound is full, rich, (Y/N) loves it. âI didnât mean to wake you, I promise. I thought youâd be awake, you usually are.â (Y/N) canât see him, but she can hear the tentative smile in his voice.
âThat I am,â she confirms. âWhatâs up?â
âI am working on something and I need you to hear it, let me know what you think.â
She smiles into the darkness, settles more comfortably in her bed. âPlay it for me.â
Sometimes they stay on the phone just to keep each other company. The silence settles between them, gentle, easy, and (Y/N) loves it, the way she can just exist with him.
(Because she has spent her entire life surrounded by peopleâproducers and fans and journalistsâand still loneliness has been her fiercest, most loyal companion. It is the price of success, of fame, of growing up in an industry that would chew you up and spit you out for its own amusement. Michael understands it. Heâs lived it too. She never feels alone when sheâs with him, even if itâs a phone line whatâs connecting them, even if they donât talk at all.)
âI miss you,â he whispers sometimes, low over the phone, when life becomes hectic and they havenât seen each other in weeks.
âI miss you, too.â
Sheâs never meant those words more. Sheâs found out, with some sort of startling surprise, that her heart has created a little gap in the shape of Michael, and she finds his prolonged absence painful. She doesnât mention that.
(Y/N) realizes just how important Michael has become, how much she truly trusts him, when she finds herself giving him a duplicate of her keys to her personal studio. Three keys exist: Tomâs, hers and now Michaelâs.
Music is the most intimate thing (Y/N) possesses. She does not let many people see past the perfectly curated version of herself, much less let them into the place where all the ugly, jagged, complicated pieces of herself end up, and that place is her studio.
Every version of herself exist, in some way, within those four walls. In pages of lyrics scattered across every available surface and half-filled notebooks that lie open on chairs and couches. In the yellow sticky notes plastered across the entire wall, connected by symbols and arrows sometimes even she struggles to understand. In voice memos labeled with cryptic letters and dates, perfectly stacked in a drawer, that will never see the light of day. In songs she hates but refuses to get rid of, songs she loves too much to share, songs that contain things that are too personal, that cut too deep.
It is a terrifying thing, letting someone into that space, allowing herself to be seen. It is the reason creating has always been a solitary thing for herâsacred, in a wayâbecause it leaves her feeling raw. She writes alone, curled up on the floor of her living room at two in the morning, records rough melodies on cassette tapes nobody will ever hear, hides her jumbled thoughts in journals she keeps under lock and key.
Most people only ever see the polished versions of everything, the almost finished products. He is the first personâTom excluded because, well, he is Tomâthat she lets see the mess, lets see all of her.
And Michael seems to understand how much of herself sheâs offering to him. He treats her studio with so much respect, as if itâs something holy. Never peaks or wanders without asking first. He is careful with her equipment, her instruments, her lyrics. (Her heart, he is so very careful with her heart.)
Somewhere along the way, she finds herself growing comfortable with scribbling down in her journal when heâs around. Next thing she knows, sheâs letting him listen to songs before they're even close to being finished. Not many people have ever had such privilege.
Letting him in is easy. Dangerously easy.
(Y/N) should be scared, terrified really.
She finds out that she isnât.
And just like, as quickly and easily as falling asleep, Michael Jacksonâonce her rivalâbecomes the safe places she falls back into.
(Y/N) knows sheâs a perfectionist, an overachiever. Sheâs intimately aware with the fact that she pushes herself too hard, that she suffers from the ailment of being viscerally brutal with herself, that she doesnât allow herself any margin of error.
But she has no other choice. The music industry isnât kind, much less to women. Talent is not enough, never enough. Every achievement is scrutinized, every mistake magnified. Male artists get some respite, messy performances are excused by personal difficulties, failures easily swept under the rug, forgiven. Experience has taught (Y/N) that women are not allowed the same grace.
She cannot be just good; good gets replaced, good is easily forgotten.
To survive, she has to be constantly exceptionalâany little mistake would result in a fall and sheâs built herself to high, achieved so much, that the tumble would be catastrophic, undoubtedly deathly. And the only way she knows how to keep control over everything, to be perfectly consistent, is by running herself to the ground.
And (Y/N) doesnât complain. After all, isnât she lucky? She is passionate about what she does, completely in love with her job. Complaining is for those who have it hard, who really struggle. So what if it consumes her? So what if there are days the exhaustion threatens to drown her, swallow her whole?
Greatness demands paymentâeven as a young girl, nothing but a child, sheâd understood this, that success meant sacrifice, it demanded blood, and sheâd been willing to bleed herself dry to make it big, thereâd seemed to be no other optionâso (Y/N) pays the price.
And sheâs been paying it for so longâin the shape of blooming headaches and absolutely no sense of privacy from the outside world, in the way her private and professional life have become so intertwined she can no longer distinguish them, threads so tightly woven she cannot pull them apartâthat it has become instinct. She no longer feels the ache.
(Itâs not a conscious choice, not anymore. Once upon a time, a young girl had wanted to be the best, to climb the ladder, and so sheâd trained her body to withstand it all, to push past basic physiological needs, to function properly while running on nothing on fumes. (Y/N) reaps the consequences of the sacrifices of her younger self.)
(Y/N) knows it isnât exactly healthyâshe does not lack self-awareness, despite what Tom often suggestsâ, but she doesnât know how to stop. Sheâs been operating like this for so long that everything else feels unnatural, wrong, like sheâs not doing enough, like sheâs somehow failing if she allows herself to breathe.
Tom does his best to get her to pace herselfâbrings food and wonât stop glaring until she pauses and eats, forcibly drags her out of the recording booth when she refuses to take a breakâbut they both know that sheâs as stubborn as they come, that once she starts something she cannot physically stop until itâs done. (Y/N) finds it shameful, embarrassing, the way she sometimes lacks control of her own mind, her lack of regard for her own well-being, so she pretends it isnât a thing. She doesnât allow anyone to see how bad she gets, not even Michael, especially not Michael.
Most of the time she can manage it, but not during tours. (Y/N) sort of loses all grasp on reality when sheâs touring. Meals are often forgotten, replaced by recording sessions that start late at night, after sheâs performed, and bleed into the early mornings, because she cannot leave until every note feels perfect. The rehearsals feel endless, the interviews more so. Sleep becomes a foreign concept. Itâs grueling. She keeps going. Takes another plane, lands in a new city, and repeats the cycle. Again and again.
The warning signs are there.
Explosive headaches that become migraines more and more often, pain spreading from the back of her eye to the base of her skull. Dizziness, nausea, shaking limbs after concerts.
Which is to say, she knew better and just went ahead and ignored the way her body was begging her to stop. She shouldâve known it would end up the way it did. Maybe she thought herself untouchable, unbreakable. Maybe she just couldnât find time in her schedule to worry.
By the time the final concert of the European leg of the tour arrives, (Y/N) is functioning entirely on adrenaline and muscle memory. Just one more, you just have to push for one more, is the mantra she repeats after every night. Itâs true this time around. She gets a whole three-month break after this, a little space to breathe.
The Wembley is massive. Sheâs been here before and the sheer size of it never fails to impress her. Empty, it feels huge. Sold out, it feels gigantic. And when itâs filled with fans, with a crowd that screams her lyrics back at her so loudly she feels them reverberate through the floor, it feels like magic.
The music flows through her in that all familiar way and she feels that heavenly rush of excitement and elation. Lights flash so bright the world seems to blur together, sweat clings to her skin, her lungs burn every time she inhales, but she loves it. Lives for it really.
For three hours itâs just her and the music and the fans and everything else quiets down, fades into the background.
This is what she loves. This is why she bleeds herself dry. All of this makes up for the exhaustion clawing at her bones. It makes it worth it.
And when the final note rings through the stadium, when the crowd erupts and she lifts her hand in a sweet farewell, she lets herself relax. Just the tiniest bit.
Sheâs done it.
And then, as she makes to leave the stage, the world tilts.
Her sight becomes hazy, distorted, and she thinks itâs just another dizzy spell, until her legs refuse to cooperate.
Suddenly, everything is too loud and somehow strangely distant at the same time. The edges of her vision blacken.
Someone calls her name, she thinks, but she cannot focus on it.
The stage sways beneath her feet, like the floor itself is moving.
At least the concertâs over, a deluded part of herself ponders, somewhat amused.
COLLAPSE ON STAGE!
MUSIC SUPERSTAR (Y/N) (Y/L/N) RUSHED TO HOSPITAL AFTER SHOCKING CONCERT INCIDENT
Last night, thousands of fans watched in horror as global music sensation (Y/N) (Y/L/N) collapsed moments after finishing her final song at Wembley Stadium. The performance marked her third and final night of three sold-out shows at the iconic venue, as well as the final concert of the European leg of her 'Resonance' World tour.
Fans have reported that (Y/L/N) appeared to be unsteady on her feet before suddenly collapsing. Medical personnel reportedly arrived within moments, and the singer was transported to a nearby hospital.
Representatives for The Princess of Soul have yet to provide a detailed statement.
When consciousness returns, itâs a slow, progressive thing.
She hears murmurs nearby, but canât quite make out what theyâre saying. She can feel someoneâs touch, someone holding her hand, but cannot find the strength to return the gesture.
Everything hurts. Thereâs a dull ache behind her eyes. A throbbing in her head.
For a moment, (Y/N) doesnât know where she is. Not even who she is, really.
Then the memories come back in waves, all at once.
Embarrassment hits harder than the pain. And the pain is bad.
âOh God.â Talking feels unnatural. Her voice is raspy, her tongue feels heavy, the sound of it is odd.
A chair scrapes sharply beside her bed.
Suddenly, thereâs a hand in hers, the hold steady.
Her head pounds, moving it to the side makes her ears ring. Slowly, she opens her eyes. Sheâs met with warm brown eyes, concern lingering in every corner.
âMike?â
âHey.â The relief that floods his features is overwhelming. There's a heaviness in his voice, some sort of strain, that (Y/N) pain-filled brain cannot comprehend.
âWhatââ She looks around. White walls, the pungent smell of antiseptic. Her hand, the one that isnât entwined with Michaelâs, is connected to an IV drip. Thereâs a low beeping in the background, her heartbeat resonating around the room. A hospital, okay, that makes sense. She knows where she is, she remembers flashes of what happenedâher vision blackening, the stage tiltingâ, she does not understand why Michael is here. Thinking is too hard, it makes the dull ache of her head spread, so she asks, âWhat are you doing here?â
âYou collapsed,â he says, as if that explains everything. It explains nothing at all, really, because sheâd been in London and last she remembers Michael had been in New York, recording the music video for one of the songs of his newest album, 'Bad'.
âI know that.â She does, the memories are getting cleared by the minute. Itâs enough to let her know it had been bad and most likely downright embarrassing. She hopes no one recorded it. Oh, God, the tabloids are going to have a field day with it. She can already see it; pregnancy rumors, drug rumors, whispers that will get traction, until they follow her everywhere. Great, just fucking great. Still, it does not explain why heâs here. Her mindâs confused, the pain lingers and sheâs pretty sure they're giving her some sort of medicine through the drip, one thatâs aggravating the fuzziness. âAre youâ Michael, please tell me you did not fly across the Atlantic Ocean because I passed out?â
He opens his mouth, closes it, stares at her for a long minute, like he's unsure of what to say. âI saw the video.â Well, of course there is a video, thatâs just her luck. Someone just bury her alive already. Truly, is she in Godâs blacklist? âIt didnât look like you'd passed out. It looked likeââ Michael stops, looks away. Whatever he meant to say, he keeps to himself, swallows it down. âAnyway, I managed to get in contact with Tom. He was frantic. Heâs always so in control that the sound of him completely losing it scared me, (Y/N). He said they couldnât wake you up and I thoughtââ
Michaelâs voice falters, cracks a bit, and the alarm in his voice is enough to make something akin to fear clutch (Y/N)âs chest. It had been bad, then. Really bad.
She squeezes his hand, tries to reassure him that sheâs here and sheâs okay. Michael offers her a wobbly smile, but the worry in his eyes does not dim.
âSo, I took the first flight. I hadâ I couldnâtââ Michael exhales, deeply. He squeezes her hand, mirroring her action, and pulls it to press the back of it against his lips. He murmurs against her skin, âI had to be here.â
She doesnât know how she feels about it, the fact that Michael dropped everything to be here with her. Warmth floods throughout her, a knot forms on her throat; itâs affection and something more, something her hazy, muddled brain cannot identify. She suddenly hit with the striking realization that she would do the exact thing for him, cross every ocean and mountain to be there if he needs her. She doesnât know what to do with that information, either.
âThank you,â she says it so quietly, but the words still reverberate around the room. Heâs here, with her. (Y/N) still canât believe it. Her heart feels full in a way it never has before. âFor being here.â His eyes soften when they meet hers and (Y/N) is surprised by how much of an open book Michael is. She sees so much when she looks into his eyes, raw vulnerability, glimpses of affection and some other emotion she canât quite place. She wonders what Michael sees when he looks at her, sometimes (Y/N) thinks he sees too much.
âAlways.â It sounds like a promise.
Sheâs still trying to process the information, when her brain catches up to everything he said. Tom was frantic. Where is Tom?
Tom has always been there, the one constant throughout (Y/N)âs life. Heâs seen the good, the bad and the ugly, and not once left her side. Tom is the shoulder she leans on, the solid presence that grounds her, the person she looks for support. In between the pain and confusion and Michaelâs presence, (Y/N) hadnât noticed his absence. Now, itâs a palpable thing. He wouldnât have left, (Y/N) knows him. Irrational panic grips at her. Tom wouldâve never left her alone in an unfamiliar place.
(But he hadnât left her alone, had he? Tom had left her with Michael. (Y/N) does not have the mental capacity at the moment to realize that, to understand the magnitude of that trust, what it signifies.)
(Y/N) tries to sit up, âWhereâs Tom?â The movement makes dizziness crash through her in waves. She winces.
âHey, hey,â Michael soothes, voice gentle. He must notice the twinge of alarm in her voice. âI convinced him to go back to the hotel to shower and have some breakfast. He hadnât left your side since, well, the concert.â He hesitates a bit on the last two words, like he isnât sure how to refer to what happened. âHeâll be here soon. Just try to get some rest in the meantime, yeah?â
Itâs hard. Sheâs not sure if she knows how to rest anymore. Now that sheâs awake her mind is going at a thousand miles per hourâshe needs to talk to Tom, see him with her own eyes and apologize for making him worry, she needs to know what people are saying, what has been printed, how bad the situation is and what she needs to do to fix it.
Then she feels it, Michaelâs thumb slowly caressing the back of her hand, almost an absentminded gesture. Sheâs not sure he even notices heâs doing it, but it helps. It grounds her, pulls her out of her mind and back into her body. To keep herself from spiraling away, she talks.
âHow long was I out?â
âAlmost four days.â
(Y/N) gapes at him, âYou are kidding.â Michael just shakes his head, face somber. No shit Tom was losing his mind. Being unconscious for four days due to exhaustion and dehydration... Jesus. (Y/N) canât believe she left herself get that bad.
âWell, you did hit your head pretty hard when you collapsed,â Michael offers as an explanation.
That explains the nauseating pain in her skull. It spreads everywhere, duller in some places and throbbing in others. It is only truly painful if she focuses on it, otherwise she can block it out pretty well, she has experience in managing headaches, after all.
(Y/N) allows her free hand to drift upwards, letting her fingers explore her scalp.
âI donât think thatâs a good idea,â Michael states, face twisting in worry as she tries to find the source of the pain.
With practiced ease, (Y/N) ignores him. She has to know, has to feel the wounds.
Everything feels okay and for a second there she questions whether the impact looked worse than it actually was. And then the pad of her index finger rubs against one spot in the back of her head, close to her right ear, and pain flares up so viscously that her vision whitens.
âFuck.â It comes out as a pained whimper. Michaelâs hold tightens on her. When she looks at him, he's wincing, like her pain causes him pain, too. âYou were right,â she tells him as she lets her hand fall back to her lap, âIt was a terrible idea.â
Itâs a testament to how distressed the whole situation mustâve been for him, how distraught he mustâve beenâmaybe still isâthat Michael doesnât say âTold you so!â and instead just huffs out a small chuckle. He still looks so worried, every muscle on his face tense, and something in (Y/N)âs chest constricts.
Michael cares too deeply, worries too much. She is lucky to be someone who gets to see this side of him, she also feels unbearably guilty at the traces of concern that linger in his face. Thatâs her fault.
In search of soothing him, she says, âDonât look so gloom, Mike. Iâm okay, I promise.â She squeezes his hand, offers him a tentative smile. âI got too carried away. You know how hectic things get during tours.â
âNo.â Michaelâs voice tightens unexpectedly, something shifts in his demeanor. Heâs never used that tone, not towards her. It renders her speechless, the sternness of it. âYou donât get to do that. You donât get to play this down. Tours are hell, sure, but thisââ Michael gestures around them, desperate. ââthis isnât that.â
He pins her down with his stare and there is so much raw emotion there that (Y/N) thinks she might burn with the intensity of it. She wants to look away, but canât.
âYou didnât get too carried away, you are running yourself to the ground, (Y/N),â Michael says, and all she can think about it how weird it is, to hear those words from someone other than Tom. âAnd I knew how hard you were working and how relentless you become with yourself under high stress situations and I shouldâveââ Michaelâs voice breaks. He shakes his head, clearing his throat as looks away from her. Heâs not fast enough. (Y/N) notices the glassiness of his eyes, the tears brimming at the corners.
Her chest tightens painfully, almost uncomfortably. She needs him to stop blaming himself, needs the distress in his tone to disappear. (Y/N) cannot bear being the one making Michael hurt.
âMichael, hey,â she tugs at his hand, âLook at me.â He does, a bit begrudgingly. Thereâs a tear trailing down his cheek and (Y/N)âs heart hurts. She hates herself for making him feel like sheâs his responsibility. âItâs not on you, Mike. Thereâs nothing you couldâve done. I knew I was asking too much of my body, I just couldnâtââ Couldnât stop, couldnât allow myself to breathe or fail or be anything but perfect. âI let it get too far. Not enough sleep, too many skipped meals, but I am okay.â
Michael breathes out, heavy and deep. He presses the back of her hand to his forehead, closes his eyes and whispers, âIt wasnât just exhaustion, (Y/N).â
(Y/N) frowns, confused. What does that mean? She doesnât have to ask because Michael elaborates, looking back at her, âI donât really know the extent of it, the doctors couldnât give me any information. I am not family, soââ He shakes his head. âBut Tom did mentioned something about low potassium levels,â Okay, that does not sound that bad, so why is Michael looking at her like she might disappear any second? âHe also said something about a cardiac event.â
Oh.
âDid my heart stop?â The question comes out clinical, detached. Her mind is spiraling. Sheâs suddenly very far away, trying to grapple with this information. She feels like a spectator in her own body. All she remembers is blackness and nothingness, her heart couldnât have possibly stopped.
âI donât know, Tom didnâtââ Michaelâs voice falters and he clears his throat to get rid of the shakiness. It doesnât work very well. âHe wouldnât tell me much.â
Everything around her becomes heightened. Sheâs suddenly acutely aware of the dimmed light of the room, the beeping of the machines, the sharp smell of antibacterial, the heaviness of Michaelâs gaze.
Michael is getting good, too good, at reading her emotions. The instant she feels the flare of panic, heâs already soothing it. He moves closer, presses the back of her hand to his cheek. The closeness works, his skin against her reassures her, grounds her, acts as a tangible reminder that whatever happened she is okay and she is alive and she is not alone. She wonders, for a fleeting second, if Michael needs the touch as much as she does, if it settles something in him as well.
âIâm here,â he tells her, tone so sweet and soft and tender it sort of makes her want to cry.
âWill you stay?â
She regrets the words as soon as they leave her lips. Itâs selfish, to ask so much of him. He already flew halfway across the world to get to her, to make sure she was okay. How can she ask him to stay longer, now that sheâs awake? Michaelâfor all that he is her best friendâ is still Michael Jackson. Heâs busy and she shouldnât even be asking. But she doesnât take the words back, she doesnât find it in herself to do so. Because some part of her knows that the only reason she isnât wallowing in pits of self-deprecation and self-hatred, the only reason her mind isnât punishing her, is because Michael is here.
(Y/N) doesnât have time to panic, to overthink, because Michael is already answering. He gives her a soft smile, the corners of his lips barely tilting upwards, and presses a fleeting, almost tentative, kiss to the back of her hand, âFor as long as you want me to.â
Sheâs smacked with the sudden realization that she might want him to stay forever.
TOUR SHOCKER: (Y/N) (Y/L/N) POSTPONES ENTIRE AMERICAN LEG FOLLOWING MEDICAL EMERGENCY
Fans across the United States were left stunned after representatives for global sensation, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), announced the postponement of all the North American and South American tour dates following what sources have described as a "serious and unexpected medical emergency."
The singer, who has spent the last year dominating international charts and selling out arenas worldwide, was hospitalized earlier this week after collapsing on stage.
While official statements have remained carefully worded, citing only a "health related incident requiring immediate medical attention", insiders have suggested the situation is more serious than initially thought.
The announcement comes as a devastating blow to thousands of concertgoers who had anticipated the highly successful American leg of the 'Resonance' tour, which was projected to become one of the year's highest-grossing concert runs, competing only with Michael Jacksonâs upcoming 'Bad' tour.
Questions surrounding the severity of the incident intensified after reports emerged about several members of the singer's inner circle flying immediately to her bedside following her hospitalization.
Perhaps most notably, superstar Michael Jackson was spotted arriving at the London medical facility only hours after news of the emergency leaked.
Witnesses reported seeing Jackson enter and remain at the hospital for extended periods over multiple days.
Neither Jackson nor his representatives have commented publicly.
As speculation continues regarding the exact nature of (Y/L/N)'s condition, representatives of the artist have urged fans to respect her privacy (...)
Recovery is unbearable mostly because it forces her to stop and (Y/N) canât remember the last time she did. Her body and mind arenât wired for it, for long days doing nothing, for the lack of adrenaline. She is restless. She spends most of her time journaling, writing lyrics that donât make much sense, pacing around the house while the speculations on the tabloids grow wilder.
The doctors order strict rest for at least three weeks, pending another medical evaluation, and itâs almost like everyone in her life conspires together to make sure she actually listens.
Tom confiscates her work schedule. After a long discussion with her, he decides to postpone the entire American leg of the tour, even though she should technically be okay by then.
(She doesn't fight him very hard on that decision, she knows just how badly she scared him, how worried he was. It turns out her heart had stopped, only for a few seconds, but enough to have Tom feeling like his own heart was going into cardiac arrest. Itâd been a severe case of electrolyte imbalance whatâd caused her to collapse. Heâd seen it all from backstage, had been there when theyâd used a defibrillator on her in the back of an ambulance, when sheâd been rolled into the ICU. When heâd seen her awake for the first time after sheâd collapsed, talking to Michael in hushed voices, heâd broken down completely. (Y/N) had never seen Tom cry before. Itâd been enough to sober her up completely.)
Michael visits almost every other day, when he isnât busy working on the last details for his upcoming tour.
He might be the only reason (Y/N) doesnât lose all her sanity.
Sometimes they talk and Michael fills her in on the outside world, sometimes he brings board games, and they play until itâs late and Michael has to leave. Sometimes they just sit quietly, he works on his lyrics and she watches him, enthralled. Thereâs something magical in watching him create, in being allowed so close. Sometimes, and these are her favorite, Michael brings cassettes with unfinished versions of some songs and asks for her insight on the snares and basslines. Not only does she love being privy to the raw, unpolished, unguarded version of Michaelâs artistry, but she loves pretending, for an hour or two, that nothing ever happened. They dissect songs together, piece by piece, and it is familiar territory, comfortable. It makes her feel less unsteady, like she has some semblance of control over her life.
Tom doesnât say anything about Michaelâs presence, but (Y/N) notices the way he relaxes a little when heâs around. Like he can rest for a while, knowing that Michael is there, knowing that she wouldnât dare try anything crazy with Michael.
(Sometimes (Y/N) swears that Tom actually believes sheâll just rip out her IV dripâthe one that she uses twice a day to ensure her electrolyte levels are balancedâand make a run for it. Which, in her defense, she only ever considered once, on the third day of this medical confinement, when she felt like she was going to lose her mind. And she didnât even truly consider it. It was just a passing thought. She wouldn't do anything to worry him. Or Michael. Sheâs done enough of that. And yet, despite her being on her absolute best behavior, Tom still worries. She suspects that he would worry even if she sat quietly in a padded room doing absolutely nothing. Heâs such a dad. (Y/N) is so grateful for him.)
She doesnât understand it entirely, this sudden trust that Tom has in Michael. Not because of Michaelâ(Y/N) knows him, knows his character, she thinks he might be the person she trusts the most in the worldâbut because Thomas Allen simply does not trust anyone, ever. Itâs not in his nature. But the tension in his shoulders loosens when Michael arrives and he seems to breathe easier and (Y/N) finds it so very interesting.
âYou trust him,â she comments off-handedly, trying to catch Tom off-guard. Michael had just left, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and nodding at Tom, and (Y/N) had caught the way that stoic guardedness in Tomâs eyes had relented, just slightly, at the sight of Michael.
Tom doesnât turn to look at her, busy going over some documents. (Y/N) tugs at the sleeves of her sweaterâMichaelâs sweater, one heâd accidentally left behind, and sheâd stared wearing around the house when she was too lazy to think of what to wearâand studies him from her place on the couch. In response to her statement, he just hums.
âIs that a yes?â
Tom looks up, amusement in his eyes, âYou didnât ask a question, kid.â
She stares at him, a deadpan stare that has him chuckling.
âI do,â he confirms, adjusting his glasses to keep reading the pieces of paper in his manila folder.
âWhy?â She canât help but ask.
Tom raises his eyebrows at her, âDo you not trust him?â
(Y/N) scoffs, âYou know thatâs not what I meant. Of course I trust him, heâs my best friends.â She tugs at the sleeves of the sweater again, pulls her knees to her chest. âBut you never trust any of my other friends.â
âYeah, wellââ Tom makes a sound, his tongue pressing against the back of his teeth, and shrugs, âMichaelâs a good kid.â
But (Y/N) knows him too well, thereâs something he isnât telling her. Since Tom has made sure she has absolutely nothing better to do than spend her time annoying him, she presses, âThereâs something else.â
âIs there?â
âTom!â she pouts at him, using that petulant tone she knows drives him mad. âCome on, I want to know! What did Michael Jackson do to gain the unattainable trust of Thomas Allen?â
Tom looks up at her, rests his pen against the table. The shift in his semblance is sudden and (Y/N) straightens up immediately.
âWhat did he do?â she asks again, less playful this time around.
Tom breathes out, like heâs considering whether to tell her or simply walk out of the room. âItâs how he sounded, when he called that day.â
(Y/N) stills. Tom and her havenât talked about the collapse, not since she was released from the hospital. Itâs become this unspoken topic, a wound neither of them are willing to touch in fear of causing some infection.
âThe panic in his voiceââ Tom shakes his head. Thereâs a glint of dread in his eyes, like he is reliving it too. âHe kept asking me if you were okay, if you were breathing.â (Y/N) had known, although neither had ever said it, that both him and Michael had thought sheâd died. Hearing Tom confirm that is another thing entirely. She breathes out shakily, hugs her knees closer to her chest. âAnd then he was there, in London. I didnât expect him to fly out. God, kid, you canât even begin to understand how worried he was. He looked as terrible as I felt, and I care a whole lot for you, so I figure he must care a whole lot for you, too.â
(Y/N) suddenly feels like she canât breathe.
She knows that Michael cares for her. Of course she does, itâs in every little thing he doesâthe late nights at her music studio, the random calls in the middle of the day, the way he appears to have memorized every part of her, how he accommodates her and prioritizes herâ, but having Tom say it to her makes it more real, deeper, somehow.
She sniffs, rests her cheek against her knee. âHeâs a good friend.â
Tom smiles at her, thereâs kindness in his eyes and something that looks remarkably like pity.
âOh, sweetheart,â he shakes his head, looks down at his papers, âFriends donât worry to that extent.â
(Itâd been a coincidence, the overlapping of their tours, something neither of them had realized would happen until (Y/N) was leaving for Europe and Michael was announcing tour dates. She was supposed to be closing up her tour, starting in South America and moving up all the way to Canada before doing the last show in New York, and Michael starting his in Japan.
They were going to be apart for a very long time, but (Y/N) had only been vaguely aware of that fact. Sheâd known the tour would demand too much of them, they would be too busy to notice each otherâs absence. Now, with the American leg of her tour being pushed back and Tom advocating for her to take a break from music, placing her basically in house arrest until the doctorâs discharge her, (Y/N) is very aware of how long itâll be before she sees Michael again.)
He comes to say goodbye, even though (Y/N) insists he doesnât need to. She knows how chaotic the weeks leading up to a tour can be, she doesnât want him to strain himself to much, least of all for her. Still, he shows up. (Michael always shows up.) He ignores the doorbell, as always, and bangs on the door in that particular way of his, always to the rhythm of one of her songs.
He stays too longâ(Y/N) wonders if he, too, has suddenly become aware of the distance thatâll be between them, the time thatâll pass before they see each other againâuntil Bill starts honking the horn outside.
âYouâll miss your flight.â She has to physically drag him to the front door.
âPromise me that youâll take care of yourself,â he says, offering little resistance as she moves down the hall, her hand wrapped around his wrist. âGood care of yourself.â
âIâll do my best,â (Y/N) assures him. She isnât sure how well sheâll doâsheâs been managing these past few weeks, but heâs been here and thatâs made it easier somehow, she doesnât need to think about the fragility of her body, how unsteady she feels when sheâs aloneâbut she will try, maybe more for Michael and Tom than for herself.
âAnd youâll call, right?â
(Y/N) laughs, âYes, Mike, all the time. Youâll get tired of hearing of me.â
Michael doesnât skip a beat, âImpossible.â
She smiles, fondness spreading all over her chest. (Y/N) knows he means the words.
When they make it to the front door, he halts her, pulls at her hand, forcing him to turn around and meet his eyes
âIf anything feels off, if the headaches come back, youâll tell me?â
Her smile freezes as (Y/N) hesitates. Itâs just a second, but Michael notices.
He raises his eyebrows, reaching for her hand and intertwining their fingers, âPromise me youâll tell me.â
She sighs, pressing her lips together. She doesnât want to make promises she might have to break. Sheâs never lied to Michael, she doesnât want to start now.
âYouâll have much more important things to worry about.â
Thatâs the reason sheâs so hesitant. Not because she wants to keep anything from himâtheyâve gotten to a point where sheâs not even sure she would be capable of deceiving Michael if she wanted, sheâs certain he would be able to tell immediately, he knows her too well, has learned to read between the linesâbut because he will need to be completely focused on his tour.
Michael opens his mouth, closes it. He sighs, running his free hand through his hair. He looks almost nervous, shy in a way he never is around her. Not anymore.
His admission is quiet, almost mumbled, âNothing is more important than you.â
(Y/N)âs heart lurches. Itâs gotten the tendency of doing that around Michael these days. She does her very best at keeping it under control. Instead, she pokes him on the cheek, her smile softening.
âOkay, a compromise, then,â she says. âIf it gets bad, I will tell you.â
âHow bad?â
âNeed-to-go-to-the-hospital kind of bad.â Sheâs sure it wonât get to that point. Sheâs had some minor headaches and dizzy spells in the past few weeks, but nothing serious.
Michael doesnât seem to like that answer. He looks over her shoulder, at Tom, and the older man must mouth something or do something because Michael relaxes. âFine, deal.â
Once thatâs settled, Michael breaks into a smile.
âCâmere.â
He opens his arms and (Y/N) happily walks into them. She closes her eyes and breathes him in, tries to commit the feeling of their hug to memory. She will miss him. (Y/N) has never had someone to miss before.
âBe safe,â she yells after him as he leaves her house. She watches his figure get smaller as he crosses the front yard to where Bill is waiting for him. He hasn't even left and (Y/N) already misses him. Oh, these upcoming months are going to be unbearable.
Michael turns around at the sound of her voice, walking backwards. He sends a dazzling grin her way and, there he is, thatâs her Michael, sweet and handsome and all too mischievous.
(Y/N) squints her eyes, the playful look in his eyes too familiar. She isnât surprised when he presses his index and middle finger to his lips and throws a kiss her way.
She rolls her eyes, good-naturedly, maybe a tad bit too fondly. Her grin widens. She plays along, catching the kiss and pressing it to her heart.
âMiss you already, pretty girl.â
Now that catches her by surprise.
The nickname hits her somewhere in the middle of her stomach. Sheâs glad that Michaelâs not close enough to see the way heat crawls over her face.
âMiss you, too,â she sighs out, the words punched out of her.
From the corner of her eye she can see the way Tom is looking at her, all smug and amused and (Y/N) wishes she could fire him.
Instead, she turns around, pokes her tongue at him, and walks back to the house.
She does her very best to ignore the way her brain wonât stop replaying Michaelâs words (pretty girl, pretty girl, pretty girl).
(Y/N) does a great job at recovery, if she does say so herself. Tom would undoubtedly disagree, because he likes teasing and arguing and just overall disagreeing with her. He would say that sheâs a terrible patient, always forgetting when itâs time to take her pillsâwhich is true, she is very bad at thatâbut (Y/N) has noticed the way he no longer looks skittish. He no longer looks at her like heâs judging whether sheâs two seconds away from fleeing. He has relaxed, maybe just a fraction, but when it comes to Tom, thatâs a whole lot.
The doctor discharges her, officially, on a Monday. He makes a point by telling her she needs to take it easy, that her heart has incurred in permanent tissue damageâminor but still evidentâand another severe electrolyte imbalance could kill her. Tom gives her a pointed look and (Y/N) flinches under the intensity of it. There wonât be a repeat, sheâll do better. She promised Michael she would take good care of herself and sheâs never broken a promise to him.
She calls Michael as soon as she gets to her studio. Tom had said sheâd be able to go back, start easing herself into the normal, hectic rhythm of her life once the doctors gave the green light. Heâs not looking very happy about it, but he lets her do her thing. He keeps the hovering at a minimum and (Y/N) doesnât think she could ask for more.
âGuess where I am,â she says as soon as he picks up.
(Y/N) doesnât have to guess to know where he is, she has the dates and places of his tour memorized. Heâs in Melbourne, probably just got back to his hotel after his first night performing in Australia.
âHello to you, too.â Is his teasing response. She can hear the smile on his face, can almost picture it. It makes her smile in return.
âHi Mike,â she amends, teasingly, âCâmon, guess.â
âHome?â His answer comes out like a confused statement, before heâs suddenly taking a sharp intake of breath, âNo, wait. You had the doctorâs appointment today, didnât you?â
(Y/N)âs eyebrows shoot up in surprise. She hadnât thought heâd remember, sheâd only ever mentioned it once, very briefly.
âI did.â
âAnd how did it go?â
âVery well.â
âOfficially discharged?â
âYep! Praise the Lord.â
âThatâs good,â he sounds heartbreakingly relieved. âYouâre at the studio, then?â
(Y/N) chuckles, âIâm that predictable, huh.â
Michael hums, the sound of it traveling all the way across the line and settling somewhere in between her ribs, âI just know you too well.â
âThat you do.â
âAre you happy?â Thereâs ruffling on the other side, like heâs settling into bed, âYou sound happy.â
âI am very happy,â she confirms, twisting the telephone cord around her finger. Michael gets it, (Y/N) doesnât need to explain that being cut off from music had felt like losing a limb, such an integral part of her life ripped away from her. Itâd been necessary, she knows that, but itâd still hurt. Being back in her studio feels like coming home. She relishes on the feeling. âI had so much time to write and now I finally get to turn all the jumbled mess in my brain into something tangible. Iâm so happy I could burst.â
Michael laughs, soft and full and (Y/N) loves knowing thereâs someone out there that gets joy from her happiness.
âWill you play the demos for me?â
âYou know I will.â She thinks itâs sweet, that he still asks. âAnyway, how was the concert?â
Distance changes things.
Not between themâif anything, they seem to grow impossibly closer, Michael calls her whenever heâs free, from airports and hotel rooms and backstage corridors, and (Y/N) drops everything when heâs on the other side of the line. No, the change happens inside her.
Maybe it doesnât change a thing, maybe it just sheds light to what was already there, something (Y/N) had spent a long time ignoring.
Without Michael physically beside her at all times, without his constant presence filling every aspect of her life, (Y/N) has time to think about him.
Thinking is a dangerous thing.
(She thinks of his eyes and his hands holding hers. She thinks of their late night calls, the way his voice is enough to ease her worries, settle her anxiety. She thinks of days spent together obsession over music, watching movies, playing games. She thinks of those damned words (pretty girl, pretty girl) and the way sheâd sworn her heart was going to beat straight out of her chest.)
(Y/N) misses him terrible, with an intensity sheâd never thought herself capable of. Not in the vague âoh, things are sort of quieter without you aroundâ way sheâs used to missing people and more in the âthere is a whole in my heart in the shape of you and i donât really know what to do with itâ way sheâs never experienced before.
Every interesting thing that happens becomes something she wants to tell Michael about. Every exhausting interview leaves her reaching for the phone, because his voice is the one thing capable of quieting everything down, making the world tolerable.
One night, after a particularly grueling press eventâwhere the journalists kept digging and pushing and reaching for information on her health, trying to dissect her private life for public amusementâshe calls him without thinking.
She doesnât think heâll pick upâitâs too late and heâs most likely sleeping and God, he must be tired and she shouldnât be calling him at allâbut Michael does. It only takes him two rings.
âHey,â he says softly, voice sleepy.
Relief floods through her instantaneously at the sound of it. She doesnât reply, just breathes deeply, closing her eyes when she feels tears brimming at the corner.
âYou okay?â He asks not even second later, sounding much more awake.
She clears her throat, âIâm fine. Just tired.â Michael must know sheâs not being completely truthful, he must also know it is not the time to press because he keeps quiet. The sound of his breathing anchors her, makes everything feel steady. âJust wanted to hear your voice.â
The admission startles her.
Michael hums softly. âIs that so?â
She huffs out a laugh, âDonât tease.â
âMânot.â His voice is rough with traces of lingering sleepiness, deeper. âI like hearing your voice, too.â
Suddenly, the ache of missing him becomes almost unbearable.
No one has cared for her so gently before, so openly. There is transparency when it comes to Michaelâs love. He doesnât wish to possess her or control her or polish her raw edges into something easier to hold. He loves with clarity, with intent, proudly, loud in the small ways that matter and (Y/N) loves him.
The thought appears so suddenly she nearly drops the phone.
She goes completely still.
On the other end, Michael keeps talking softly, completely unaware that her entire world had just tilted off balance.
JACKSON FEVER HITS BRISBANE: KING OF POP SET FOR FINAL AUSTRALIAN BAD TOUR SPECTACULAR
Australia's biggest music event of the year reaches its grand finale as international superstar Michael Jackson prepares to take the stage for the final concert of his Australian tour.
Thousands of fans have descended on Brisbane Entertainment Centre ahead of what is expected to be one of the most electrifying performances ever staged in Queensland. Tickets sold out months ago, with devoted followers camping overnight and traveling from across the country for one last chance to witness the King of Pop in action (...)
Realizing sheâs in love with Michael is the most consuming, terrifying thing (Y/N) has ever experienced. (And she almost died, so thatâs saying a lot.)
Once the realization settles, once it sinks into her bones and becomes part of her essence, her truth, it threatens to overwhelm her, consume her entirely.
She loves him.
Entirely.
Completely.
Irrevocably.
How she never noticed before is beyond her, because now that she knows, she cannot turn it off. Itâs like the wiring in her brain and her heart have been altered beyond repair and she simply cannot force herself back into the comfortable shape of friendship. Not now that sheâs glimpsed beyond it.
(Y/N) realizes, as she tosses and turns around in bed, as she stares at the darkness of her ceiling, that maybe the realization of being in love with him isnât whatâs scaryâ loving Michael is easy, it feels right, like everything has suddenly slotted into place and things make sense once moreâ itâs losing him that has her paralyzed, frozen in terror.
Because Michael is not just anyone. He is her best friend, her safe place, the person she trusts the most, the one she would look for in a crowded room.
Losing Michael would destroy her.
And thatâs what she fears, the complexity of her feelings, the confusion of wanting him so badly it hurts, of missing him so deeply his absence is like a phantom ache she cannot rid herself of, of knowing she could be a few words away of ruining the most important relationship of her life.
(Y/N) does not want to lose Michael. She wouldnât survive it.
So she says nothing.
Tries her very best to bury her affection, even it makes her feel like sheâs dying.
And then Michael calls one night.
He sounds exhausted, voice rough from a day spent rehearsing and performing, but happyâ happy because the crowdâs energy had been surreal and most of all happy because itâll only be a couple of days before he sees her again.
Her heart sort of skips a beat when he says that.
âI wish you were here,â he says softly over the phone, as heâs done retelling most of his night.
Something in (Y/N)âs chest aches so violently she has to close her eyes to keep it at bay.
âI miss you,â And they say that to each other a lotâall the time, reallyâ but something about the way Michaels says it this time sounds different. Itâs in the way he enunciates the words, the tenderness behind them, the way they travel all the way and settle somewhere deep inside her.
After they hang up, she sits alone in the darkness of her room for a long time, thinking.
About fear and love and rejection.
And suddenly another fear rises above the rest, the stifling panic of regret, of watching Michael fall in love with someone else while she stands beside him, smiling as if her heart isnât breaking apart inside her, of looking back to these days and wishing she wouldâve done things differently.
The thought alone is enough to make her feel sick.
She cannot do that to herself.
So, the very next day, she gets on a plane.
âI think Iâm going to throw up,â she admits to Tom before she leaves the house, finger looping around the straps of her sweater in a desperate attempt to calm herself down. Heâd arrived early in the morning and found her moving around the house in almost a manic state. Heâd said nothing as sheâd explained where she was going and what she was doing, hadnât even teased her about it taking her so long to finally realize what was most likely obvious to him. Instead, heâd called the chauffer and helped her pack.
âYouâll be okay.â
âOh God, but what if heââ
Tom grabs her face between his hands, like heâd done when sheâd been a kid about to spiral into a panic attack.
âBreathe.â She does, lifting her hands to grab Tomâs wrist in an effort to keep herself anchored. âYou will be okay, kid.â Tom repeats and this time the words do cut through the panic. Heâs looking at her like heâs certain, his words firm, and (Y/N) has no choice but to trust him.
The flight feels endless. Too much time to think and think and overthink, way too much time to panicâ and without Tom by her side itâs harder to keep herself from losing her mind.
(What if this is the biggest mistake of her life? What if sheâs wrong and Tom is wrong and all Michael has ever felt is platonic affection, friendship? What if she confesses her feelings and he doesnât reciprocate and they drift apart?)
She forces herself to keep going.
Love, no matter how brief, is never wasted. And she thinks she could die happy knowing she loved without restrain, without fear. She owes herself that much.
By the time she arrives backstage, her heart is pounding and her stomach is in knots.
She might actually throw up.
The arena is enormous.
(Y/N) can hear the crowd roaring beyond the walls while staff rush frantically through the corridors. Music shakes the floor beneath her feet.
A young girl with a headset recognizes her immediately and nearly drops the walkie-talkie sheâs holding.
âHoly shit.â
That manages to bring out a small laugh from (Y/N). Itâs the first time all day that sheâs felt something other than life-altering dread.
âMichael doesnât know Iâm here,â she finds herself telling the girl, âI was hoping to surprise him.â
âSo you guys are friends.â The girl muses before immediately realizing what sheâs said. Her eyes widen comically, âI just meantâ I mean, with the tabloids you can never know. Like the rivalry, you know, I always thought it was such bullshit the way they pitted you against each other andââ
Huh, so there were people who didnât fall for it. Itâs good to know.
(Y/N) interrupts her with another laugh, because the girl looks like sheâs about to go on a tangent about the media, âItâs okay. I get what you mean.â
The girl nods, visibly relaxing a bit, âUhâ Do youâ Do you want me to take you to his dressing you?â
âI was hoping to sneak a little glance at him, from the wings, if itâs not too much trouble?â
The girl, who she finds out is named Isla, leads her through backstage hallways. The closer they get to the stage, the clearer Michaelâs voice becomes. The sound of it loosens some of the anxiety in her chest.
They arrive at the spot, sheltered from the public by the wings of the arena, and (Y/N) finally catches a glimpse of Michael. There he is. Drenched in sweat, looking like Godâs favorite creation, every feature enhanced by the stage light.
God, she loves him.
Heâs breathing hard as the song ends and the crowdâs scream become even more deafening.
He turns slightly, to say something to his drummer, and thatâs when he sees her.
Everything stops. (Y/N) feels the breath catch in her throat. Michael, who she has never seen falter, freezes mid-step, for the briefest of seconds. His expression shifts so fast she canât process every emotion, but she can pinpoint the softness in his eyes, the one thatâs always present when heâs looking at her.
Calm settles over her, unexpectedly.
Michael recovers quickly. He winks at her and she smiles back and then heâs back to performing, but all she can thinking about are those eyes.
She canât even remember why she was so worried. This is Michael. Her Michael. The person who feels most like home.
For a quick second, the fleeting thought crosses her mind.
Once second, heâs waving goodbye to the crowd, sending kisses out to his fans. The next, heâs bolting.
He must be exhausted, about to be slammed in the face with that post-concert adrenaline crash, and yet, heâs still running to her.
Thereâs a bright smile on his face, his eyes are shinning, little crinkles around the edges. Heâs moving like something is pulling him towards her, like finding his way to her is nothing more than muscle memory.
Michael pulls her into him so hard it knows the breath out of her lungs. His arms wrap around her waist, lifting her a bit so that only her toes touch the ground. Almost as if itâs second nature, her arms loop around his neck.
Heâs covered in sweat, his skin sticky, curls damp against his forehead, and (Y/N) should be disgusted, but she isnât. She feels nothing but an overwhelming amount of fondness, warmth. She pulls him closer, wishing she could sink into him.
For the first time since she realizes she loved him, (Y/N) feels like her heart and mind are at ease. The ache burning inside of her simmers down.
Heâs here, and itâs almost as if her soul knows it.
âOh my God,â he breathes against her hair, elated. âYouâre here.â
(Y/N) laughs shakily against his shoulder.
Michael buries his head against the side of her neck, breathing heavy. His arms tighten around her waist, like heâs making sure sheâs actually here and not a figment of his imagination.
And, God, (Y/N) wants to stay here forever.
She wants to pull him so close, until there is no space left between them, wants to crawl inside his heart, settle somewhere between his ribs. She wants to be consumed by him, by the love she has for him.
Somewhere nearby a camera clicks.
Neither of them pay it much mind.
(The picture, taken by one of Michaelâs staff, will later become one of their most famous ones. (Y/N) doesnât know it yet, but she will keep it neatly tucked in her wallet, carry it with her for the rest of her life.)
âI cannot believe it. Youâre actually here,â he whispers to her. His breath is warm against her skin. âI missed you.â The words sound reverent somehow, like a prayer, like theyâd sounded that night theyâd been on the phone and (Y/N) had realized she couldnât keep her feelings from him any longer.
Something inside her breaks open, âI missed you more.â And it is so true her voice cracks, filled with emotions she has not yet named, not out loud, and Michael, her sweet Michael, notices immediately.
He pulls away, only slightly, so that he can see her face. His arms stay wrapped around her, hands anchored firmly on her waist.
âWhatâs wrong?â
Nothingâs wrong. Everythingâs wrong. (Y/N)âs not sure what to say or precisely what sheâs feeling. Itâs all too much and not enough at the same time.
She shakes her head, because she doesnât know what else to do. Michael is looking at her with those eyes that see too much and God, she cannot hide a single thing from him. Tears gather at the corner of her eyes. Sheâs not quite sure if theyâre happy tears or sad tears or Iâm-scared-Iâm-about-to-ruin-it-all tears.
âHey, hey,â Michael murmurs softly, pulling her close against him once more. One of his hands slides gently to her hair, âItâs okay.â
And it is okay, she is in Michaelâs arms and she is safe and she is alive and she is in love and she cannot help the way the words slip out of her mouth.
âI love you.â
Michael smiles, she feels it against her temple.
âI love you, too, pretty girl, you know that.â
Him and that stupidly endearing nickname.
She cannot pull away, does not want to see his face as she lays herself bare for him. Those eyes of his, (Y/N) would be able to see everything in them. She cannot bear it.
âNo, I meanââ Her voice trembles. She presses her face harder against his shirt. âI am in love with you.â
And itâs an anguish-filled confession, one mumbled into his white, sweat-soaked shirt so quietly that (Y/N) would believe Michael didnât catch it if it werenât for the way he immediately freezes.
Slowly, carefully, he pulls back. Her arms untangle from his neck, hands settling on his chest. (Y/N) grabs the edges of his leather jacket to keep herself grounded, she doesnât think sheâs ever been more scared in her life.
They come face to face and there are so many emotions flashing though his eyes that (Y/N) cannot grasp them, she cannot read him.
âSay that again,â he says in a low voice, tentatively.
(Y/N) swallows, then breathes out, âIâm in love with you.â
A beat.
âDo you mean that?â
(Y/N) nods because she doesnât know what else to do, doesnât know what else to say.
Michaelâs hands move to cup her face, thumbs brushing against her cheekbones. Heâs looking at her so intently, like heâs searching for something. Whatever it is, he seems to find it.
âDo you really mean that?â
âYes,â she whispers.
Michaelâs eyes soften, face breaking into a devastating smile, âI am going to kiss you now.â
He does.
Hesitantly and oh so softly at firstâlike heâs testing the waters, like he doesnât want to scare her awayâthen deeper, more intense.
Everything melts.
There is no arena, no people around them, every noise fades into the background; itâs just her and Michael and their hearts beating in sync and his thumb caressing her skin and his lips on hers.
He loves her too.
Somewhere, very far away, thereâs another click.
(That photo never makes it to the public. Michael keeps it at their bedside table.)
POP ROYALTY CAUGHT IN MOONLIT EMBRACE?!
by Carl Kesterson
Los Angeles was rocked last night when pop icons Michael Jackson and (Y/N) (Y/L/N) were allegedly spotted sharing a passionate kiss outside an exclusive after-party following a charity concert.
For months, rumors have swirled around the chart-topping duo, with fans pointing at lingering glances, matching jewelry and suspiciously affectionate comments as evidence that there might be more than friendship between the two superstars.
Neither Michael nor (Y/N) has commented on the photographs, but insiders suggest the pair has been quietly dating for nearly a year.
Are wedding bells next for music's newest power couple?
Is this all an elaborate publicity scheme?
(turn to page 4 for more!)
â â â â â â â â â â ïč masterlist âź request Ë ask .á ïč
IÊŒM DRUNK, I LOVE YOU
summary: To Art, you were comfort. His home. The person he called when everything went wrong, and the one he assumed would always be there when he needed someone. He never meant to break your heart; he just never realized heâd been carrying it around for seven years. (readerâs pov)
note: i hope you guys like this bcs it will be once in a blue moon that i write something that isnât smut. <3 reblogs and comments are very much appreciated!
Looking back, the first time he saw you leaning against the wall, it never felt like the start of a life-changing friendship when you were just a stranger. Scribbling something on your arm with a pen made you keep your mouth in a tight line. That specific expression caught his attention and made Art look twice. Catching him staring didnât make you smile at all, but you just blinked at him with a blank expression. The memory of that exact moment never really left his mind, even without him talking to you right then. Running into you again was accidental when he spotted you at a corner table in the library a few days later. You were hunched over an open textbook while tapping a pen against your jaw with one earphone loose.
Asking a question he already knew the answer to was just an excuse to get your attention. âWhat do you want?â you muttered as you pulled the other earphone out of your ear. You kept your eyes on him while waiting for a good reason. âIs the assignment due tomorrow?â he asked as he pointed at your open textbook. You didnât even pause your reading to give him a proper glance. âYou really donât pay attention to the lectures at all,â you replied before going right back to reading. Getting called out like that made sure he never stopped thinking about that interaction. Your presence became a normal part of his day without him even trying, and he kept seeing you everywhere on campus.
His phone lit up with your name on the screen all the time. His schedule bent around yours without him even noticing it. People always assumed he had a crush on you, but the idea felt entirely wrong, given his attachment was built on comfort rather than romance. Having someone who never asked for anything from him felt like a relief. Art never really thought about how much he relied on you until he caught himself looking for your face the second he walked into a room. Having you around just felt natural, so he never bothered to think twice about why you were always there. He just welcomed your company when trying to imagine his day without you seemed pointless. âI got you a coffee,â you mumbled as you slid a paper cup across his desk.
Glancing between the steaming cup and the heavy dark circles under your eyes made him raise an eyebrow. âHow did you know I needed this?â he asked while picking up the cup. A careless shrug of your shoulders was the only response you gave him at first. âYou look totally exhausted,â you stated before turning your attention back to your own work. Smiling down at his notes made him realize he really liked having you around. The best part about having you around was how effortless you made everything feel for him. You were just his friend and easily one of the best ones he had. It was always the little things you did without him even realizing it that made him feel more comfortable in this friendship.
You knew exactly which professors he hated, and you always sent dumb memes at two in the morning just to make him laugh. Ordering food when he couldnât decide what to eat just showed how uncomplicated everything was between the two of you. Getting along so well made schoolwork bearable, and late nights feel much more enjoyable. Art liked the fact that you never pushed him to talk about things. Asking why he flaked on plans or changed his mind at the last second was something you never did. Making it easy for him to be himself mattered even when he didnât know who that was. You never hesitated to tease him whenever he started acting up. âYouâre being totally dramatic again,â you snickered as you threw a crumpled piece of paper at his head.
Managing to catch the paper in the air made him shake his head at your antics. âIâm just stating the facts,â he countered as he tossed it right back to your desk. An unimpressed eye roll was always your favorite response to his teasing. Art genuinely liked you, but definitely not in any sort of romantic way. Thinking about you like that never crossed his mind, and you were just his person. Knowing you were always there for him didnât feel scary at all. There was nothing to figure out, and he genuinely thought this was just how a good friendship worked. He didnât remember how long that phone call lasted after he totally lost track of time while talking to you. It could have been twenty minutes or two hours, but all he really remembered was how quickly he calmed down just by listening to you.
âGo drink some water and stop overthinking so you can actually sleep,â you mumbled as you let out a brief yawn right into the microphone. You waited in line until you heard him move. âYeah, okay,â he whispered before pulling the phone away from his ear to disconnect the call. He tossed his phone onto the mattress beside him and actually got up to get a glass of water just like you told him to do. He didnât even think to show any appreciation right then, and he could barely keep his eyes open. Climbing back into bed a minute later meant he just rolled over on his mattress and finally rested. That was exactly what an amazing friendship looked like to him. It meant having someone who always picked up the phone to listen whenever he called.
Then there was Tashi, who joined the organization shortly after he began attending the meetings. She pulled up a chair beside him during one discussion before she asked a question that made everyone pause. She laughed under her breath right after, so Art accidentally snorted his drink. She didnât talk loudly at all, but people still turned their heads to watch her in every room she entered. He liked the way she looked like she belonged everywhere. They started talking right after that small interaction. âAre you always this easily amused?â she asked while raising an eyebrow at his spilled drink. She leaned against the table while observing his reaction. âI- I just wasnât expecting you to say that,â he choked out as he wiped the table with a napkin.
He started looking for ways to get near her after that meeting. He didnât connect the timing to anything important, and he didnât think his interest meant anything serious either. He already had you in his life to look after him. Everything with you felt incredibly easy and so familiar. He didnât ask himself why he liked having someone new to look at. Why would he ever question something so harmless? He definitely didnât stop talking to you just after he met someone new. You always called him after lectures, and you constantly dragged him to film screenings you knew he would like. None of that changed, and you were always his favorite person to spend time with. âWe have to go see this tonight,â you demanded while shoving your phone into his face to show him a movie poster.
He leaned back to actually look at the screen. âAlright, Iâll buy the tickets,â he agreed as he pushed your phone away with a laugh. He never felt the need to talk when he hung out with you. He didnât have to entertain you, so he always chose to be around you when his schoolwork stressed him out. Tashi caught his attention in a completely different way. She was entirely new to his everyday life, and she always did things he didnât expect. People watched her when she entered a room, as if she might do something worth remembering. He really liked that she argued with him instead of just nodding along to whatever he said. âYouâre totally wrong about that,â she argued while rolling her eyes at his movie opinion.
Art enjoyed the fact that she didnât know him the way you did, and she didnât seem to want to know him that well either. He kept finding Tashi after the organization events until they just started going home together. They kept hanging out after lectures, and eventually, they started dating, but they decided to keep the entire relationship a secret from everyone else. She wasnât demanding at all, and she didnât expect him to text her back right away or make a big deal out of them being together. She just showed up, so he did exactly the same thing. The arrangement worked for them without any effort. âLetâs just keep this between us for now,â she suggested while playing with the edge of his sleeve. She looked up at him to make sure he agreed.
âYeah, I get that,â he replied, and keeping things private sounded perfectly fine to him. Being together didnât take over his life, and it just folded into his normal schedule. They kept it to themselves mostly after she asked him to. She mentioned she hated how people in the organization always gossiped about couples, so she wanted to keep their relationship totally unbothered by anyone else. He understood exactly what she meant, and he was perfectly happy to respect her wishes. He didnât think hiding his relationship with Tashi was a big deal at all. It just wasnât something that needed explaining to anyone else.
She never asked him to distance himself from you anyway. She never made things weird when he canceled their plans when you needed help editing a paper. She didnât mind when he picked up your coffee first before meeting her. It was never a choice between the two of you. That was just how his life already looked before she arrived. He had you as his best friend, and he had Tashi as his girlfriend. Those two relationships didnât feel like they overlapped at all. He didnât treat you differently, and his everyday actions proved he relied on your presence just as much as you counted on his support. That care showed up clearly whenever you suffered from a bad migraine, and he immediately came over to your place to check on you.
âDid you take your medicine yet?â he asked as he placed a glass of water on your nightstand. He sat on the edge of the mattress to check on you. âYes, I took it an hour ago,â you mumbled while hiding your face in your pillow. He always needed your input, so he texted you first the exact second something shitty happened on campus. He also insisted on getting your final approval before submitting any of his assignments. Not telling you about Tashi didnât feel like a lie, and he thought it just meant his friendship with you was exactly the same as always. He genuinely believed he could have both the girl he was learning about and the best friend who already knew him. Art never bothered to ask what the entire friendship actually looked like from your perspective.
He never even thought to ask, and you were just being your usual self by constantly remembering things everyone else forgot. Packing extra towels for him before practice became a totally normal thing you did. You always sent him customized playlists whenever he complained about having a hard time training. Waiting with him before his big matches happened all the time, even when you definitely had somewhere else to be. Bringing his favorite candy to the tennis courts just after he mentioned it once was another thing he took for granted. He never tried to read into your actions, and he assumed that was just how you treated all your friends. Showing up at your place at one in the morning with takeout food and his laptop usually ended with him passing out on your couch right in the middle of a sentence.
âYou really need to get actual sleep,â you mumbled before dropping a blanket over his shoulders. Thinking about how much you cared about him probably crossed your mind right before you walked back to your own bedroom. He didnât bother acknowledging it the next morning, and he just expected you to look after him. Looking after each other just felt like a totally normal part of knowing you. You actually joked about marrying him one time while acting like the idea meant absolutely nothing to you. âWe should probably just get married if weâre both single at thirty,â you suggested with a shrug of your shoulders. Art immediately laughed at the idea, and he thought you were just kidding. âYou wouldnât even survive living with me for a week,â he teased as he kept looking down at his phone screen.
He totally missed the way your smile dropped for a second before you forced the corners of your mouth back up to act normal again. You kept your hands folded tightly in your lap so he wouldnât notice how much his quick rejection actually hurt you. The entire interaction felt totally normal to him, and he genuinely believed you two were just best friends making dumb jokes. He never bothered to notice how often you gave up your free time for him without expecting anything in return. He never imagined you would ever leave his side when you were always there. Art never stopped to think about what being his best friend might have actually been costing you emotionally. Sticking around for seven whole years proved exactly how much you were willing to endure for him.
He couldnât even remember the exact names of every single girl he dated, and none of them mattered. He dated girls who didnât fit into his life at all, and a few of those relationships ended on bad terms. None of those girls ever really lasted, anyway. Breaking up with them usually ended with him resting next to you in his car while drinking from a bottle of vodka. âYou really need to eat something,â you sighed while pushing a bag of chips across the center console. He always acted like he didnât care about the breakups, even when he was clearly upset. You never bothered to ask for the details or tell him he made a mistake. Pushing that bag of gas station food toward him was your only response to his bad decisions.
You always knew exactly what he needed to feel better that night. You always just listened to him complain without getting angry at his bad choices. The memory of you sneaking out with him after his worst tennis loss was something that never left his mind. Going back to his empty home was the last thing he wanted to do, so he just drove straight to an empty parking lot. Resting in the open trunk of his car with your legs swinging over the bumper became the only way to spend the night. You were both eating gas station snacks while passing a cheap bottle of alcohol back and forth between you. âI think weâre both just really bad at being adults,â you mumbled into the cold night air. Art let out a genuine laugh at your observation, even though nothing about the situation was actually funny.
Laughing with you was just the easiest way to respond, and he genuinely didnât know how else to thank you for sticking around. Thinking about how much you cared for him was something he just ignored, so he could keep things easy between you two. That was exactly what the years looked like between the two of you. You always adjusted your schedule to be close to him. He never asked you to do that, nor did he ask whether you wanted to stop doing it. You were his best friend, so he just assumed you would always be around. You kept yourself close for the worst parts of his college life, too. Art spent way too long finishing his undergrad degree, and he kept dropping subjects he hated. He didnât know what he actually wanted to do with his life.
Pursuing tennis full-time felt totally inevitable, given that everyone expected him to go pro right after graduation. Going to law school was just his backup plan if his athletic career fell apart. Thinking about actually making a final decision just made him want to ignore the future entirely. The sport took up so much of his time that he didnât even know if he loved playing anymore or if it was just the only thing he was good at. âYou donât have to figure everything out today,â you muttered as you passed him a cold water bottle after a brutal practice. He just nodded at you without saying a single word. Art just ignored the big questions about his future so he wouldnât have to deal with the pressure. Your degree requirements were already finished, so you should have graduated way before him.
Your career path was clear, but you refused to leave the university. You picked up extra units and extended your time at school just to be near him. âI think I might actually be allergic to the real world,â you joked as you tapped a highlighter against your chin. He never asked why you signed up for more schoolwork, and he totally failed to connect the dots. You were just there with him like you always had been. Art wasnât ready to leave the campus, and he was incredibly scared of facing the real world alone because he needed more time to figure his life out. You gave him that time without him ever asking. He just took your constant support for granted without realizing what you actually gave up to be by his side.
So he didnât think the weekend road trip would mean anything more than a fun getaway when he brought it up. He would never expect what will happen will take something big in his life. âWe should all go down to that music festival,â he suggested as he tossed his car keys onto the table. He looked between the two of you while waiting for an answer. âYeah, Iâm totally in,â you agreed before he even finished his sentence. Patrick immediately teased the two of you about always doing things together. Hearing him joke around like that made the trip feel like just another regular weekend for the three of you. Art totally forgot to tell you that Tashi was actually the one who came up with the idea to go there. He wasnât trying to hide her from you, but the detail just slipped his mind.
Art drove over to pick you up with Tashi already waiting in the front passenger seat. She was looking out the open window while scrolling through her phone. You climbed right into the back seat without asking him any questions about her. Patrick got in right beside you with his headphones resting around his neck. No one said much at first, and the car's engine noise mixed with the radio playing in the background. He didnât check the rearview mirror to look at your face, and he didnât notice the sudden way you stiffened when Tashi turned around to introduce herself. âAre you the famous best friend he always talks about?â she asked while giving you a polite smile. She rested her arm over the center console to look at you.
âY-yeah, thatâs me,â you replied as you tried your best to sound totally normal. Art just smiled from the driverâs seat without bothering to look back. He acted like the seating arrangement didnât matter at all, and he behaved as if you hadnât spent the last seven years right beside him. The four of you spent the long drive talking over the radio and bringing up old inside jokes. You made it through his jokes and laughed when he teased you from the front seat. You let Patrick steal your snacks without saying a word. You sang under your breath as the music played to make the car ride feel perfectly normal. Then Tashi reached over to change the station to a song you didnât recognize. Finding out about her presence like that probably ruined the entire trip for you, but you forced yourself to keep quiet.
No one said what they actually thought. He just turned the radio volume up before you looked away out the side window. It was a long, awkward drive until all of you finally reached the destination. You all gathered on the beach with cups in your hands later that night. You drank alcohol while you listened to stories you already knew. Art got up halfway through the conversation to grab more bottles from the cooler. You watched him walk away as your cup rested on your knee. Patrick looked directly at Tashi the second Art got far enough away. âSo, do you and Art actually have a history together?â Patrick asked as he took a sip from his drink. Patrick watched her face closely while he waited for her answer.
The wind blew some sand across your shoes while she thought about her response. âWe knew each other from the organization a few years ago,â Tashi answered while she gave him a polite smile. She traced a finger across her knee instead of looking back at him. âYeah, sure,â Patrick replied before he kicked some sand with his shoe. You kept your spine totally rigid so you wouldnât give away how much the conversation bothered you while refusing to move away from your spot. Tashi lowered her gaze to look down at her drink. âI actually texted him last week to mention I was coming to this festival,â Tashi stated as she traced the rim of her cup. Patrick glanced right at you like he already knew what she was going to say next. You looked straight ahead at the bonfire without blinking.
âI definitely didnât think he would bring other people with him,â she added while she pulled her jacket more around her body. Her words sounded entirely careful, but her intention to get him back was incredibly obvious. âI only showed up today because I hoped we could fix things and get back together,â Tashi explained as she looked back up at Patrick. Neither of you said anything back to her for a few seconds. You gave a small smile before you drank from your cup and just nodded your head as you understood her completely. You really shouldnât have found out about their secret relationship this way. You swallowed hard as you forced your hand not to grip your drink tighter, but thankfully Art came back two minutes later and relaxed a little when you saw that big grin on his face.
He held a new bottle in his hand, and he immediately started talking about something else. He dropped down into the sand without noticing how entirely quiet the rest of you were. You just laughed at his words, so he wouldnât ask what happened when he was gone. He didnât notice anything different about you at all, and that went on for an hour until Patrick eventually announced he was ready to head back to the hotel. The fire burned out completely a while ago. The alcohol clouded your mind, but you clearly remembered every single word Tashi confessed. Tashi stood up before she brushed the sand off her clothes. Patrick let out a yawn, and Art let out a groan like he wanted to prolong the night, but you chose to keep your mouth completely shut.
The four of you walked down the beach road together, but you asked them to stop by a street stall to buy some barbecue that was already cooked. It didnât take long to buy it, so you just held the paper bag while Art kept swinging his bottle around as he told a story you had already heard a million times. Patrick wandered ahead while Tashi trailed behind everyone else. You walked right beside Art the entire way back. The three of you followed Patrick toward the entrance of the hotel. Tashi walked away toward her room first once you all stepped inside the lobby. âIâm gonna go to sleep now,â Tashi announced as she turned down a different corridor. Everyone just watched her leave without offering a goodbye.
Patrick walked away next while he typed on his phone screen. âDonât wait up for me tonight,â Patrick called out before he walked down the opposite hallway. The two of you ended up walking down the hallway alone together. He sang a melody quietly instead of saying anything out loud. His bottle was nearly empty, and his legs were covered in sand. The hallway air smelled entirely like salt water. It could have been any normal night for the two of you, but it definitely wasnât. You looked at him entirely differently after hearing what Tashi said. He had no idea you planned on walking away from him for good. You just passed the bottle back and forth between you. Neither of you talked much because you never really needed words to understand each other.
You both reached the door at the end of the hallway after a few minutes of walking. He pushed the door open to let you step inside the room first. You walked straight to the desk to put down the paper bag of food you carried from the street stall. He followed right behind you before he pushed the door shut. âI really donât know if I want to go pro anymore,â he admitted as he walked to the center of the room. Hearing him bring up his future felt totally familiar after listening to him doubt himself for years. âEveryone just assumes I was built for tennis, so they expect me to do it,â he explained before he took another drink from the bottle in his hand. He passed the bottle over to you, so you took a drink. You just looked down at the floor without offering any advice.
âI think I really love playing, but maybe I just got good at it early enough to forget how to want anything else,â he muttered as he kicked at the carpet. You didnât answer him right away, so he just kept talking. âI really donât know if I love the sport because it belongs to me or because everyone else expects me to play it,â he confessed while looking at you. He searched your face for some kind of answer you didnât have. He let his shoulders sink as he stood there with his arms resting at his sides. He dropped his head forward to let his chin hit his chest while he stared at his feet for a long time without saying a word. âI just donât know who I actually am without tennis,â he admitted while looking back at his feet.
âYouâve been complaining about that exact same thing since our sophomore year,â you replied as you walked over to stand closer to him. You handed the bottle right back to him after making your point. âI guess I really havenât evolved much since then,â he agreed as he scratched the back of his neck with a laugh. He seemed to accept your observation without becoming defensive. âYou actually have grown up a lot,â you corrected him while nudging his arm. You wanted to reassure him that his personal growth was incredibly obvious. He just needed someone to remind him of his own progress. âYou think about things more now, and you donât run away from your problems anymore, so that totally counts,â you pointed out as you nudged him again.
He didnât say anything back to that right away. âWhat about you then?â he asked while tilting his head. He stopped talking about his own problems to look at you. âIâm gonna get a real job soon,â you stated as you looked at him. You tried your best to sound totally confident about your upcoming plans. You knew this conversation was going to change everything between you two. âI need to pay my mom back since she paid for seven whole years of college,â you explained as you walked back to lean against the edge of the desk. He turned his entire body to face you. âYou couldâve graduated already?â he asked as he widened his eyes. The realization completely disrupted his previous train of thought. He looked at you as if he were seeing you for the very first time.
âI actually finished my degree requirements three years ago,â you answered as you looked right back at him. That piece of information made him completely speechless. He just stared at you without blinking. âWhy didnât you just leave school then?â he asked as he ran a hand through his hair. He genuinely couldnât comprehend why anyone would willingly delay their life that long. âI just didnât want to leave yet,â you admitted as you gave him a shrug of your shoulders. You didnât tell him you waited around just because you wanted him to notice you. Thinking about how long you waited for him to finally look at you differently was something you kept entirely to yourself. He didnât ask for a better explanation after he walked over to hand the bottle back to you.
The two of you stood there near the desk while the conversation completely stopped. You really thought everything between you two was already ending, even without anyone saying it out loud. âIâd probably just be the sidekick if anyone actually bothered to make a movie about us,â you muttered as you took another drink from the bottle. He turned his head to look at you with a confused expression. âW-why would you even say that?â he asked while he crossed his arms over his chest. âBecause people always want to watch you,â you pointed out before you handed the bottle back to him. You watched him take it while you thought about how he always got exactly what he wanted without even trying. âYou never actually know what youâre doing, but you always end up exactly where you need to be,â you explained as you crossed your ankles while leaning against the desk.
He just shook his head at your words before he let out a laugh. âThat really doesnât sound like a main character to me,â he argued while he took a sip of the alcohol. âIt totally does,â you countered as you looked right back at him. âYou just canât see it yet,â you added before you looked down at your shoes. He stopped talking completely right after you said that. He kept looking at you for a long time while his hand dropped to his side with the bottle. You kept looking at him for a few seconds before he finally looked away. Neither of you brought up what you were actually thinking about. He set the bottle down on the desk to pull off his jacket. He threw his jacket onto the nearest chair before he walked over to the bed.
He kicked his shoes off his feet to drop back onto the mattress like his legs gave out. You grabbed the paper bag from the desk before you walked over to join him. You sat down right beside him while you pulled out the barbecue on a stick you bought earlier. âI just knew youâd complain later if we didnât get these,â you stated as you placed the food between you two. He pushed himself up onto his elbows before he sat up fully on the mattress so he could look at the food. âYou always make sure I eat when I completely forget to do it myself,â he mumbled as he grabbed a stick of barbecue. âYou literally never think about anything,â you teased before you took a piece of the food for yourself. He just laughed at your observation while he started chewing his food.
âYeah, thatâs pretty accurate,â he agreed while he continued chewing his food. You adjusted your position until your knees almost bumped against his leg. The mattress sank down under your combined weight while he started talking again. He talked about Tashi, and he complained about Patrick while you sat next to him. You didnât try to interrupt him at all, so you just listened to him speak. He wiped his hands on the empty paper bag before he pulled his guitar from the foot of the bed. He never asked for permission because he never really cared. He placed the instrument on his lap while his fingers started moving over the strings. He played some random sounds instead of a real song. You knew he only did this when nobody else was around. You adjusted your position on the bed while you watched him play.
He didnât even look up at you because he didnât have to. You figured this was just his way of talking when words completely failed him. You never told him to stop playing, so you just kept right beside him like you always did. The bottle you both drank from earlier was just on the desk. He kept playing because his hands needed something to do. You knew he was totally drunk, but he managed to play fine. You crossed your legs on the mattress while you stared at him. You always just stuck around without ever asking for anything in return. You told yourself tonight would be different. âSeven years,â you spoke up as you looked right at him. You thought about how long this secret had existed. He stopped playing before he blinked a few times.
âWhat?â he asked while he turned his head to face you. He looked totally confused by your statement. âIâve been in love with you for seven years,â you admitted as you met his eyes. You finally said the words you kept hidden for years. The realization failed to register in his brain right away. He kept his fingers resting on the strings without playing another note while he just stared at you. âI donât know when it started,â you admitted as you looked down at his hands. You tried to think about the very first time you realized your feelings. âMaybe when we were⊠I donât know... seventeen? Eighteen?â you explained as you let out a sigh. You remembered how young you both were back then. âMaybe itâs when you asked if I wanted to walk home instead of calling a cab,â you continued while you watched his reaction.
You thought about all those little moments you memorized over the years. âOr when you shared your fries and said you didnât want to eat alone,â you pointed out before you shook your head. He didnât answer you, so you just kept talking. âOr maybe it was every time you told me something that felt small to you, but I held onto it for days,â you confessed as you folded your hands together in your lap. He just kept his eyes on you without making a single sound. You let out a breath while you tried to calm your nerves. âI donât know. I just know that Iâve loved you,â you stated as you looked right back at him. You never planned to actually tell him any of this out loud. You shook your head slightly before you spoke again. âQuietly-â you stopped yourself as you thought about how you hid everything from him for years.
âConstantly,â you continued while you watched his expression. He looked completely surprised by everything you just said. You didnât give him a chance to speak. âFor seven fucking years-â you finished as you let out another breath. He didnât move an inch after you dropped that information. You didnât cry or try to make a big deal out of the confession. You just sounded completely tired of holding it all inside. âI donât want anything from you,â you stated as you gave him a sad smile. You really just wanted to get it off your chest before you finally left. âI just didnât want to leave without telling you,â you added while you looked down at your hands. âI wanted you to know that someone loved you that long. That hard-â you continued as you looked up at him.
You wanted him to understand how much you cared about him. He just kept staring at you like he couldnât process your words. âEven if you never noticedâŠâ You whispered while you gave him a small shrug. You totally accepted the fact that he never saw you that way. His mind went completely blank after hearing your confession. He didnât even know how to react to something like that. The alcohol from earlier lost its effect because the situation just messed with his head right then. Everything happened way too fast for him to understand. He reacted without thinking about what he was actually doing. He leaned forward over his guitar to get closer to you before he put his mouth on yours to kiss you. The kiss wasnât romantic at all, since he never actually planned to do it.
It was just a panicked reaction because letting you walk away wasnât an option. He acted on instinct when his brain failed to come up with any actual words to say. Knowing if he meant to do it or if he even wanted to kiss you in the first place didnât matter right then. You were going to leave, so he did the only thing he could think of to stop you. Your lips didnât move at all against his. You never even tried to kiss him back, so the mistake became completely obvious to him. You leaned away from him to put some distance between the two of you. You looked right at him without blinking. âDonât do that,â you stated as you shook your head at him. âDonât kiss me because you donât know what else to do,â you told him before you got up from the mattress.
Your words hurt him because having an excuse for his actions was completely impossible. He couldnât even try to defend himself when he knew you were right. Watching you stand up from the bed was all he could do without trying to stop you again. He nodded his head because he knew he deserved your anger when you refused to say anything else. You walked over to the corner of the room to grab your bag. You packed your things right in front of him so you could commute all the way back to the city from the beach alone. You walked straight toward the exit without looking back at him once you finished. You opened the door to leave the room before you shut it behind you. He didnât move from the mattress while his mind tried to process everything he had ignored over the last seven years.
His guitar rested right in his lap. The drink from earlier was on the desk. He never wanted any of this to happen the way it did, but he ruined it anyway. He didnât leave his spot, and he realized taking his mistake back was completely out of the question, but he had an excuse to see you again because your graduation was the very next day. It was also his birthday, but caring about that at all right then felt completely pointless. He entirely skipped the actual ceremony, so he didnât even bother asking anyone for photos. He just looked at his phone while he scrolled past all the pictures other people posted online. He saw your face in every single post. You looked completely happy while you posed with your friends.
Seeing you graduate made him realize your life was moving on without him. He avoided the event entirely because figuring out how to act around you after the previous night was just too confusing. He typed a message asking for one last drink and sent it right away before he could change his mind. He called it a tradition so you wouldnât reject the invitation. Meeting you right then was just something he really needed to do. He completely hated the idea of watching you finish college when he had no idea what to do with his own life. The thought of not seeing you at all bothered him even more. He grabbed his bag before he left his place. He arrived at the meeting spot completely late, so he parked his car and walked over to find you already waiting there.
He always expected you to come because you always listened whenever he asked for something. Thinking you were just a really good friend was his usual mindset for years. You didnât smile at him when he walked over. You never even tried to tease him like you usually did. You just looked completely exhausted. âYou really took your time getting here,â you stated as you crossed your arms over your chest. You didnât sound angry, but you definitely sounded completely done with him. âI made it,â he pointed out while he gave you a shrug. You didnât laugh at his excuse at all. He told you to walk to the convenience store with him just like you both usually did. You walked right beside him without saying a single word.
The silence between the two of you felt completely wrong this time. Everything between you two was totally falling apart. Being entirely distracted meant he completely failed to notice the obvious lack of lights coming from the storefront. Reaching the dark building only revealed that the glass doors were completely locked. âI totally forgot it was Sunday today,â he muttered as he checked the closed sign on the window. You just turned around to walk away, so he followed right behind you. The two of you ended up walking another three blocks to find a liquor store that was actually open. He bought some alcohol and shoved the cans into his bag. You both walked back to his parked car right after, so he could drive back to his home.
You followed him up the stairs without asking any questions. You both ended up on the roof of his home a few minutes later. You crossed your arms over your chest again while looking out at the street below. He pulled a couple of beers from his bag and popped the tabs open before he handed one over to you. You uncrossed your arms to take the can from his hand without making any eye contact. Neither of you tried to make a toast before drinking the alcohol. He just watched you stare out at the street below. Thinking about everything you told him the previous night finally took over his brain. He realized your actions were never just about being a good friend. It all made sense after you confessed your love for seven years, and his mind started playing back every single time you put him first.
Mistaking your love for basic kindness happened entirely on his end. He always took your presence for granted because having you around was just convenient for him. He looked down at the beer can in his hand while he thought about the butterball candy he gave you during a road trip years ago. You joked about it tasting expired before throwing the wrapper at his face. Laughing at your reaction just turned it into a normal habit between the two of you after that day. He forgot he actually did that with Tashi first, and she was the one who started it. You never knew about her, so that candy became an inside joke without you knowing it was already something he did with another woman. You let him take up all your free time without ever asking for anything back.
You gave him seven entire years of helping him out and keeping quiet whenever he messed up. Thinking about that kiss back in that hotel room made him feel awful since he only did it to stop you from walking out the door. He just panicked instead of admitting he was terrified of losing his best friend. He couldnât get that night at the hotel out of his head. You were resting on the edge of the mattress and pointing out that it had been seven years. Your voice didnât even shake while your hands never tried to reach for his. He knew he messed up the second his lips touched yours, since it was nothing but a selfish reaction. He felt completely guilty about it because he knew it was wrong. He never forgot the exact way you told him not to do that right after you pulled away.
You told him not to kiss you just because he didnât know what else to do right before you grabbed your things to leave. Hearing those words in his head just made him realize he had completely ruined the best thing he had ever had. He never tried to bring it up again because he couldnât lie to your face about his feelings. He actually did love you, but it definitely wasnât the way you wanted him to. He never felt that kind of romantic urgency or devotion you held onto for all those years. âI really donât want you to leave,â he muttered as he took a sip from his beer. You just kept looking at the street below without turning your head. He loved having you in his life because you were the only person who truly understood him.
The idea of letting you walk away completely terrified him. He couldnât tell you how much he needed you because it felt entirely selfish to hold onto you when he couldnât give you what you deserved. âI donât know what Iâm supposed to do without you,â he confessed while he stared at the side of your face. You didnât give him an answer right away, so he just drank more of his beer. âYouâre gonna have to figure it out eventually,â you replied before you took another drink from your own can. He couldnât force himself to say he loved you too when he knew his version of love wasnât enough for you. Bringing you up to this roof for a final drink was the only way he knew how to let you go, and keeping his mouth shut seemed like a good way to make you wait beside him just a little longer.
Hoping your presence would fix something inside him was probably selfish, even if only temporary. You just drank your beer without looking in his direction at all. Your mind was already thinking about something else entirely, instead of him. âHappy birthday,â you mumbled before you took another sip from your can. Hearing you say that made him feel incredibly awful because you sounded so distant despite being right there beside him. âCongrats on graduating,â he replied while looking right at you. Giving you such a basic response made him feel completely pathetic. You didnât even bother saying thank you back to him.
âI should go now,â you muttered as you set your empty can on the ledge.
âYeah,â he replied while staring at his own shoes. You turned around right away before walking toward the roof access door. You didnât try to look back at him. Watching you leave without saying another word was his only choice. There was absolutely nothing left for him to say to stop you from leaving. He wanted to apologize for kissing you like that back at the hotel. He wanted to say sorry for wasting so much of your time. He wanted to ask for forgiveness because he just couldnât love you the exact way you needed. Realizing he was actually losing you didnât happen until you told him you were already done. Saying any of those things wouldnât fix anything at all, right then. He just let you walk to the stairs without even trying to follow you this time. Waiting around for him wasnât your job anymore.
You were always the only constant thing in his entire life. You were the only person he relied on whenever he didnât know what to do with himself. Keeping him company whenever he felt completely lost was something you always did. You supported him whenever playing tennis brought him nowhere. You listened to him complain when he was doubting himself and felt like getting his degree was totally out of reach. You never judged him whenever he doubted his future career and felt like he was just faking his way through life. Letting you take on all his problems without ever giving you anything in return was his biggest flaw. Thinking you would just be around forever happened because he assumed friendship worked that way.
Kissing you completely ruined that comfortable illusion between the two of you, and he knows that pretending everything was fine just wouldnât work anymore. He had no idea who he was without you around, and thatâs something he canât even fully grasp. He spent so many years relying on your help for everything, so how can this be an easy road to fill the void you left? He doesnât even actually want to figure out his own life by himself when heâs used to hearing your advice and opinions. He didn't even know how he was supposed to survive his own mistakes without you there to save him. It felt like he finally woke up to realize he destroyed the only real thing he ever had, and like he spent seven whole years draining you empty just to keep his own head above water. There was no one left to save him like he always expected you to do whenever things went wrong. He just had to live with the reality that he pushed you away like he never even cared at all.
synopsis: you and micheal have been by each others side since you were kids. j*seph feels like youâre in the way of the familyâs success so he gives you an ultimatum, can you and michael survive it?
warnings: angst, j5/otw/thriller era, j*e jackson (i made him as evil as possible. i really really donât like him)
wc: 12.3k (this is a longgggg one)
a/n: this is based off the request: Hi can you make an MJ off the wall/thriller era fic with singer reader being 2 years younger than him but heâs always loved her. theyâve been friends since they were kids, & now lovers. Joe canât stand her even when she was a child because he swore she was taking him away from the group and making the boys not listen. Joe breaks them up & gives her an ultimatum. Michael is sad and angry at her but they meet each other again at a party & do the ending however but that would be cute.
(i almost turned this into 2 parts but decided against it. hopefully yâall stay all the way to the end!)
1968
âCome on, y'all need to tighten up!â Josephâs voice echoed loudly through the room, cutting the music dead. He stepped into Michael's line of sight, his eyes narrowing. âMichael, look at me. I need your eyes.â
You sit next to Michaelâs mother, Katherine, on the couch as you watch Michael and his brothers practice in the living room. The space, normally meant for family gatherings, has been completely cleared out, the furniture pushed against the walls to make room for the rhythm of heavy loafers hitting the floorboards. They air in the room is thick, warm, and heavy with the subtle scent of sweat vibrating with the intensity of Josephâs expectations.
Even at nine years old, Michael carries a weight on his shoulders that looks far too heavy for his small frame. His brows are knit together in concentration, his afro bouncing slightly as he executes a sharp, flawless spin. But despite the precision of his movements, you can see the deep exhaustion behind his eyes.
Suddenly, Joseph steps forward, his large frame cutting off the light from the window. "Hold it! Stop, stop," he barks, clapping his hands together with a sound like a pistol shot. The Tito abruptly takes his fingers from his guitar, leaving an deafening, ringing silence in the room. Joseph points a finger directly at Michael. "Michael, you dragginâ on the turn. Yaâ mind is wanderinâ. I told you, I need your eyes locked in. You think the people at Motown are gonna pay to see you daydreaminâ?"
Michael drops his gaze to the floor, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. "No, Joseph. âM sorry."
Still sitting on the sofa, you feel yourself tense up, your fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt. But beside you, Katherine remains a calm, unyielding anchor. She reaches out, her hand resting gently on her husband's arm as he steps closer to the boys.
The tension in the room hung as thick as the heat pressing through the windows, heavy and suffocating. Michael stood in the center of the floor, his chest heaving beneath his damp shirt as his fatherâs harsh words echoed off the walls. He looked so small in that moment, his shoulders curving inward as if he was trying to shield himself from Joseph's glare.
Slowly, but carefully, as if testing whether his father would catch him moving, Michael lifted his chin just an inch. His eyes didn't look at his mother, and they dare didn't look back at Joseph.
Instead, they flicked straight to you.
They were swimming with a mixture of exhaustion and a quiet, desperate plea. It was a look you knew all too wellâthe one he only used when the pressure felt like it was going to crush him entirely.
Your heart squeezed. You unclasped your fingers and smoothed them out over your skirt as you gave him a soft nod. Your lips curved into a warm, reassuring smile, a private signal meant just for him. Itâs okay, the smile promised. I'm here.
The change in him was almost immediate. The line of Michael's shoulders relaxed by a fraction, and a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. It was fleeting, gone in a blink so Joseph wouldn't catch it, but the sudden spark of relief in his eyes was unmistakable. For a second, the room seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you together in the quiet understanding you had shared.
"Joseph, please," Katherineâs voice broke the brief silence, her tone dropping into a low, private murmur that barely carried across the living room. Her hand remained steady on his forearm. "The boys have been running these steps since early this morning. Look at them, they're spent. Give them a break.â
Joseph didn't yell, instead his voice dropped into a low, gravelly snap that made the everyone, including you, stiffen. "I look at them and I see sloppy footwork, Katherine. If they spent, it's because they wastinâ energy on unimportant things."
He slowly turned his head, his eyes cutting directly past his wife to lock onto you. His brow furrowed deeply, his voice now only low enough for Katherine to hear. "That girl shouldn't even be in here during rehearsal, Kate. Every single minute he spends gigglinâ with her out in the yard is a minute he isn't focusinâ on the group.â
Katherine didn't back down entirely, but her posture softened, knowing exactly how far she could push before the argument turned into something much worse for the children. "Sheâs a sweet child, Joseph, and her mother is a dear friend of mine," she replied, her voice dropping even lower, laced with a quiet, maternal protectiveness, despite you not being her child. "They aren't doing any harm. They're just children. Let them have ten minutes."
Joseph scoffed, looking from his wife down to Michael, who had quickly dropped his eyes back to his shoes. With a resentful grunt, Joseph finally waved a hand in dismissal.
"Ten minutes," Joseph grumbled, turning on his heel toward the kitchen table to look over a stack of documents, his heavy footsteps vibrating through the floorboards. "Ten minutes. And then we run the entire set from the top, flawlessly."
The second Joseph's back was fully turned, the suffocating weight in the room seemed to lift. Michael's head snapped up, his eyes bright and completely alert as he looked back at you. The timid expression he wore for his father completely vanished, replaced by a familiar warmth.
He didn't wait for his brothers to scatter. In three quick strides, Michael walked across the floor straight to the couch. Before his father could even think to turn around and change his mind, Michael caught you gently by the wrist, his hand warm and slightly damp from the practice.
He didn't say a word, but the urgent tug on your hand spoke volumes. With a soft, breathless laugh, he pulled you up from the sofa and guided you quickly up the stairs, rushing toward his bedroom.
The moment the bedroom door clicked shut behind you, the tense atmosphere of the house evaporated completely. Michael let out a long sigh, the kind that came from deep in his chest, and threw himself backward onto his mattress, staring at the ceiling.
He stayed like that for a long moment, completely motionless, as if letting the quiet of the room wash over him. The only sound was the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the faint, distant sound of birds chirping from outside.
You crawled further up the bed, your knees sinking into the soft quilt, and sat cross-legged just a few inches away from his feet. You didn't press him to talk. You knew that sometimes, the greatest gift you could give Michael was just letting him occupy a space where nothing was expected of him.
Slowly, Michael turned his head on the pillow, his brown doe eyes looking up at you. "Did I really look like I was daydreaming?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking slightly with a vulnerability he would never dare show his father.
"No," you said softly, reaching out to gently nudge his arm. "I think you looked amazinâ, Mikey, you always do. Your spin was so fast I don't even know how you didn't get dizzy."
A small, genuine smile finally tugged at his lips, a faint dimple appearing on his cheek. It wasn't the practiced, dazzling smile he flashed for the cameras, it was soft and shy. "I was dizzy," he confessed with a tiny, breathless giggle, rolling over onto his side so he was facing you, propping his head up with his hand. "But Joseph says if you think about being tired, you become tired, so I try to think about other things."
"Like what?" you asked, leaning forward, resting your chin in your hands.
Michaelâs eyes lit up with a sudden excitement, the heavy exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "Yâknow, like the music we listened to on the radio yesterday, or what it's like on the other side of the worldâlike do you really think people in Europe have to practice dancing all day?"
"I don't think anybody practices as much as you do," you replied honestly, giving his shoulder a few light pats.
He leaned into your touch slightly, though it was brief, his expression softening into something deeply peaceful. "I like it when you're here," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the quilt between you before rising back to meet your eyes. "When Joseph is yelling and everything feels so loud... I look at you, and it just gets quiet. Like the rest of the house disappears. I dunnoâ.. does that sound silly?"
Your heart swelled, a profound sense of protectiveness washing over you, "No, Youâre my best friend, Mikey. Iâm gonna be around tillâ you get tired of me.â
"Promise?" he smiles, his voice suddenly small, reaching out a hand and extending his pinky toward you.
"I promise," you whispered, hooking your pinky into his.
1973
You were there for just about every practice from then on, watching the hours blend together. And when they werenât singing and dancing until their feet went numb, you and Michael would play together, retreating into a world that belonged only to the two of you.
But Joseph always found you to be a problem. He kept a hawk like watch on the room, noticing how Michael would act whenever you were around. He was less focused, too.. giddy, laughing a little too easily, and sometimes even forgetting the lyrics whenever you were in the room. His brothers noticed, sharing knowing glances or teasing nudges when Joseph wasn't looking. Katherine noticed, her eyes softening with a gentle warmth. And of course, Joseph noticedâhis jaw tight, tracking every stolen glance and every drop in Michael's concentration.
To Joseph, you weren't just a friend of his son anymore. You wrre a problem.
The years bled into one another, and the innocence of childhood began to shift under the weight of their skyrocketing fame. Michael was fourteen now, transitioning into a deeper voice and a sharper, more measured presence, while you were twelve, growing up right alongside him. The Jackson 5, who were now dubbed The Jacksons from Epic Records, was topping the charts, and every single second of their lives was controlled for success.
The boys had just finished a grueling, five-hour rehearsal. The room was hot and the boys were exhausted. The moment Joseph called a temporary recess, Michael didn't even pause to grab a towel. His eyes immediately sought yours out across the room, and with that familiar, quiet urgency, he nudged your shoulder.
Josephâs sharp eyes tracked the two of you as you left the living room, heading up the stairs and down the hallway to disappear into Michael's bedroom.
The heavy wood of the bedroom door clicked shut behind you.
In the living room, Joseph watched the empty hallway. A dark, venomous huff rolled out of his chest. He turned on his heel, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards as he marched into the kitchen where Katherine was quietly folding laundry.
"I done had it, Katherine," Joseph slammed his heavy palm down onto the countertop, the sharp crack echoing through the lower floor of the house . "I've had it with that damn girl.â
Katherine didn't flinch, but her hands paused over a faded cotton shirt. She closed her eyes for a brief second, bracing herself, before looking up with a steady, quiet resolve. "Joseph, what is the issue, theyâre only resting?"
"Restinâ?" Josephâs voice didn't rise to a shout, but it dropped into a dangerous, gravelly register that carried a terrifying weight. He leaned over the counter, his frame casting a long shadow over his wife. "Michael don't need to rest with her. Did you see him in there today? He missed the cue on the bridge twice. Twice, Katherine. He was over there looking at herâwaiting for her to give him a lilâ nod like he needs her permission to sing or some shit."
âHe's fourteen, Joe," Katherine countered, her voice dropping lower, trying to absorb the impact of his anger. "Heâs a boy. He's growing up, and he needs a friend who sees his normally. Heâs already told me itâs hard for him to make friends with other kids and that girl gives him peace."
"Peace don't pay the bills, Kate! And peace damn sure don't put records at number one!" Joseph snapped, his eyes flashing with a cold, unyielding fury. He pointed to the ceiling,directly toward the room where you and Michael were in. "Iâm tellinâ you sheâs a distraction to that boyâI see the way he gets. Look, heâs the leader of this group. The lead. This whole familyâs future is riding on his back, on his focus. If his mind is wanderinâ to some girl, the boys stop listeninâ to âem. The discipline falls apart."
"She isn't doing anything but sitting there, Joseph," Katherine said, her voice trembling slightly now. "She clearly loves him. They've been around each other since they were kids."
"And that's exactly why sheâs a problem," Joseph hissed, leaning closer, his words cutting like glass. "She think she's entitled to his time. She think she owns a piece of him. I'm tellinâ you right now, Katherine, she gottaâ go. If she keeps cluttering up his head, if she keeps making him act like he ainât got no sense, I will keep her from this house permanently. I don't give a damn who her mother is. Michael belongs to the stage, and I won't let some lilâ girl ruin everything I've bled for."
Katherine held his gaze, her jaw tight, a deep, painful ache in her chest. She knew Joseph meant every word. She knew that as Michael grew older, Josephâs grip would only tightenâand you would be the very first thing he would try to get rid of.
1977
Upstairs, the heavy, muffled thuds of Josephâs pacing downstairs eventually faded into a tense, distant background noise. Inside the sanctuary of Michaelâs bedroom, the world always slowed down.
Four years had blurred past in a flurry of television specials, stadium lights, and endless travel, but within these four walls, nothing changed. Michael was eighteen now, his frame stretching out, taller and more defined, though he still carried that gentle, shy humbleness.
You were sitting on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the hem of your top while you shared a secret that had been keeping you awake at night.
"My mama... she's been talkinâ to some people, Mike," you admitted softly, looking up to meet his gaze. "She really wants me to start a singing career. Professionally. Like, in the studio, makinâ recordsâthe whole thing."
You held your breath, suddenly nervous. Michael knew the brutal reality of the industry better than anyone. You half expected him to warn you, to tell you how exhausting it was, or how much it could change a person.
Instead, an incredibly sweet smile broke across his face. He leaned forward from his chair, his voice dropping into that trademark, soft tone that always made the rest of the world vanish.
"Your voice is beautiful," he said softly, his large brown eyes shining with absolute sincerity. "I think you should do it, really. People deserve to hear you."
There was something so pure, so completely adorable about the way he said itâcompletely devoid of the skepticism that usually surrounded the business. His words, laced with that quiet, unwavering faith in you, finalized your decision right then. If Michael believed in you, you were sure you could handle it.
And he was right.
Within the next year, everything moved at a dizzying pace. With your parents guidance and Michaelâs quiet encouragement acting as your foundation, you caught the attention of the industry. Before you knew it, you had signed a major deal with Epic Records. Your debut solo album dropped, instantly climbing the R&B charts and blasting through the radio across the country, making you one of the quickest growing young artists of the 70s. You were suddenly being pulled into a whirlwind of fame, but through it all, your heart remained anchored to the boy who had cheered for you first.
To celebrate your massive success, Michael wanted to do something completely private, away from the prying eyes of the press and his family. He had Bill take his vehicle through the roads of Los Angeles, dropping the two of you off at a secluded clearing near a quiet creek he had personally scouted out earlier that day during a drive.
When you stepped out into the cool night air, your jaw dropped. Bathed in the soft, silver glow of the moon, a cozy picnic layout was waiting for you on a thick blanket, complete with a basket of a few of your favorite foods and flickering lanterns.
âMike, you did all this for me?â you asked in complete awe, turning around to look at him as the crickets chirped softly around the clearing.
Michael immediately rubbed the back of his neck, a deep, bashful flush creeping up his cheeks as he looked down at his shoes.
âYeah," he mumbled shyly, giving you a quiet, nervous little smile. "I wanted to show you how much I appreciated you. AndâyâknowâI know you donât like big, extravagant stuff, so I thought this would be nice⊠you like it?â
âI love it,â you said softly, your heart swelling to the point of aching.
Without a second thought, you stepped into his space and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck in a warm embrace. Michael froze for a fraction of a second in surprise before his arms came up, wrapping shyly and securely around your waist. His hands were shaking slightly, his heart hammering against his ribs, completely captivated by your closeness.
After you had finished eating, the nervous energy melted into a comfortable, familiar ease. You sat close next to each other on the blanket, your shoulders brushing as you both leaned back on your hands, tilting your heads up to watch the endless tapestry of stars shining through the trees.
The silence between you was peaceful, until Michael broke it.
âI donât wannaâ be in a band with my brothers anymore.â
The sudden confession caught you completely off guard. You turned your head quickly, looking at the sharp, gorgeous profile of his face under the moonlight. âReally? I thought you liked singing with them?â
âI doâwell.. I mean.. theyâre my brothers and I love them,â Michael stammered softly, his eyes tracing the constellations as he tried to find the right words to express a truth he had kept locked away for so long. âBut... I wannaâ start doing my own thing, living my own life. I donât wannaâ be up under Joseph anymore. I want a solo career.â
A warm, knowing smile spread across your face. You shifted your arm, your hand still resting on the blanket but now slightly closer to his. âYou do have a voice of gold, Mikey.â
The old childhood nickname made him instantly blush, and he quickly covered his face with one hand, a soft, embarrassed giggle escaping his lips.
âI understand your reasonings,â you continued, your voice steady and full of the same faith he had given you a year prior. âI support it, I really think you should. You encouraged me to do my own thing. And if I made it, I know you can. Youâre really talented, you always have been.â
Michael lowered his hand from his face, turning his head to look at you. An adoring, intensely deep look pooled in his eyes at your confession. Your belief in him seemed to pierce through every doubt Joseph had ever planted in his head.
Slowly, his breath hitching, he shifted his weight. He nervously rubbed his sweaty palms against the denim of his jeans, his heart beating so hard he was certain you could hear it echoing over the sound of the nearby rushing water.
âThere was.. um.. another reason I brought you here tonightâŠâ he murmured, trying to hide the small quiver in his voice.
You took your gaze away from the sky once more, turning your full attention back to him. Michael gulped, his eyes locking onto yours. The ethereal shine of the moon caught your skin so perfect, with the warm night breeze gently rustling your hair, God... you were so pretty. It felt like the entire universe had narrowed down to just this moment.
He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he looked down at his lap for a split second, trying to gather the courage that usually came so easily to him on a stage. When he looked back up, his eyes were completely filled with a vulnerability that almost made your breath hitch.
"I've been trynaâ find the words to say this for... I don't knowâmaybe my whole life," Michael began, reaching out, his fingers trembling slightly as he gently took your hand, his thumb tracing soft, slow circles over your knuckles. "Ever since we were little kids... you were the only thing that really made sense to me. I could be stressed out from all the pressure put on me, but⊠if I could look over and see you smiling at me, I knew I was gonna survive it."
He took a slow, deep breath, his chest heaving under his shirt as he squeezed your hand a little tighter.
"Everyone else looks at me and just sees me as a performer, someone they can look at and take pictures of. But you see me. A-and when I'm with you, I feel like I'm finally allowed to just breathe. Iâve watched you grow up, and Iâve watched you become this incredibly beautiful, talented girl, and every single day my heart just gets heavier because Iâm so full of these feelings for you." He paused, a shy, incredibly tender smile breaking through his nervousness. "I donât love you just as my best friend. Girl, Iâm completely in love with you. Iâve always been in love with you. And tonight, seeing you shine with your own success... I just couldn't keep it a secret anymore. I wannaâ be the one who supports you, who holds you, if you'll let me."
The confession hung beautifully in the warm night air, the steady rush of the creek providing the perfect ambiance to a moment that was long overdue. You didn't say a word at first. Instead, you let your actions speak for you, leaning in to seal your lips against his in a sweet, lingering kiss that answered every unspoken question.
1979
The world didn't stop turning after that night, but for Michael, everything had changed. He had a secret anchor nowâa deep, passionate romance with you that kept him grounded even as he prepared to make the biggest gamble of his musical career.
It was 1978 when the trajectory of Michael's life altered forever. While filming The Wiz, Michael found himself coming in contact with a legendary force in the music industry: Quincy Jones.
The studio was far different from the Jackson home. There was a faint scent of cigars, something Michael would soon get accustomed to. Quincy sat behind the massive mixing console, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose, exuding an effortless aura of confidence.
"You've gottaâ lot of fire in you, son," Quincy said one late afternoon. He leaned back in his leather chair, looking at the young man standing by the microphone. "But you're still singinâ like you're holdinâ onto somethinâ. You gotta let the music come from your soul. What do you wannaâ say, Michael?"
"I wannaâ make a record that shows who I am as a man, Q," Michael said, his voice firm, stepping out completely from his father's suffocating shadow. "I want full creative freedom. I want people to dance, but I want âem to feel my heart, too."
Quincy smiled, a low chuckle rolling out of him. "Alright then.. let's get to work."
The months that followed were a blur of pure musical bliss. Working on what would become the Off the Wall album was the first time Michael truly felt like, what he called: âthe master of his own destinyâ. He wasn't just executing Joseph's vision anymore, he was creating his own.
On the few nights you would spend curled up on the studio couch when you werenât busy, you watched Michael collaborate with Quincy. The atmosphere was electric, filled with the funky, driving bass lines and smooth, intoxicating rhythms. Michael was a force of nature in the room, snapping his fingers, tapping his leg, and letting out those sharp, joyful vocal hiccups that were uniquely his.
Every time a track came together perfectly, Michael would bounce out of the recording booth, his face completely radiant. He wouldn't go to the executives or the producers first; he would go straight to you, grabbing your hands and spinning you around the studio lobby with a breathless laugh.
When the album finally dropped in late 1979, it was a staggering, triumphant success. It shattered records, blending R&B, pop, and disco into a masterpiece that critics and fans couldn't get enough of.
One evening, after a massive celebration party hosted by Epic, Michael snuck away into a quiet, dimly lit playback room in the studio, pulling you in with him and locking the door. He put on a personal vinyl record of his, letting the smooth title track wash over the room.
Michael smiled, pulling you flush against him as he gently buried his face in the crook of your neck. He just held you there for a long time, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, breathing you in while the smooth, rhythmic baseline of the title track filled the quiet room. There was no dancing, no performing, no movement at allâjust the heavy, grounding weight of his body pressed against yours, letting the reality of his achievement finally sink in.
He let out a soft, shaky breath against your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction. It felt less like a celebration and more like a relief, a quiet moment of peace before the rest of the world demanding a piece of his success came knocking on the door.
"I don't think I would've made it here if I didnât have you," he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He pulled back just enough to look down at you, his thumb gently brushing across your cheekbone. "When Iâd started getting frustrated or didnât have any inspiration... I'd think of you. And I'd remember who I was doinâ this for."
You reached up, cuping his jaw with your hand, feeling the slight warmth of his skin. "You did this for you, baby.â
"No, I did it for us," he corrected softly, a cute smile reaching his eyes. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as the music spun out on the turntable. "YeahâI want the whole world to love my music. But I only care if you do, doll."
For the first time in his life, he felt like a truly independent man, riding the highest wave of his career. He was completely at peace.
1980
Joe tapped his foot impatiently on the living room carpet. The instruments sat on the cleared table, and the brothers stood in a loose, tense semi-circle on the wooden floor, shifting from foot to foot. Rehearsal was supposed to start fifteen minutes ago, and Josephâs patience had worn thin.
âWhere the hell is Michael?â Joseph huffed in deep frustration, his heavy brows slamming together as he checked his watch. He scanned the faces of his sons, his glare sharp enough to draw color from someoneâs face.
The older brothers exchanged uneasy glances. Jackie bit his lip, Marlon quickly looked down at his shoes, each of them offering a silent shrug or a quiet "I don't know" to avoid their father's rising temper.
Except for Randy.
Randy chuckled, a knowing, mischievous glint in his eye. âThink he's upstairs with his girl,â he smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.
A few of the other brothers couldn't help but let out slight, muffled laughs at the comment, the sound cutting through the tension for a split second. But the amusement died instantly. Joseph didnât find it funny at all. A dark scowl twisted his features, and without a single word, he turned and immediately marched up the stairs to get Michael, his heavy boots slamming into the steps with purpose.
Upstairs, the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Inside the quiet sanctuary of his bedroom, you were perched comfortably on Michaelâs lap. His hands were resting gently but firmly on your waist, his grip warm and steady as the temperature in his body grew hot against yours. He was completely lost in the rhythm of you two making out, something heâs never done before you, so, of course, he let you take the lead.
Slowly, you moved your lips away from his mouth, sliding down to press soft, lingering kisses along the warm skin of his jawline and down his neck. Michael let out a series of soft, breathless chuckles, his chest heaving as a heavy shudder ran through him.
âMama..â he sighed, his voice a velvet whisper, his fingers tightening against your hips as he tilted his head back to give you better access.
Your fingers moved to the front of his shirt, just beginning to undo the top button, when several violent pounds on the wooden door shattered the silence of the room. The force of the knock was so loud it rattled the frame, instantly breaking the moment.
Josephâs loud, booming voice cut through the thick wood from the other side, causing you to instantly pull your head up toward the door, your heart leaping into your throat.
âMichael! Boy, you better get down here with your brothers âfore I come in there!â
The raw, authoritative venom in his voice hung heavily in the hallway. You slowly lowered your gaze back to Michael. The passionate glow that had filled his eyes just seconds ago was gone, replaced by a mix of irritation, embarrassment, and a intense sense of defeat. He looked like he wanted to scream, but the invisible chains of his father's control still held their weight.
Brushing your thumb gently across his cheek, you offered him a soft, reassuring smile to ease the sudden tension in his jaw. âItâs alright, angel,â you whispered softly, your voice a calm contrast to the shouting outside from just seconds ago. âI should probably be heading home anyway.â
He looked up at you, his large brown eyes melting into that heartbreaking puppy-dog look he always gave whenever he didn't want you to leave. âAre you sure?â he asked, his voice incredibly small.
âYeah,â you nodded gently, sliding off his lap to give him room to breathe. âIâll be back Saturday, though. I gottaâ record on Friday.â
Hearing that you had to work seemed to bring him a little comfort, a reminder of the shared world you both navigated now. Michael stood up, smoothing down his shirt with a heavy sigh. âIâlll get Bill to take you home.â
You and him made your way down the stairs together, bypassing the living room where Joseph was already barking orders at the rest of the boys. Michael didn't say a word to his father as he walked you straight out the front door, stepping into the warm California sun.
Down in the driveway, the sleek car was waiting. Bill was perched against the side of the vehicle, quietly reading a newspaper to pass the time. He looked up as the front door opened, folding the paper neatly under his arm.
âBill, can you take her home for me?â Michael asked, his hand lingering gently on the small of your back.
You had been in Michael's life for so long that Bill didn't even need an address. He already had the exact route to your house completely memorized by now, having taken you home countless times after late, secret nights spent wrapped in your boyfriend's arms.
âSure, kid,â Bill said with a polite, respectful smile, immediately moving to open the back passenger door.
Before you stepped inside, you turned around to look back at Michael. The sunlight caught the beautiful, rich details of his face, but you could tell by the tight line of his mouth that he didnât want you to go.
Reaching up, you put his face gently in your hands, your fingers brushing against his temples as you pulled him down to place a few soft, lingering kisses on his lips.
âI love you. Iâll see you Saturday, okay?â you murmured against his mouth.
âOkay,â he whispered back, his eyes closing briefly as he inhaled your scent, holding onto the feeling of your hands. âI love you too.â
When your moment was finished, you reluctantly pulled away. Bill held the backseat door open for you, ensuring you were completely settled and comfortable before he gently clicked it closed.
You looked out the window as the car began to roll down the long driveway. Michael stood alone on the pavement, his hands tucked into his pockets, watching you go with a heavy, longing gaze. Only when the car finally disappeared behind the massive iron gates did Michael turn around, his shoulders dropping as he walked back inside to face his father.
That wasnât the only time youâve interfered with practices like this. Joseph could barely handle it when you two were just friends in your younger years. But now that youâre older and weâre coming over a lot more, the crack in the Jacksons was growing impossible for him to ignore. Heâs noticed Michaelâs subtle distance from the group. Michael didnât care about the the band anymore, his heart just wasn't in it the way it used to be. He cared about his own solo career, and he cared about you. And Joseph absolutely hated it.
It was getting too frequent now. Michael would show up late, or he'd miss rehearsals entirely, because heâd be tucked away with you, losing track of time in a world where his fatherâs rules didn't apply. And now that you had your own successful career, the stakes had completely changed. Joseph saw you as more than just a little distraction, he saw you as direct competition. You were a rising star on the exact same label, an independent force pulling his money maker away from the family brand. Joseph could feel his control slipping, and he needed to get rid of you, quickly.
A few days after the broken moment in the bedroom, their was heavy tension throughout the Hayvenhurst estate. Michael was downstairs, enduring a grueling vocal session with his brothers, while Joseph sat in his private office. The blinds were drawn, cutting the sun into sharp lines across his wooden desk.
On the top lay copies of the latest music trades. Your name was printed in bold, climbing the charts right alongside the tracking for Michael's solo work.
Joseph stared at the pages, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheek twitched. He remembered the little girl who used to sit on his couch, the one Katherine always defended. He had thought it was a phase, a childish crush that would burn out under the exhausting pressure of show business.
Instead, you had grown into a threat.
"Sumâ bullshitâ," Joseph muttered to the empty room, his gravelly voice thick with resentment.
Just yesterday, Michael had arrived forty-five minutes late to an important meeting with the him and his brothers because he had been driven out to your studio just to watch you record. When Michael finally did show up, his mind was entirely somewhere else. He had smiled through the meeting, polite but distant, his thoughts clearly lingering on the soft kisses you had shared in the studio parking lot.
Joseph slammed his fist down onto the desk, rattling the gold pen casing. He had spent decades working his ass off for this familyâs success, making his sons practice until their feet bled, building a legacy from nothing. He wasn't about to watch the only thing keeping that group afloatâwalk away from them because he was too lovesick to focus.
In Joseph's eyes, you were poison to Michael. You gave him a taste of freedom, a solo career of your own that proved a person could survive in the industry without Joseph's iron fist guiding them.
"Had enough of this" Joseph hissed, standing up and walking over to the window, peering out toward the long driveway where Bill usually waited.
A plan was already forming in his mind. He couldn't stop Michael from loving youâhe knew his son well enough to know that Michael's devotion was fierce and stubborn. But he could change your mind. He knew how the industry worked, knew the levers to pull, and knew exactly how vulnerable a young female artist truly was when a powerful manager decided to make things âdifficultâ.
Joseph checked his watch, the tick of the gold hands a reminder of the little time he had left to protect his investment. He didn't have to wait for Friday. His mind flashed back to the quiet conversation he had stealthily caught a piece of earlierâthe soft exchange of promises between you and Michael right before you left the room.
Saturday. You were coming back to his house, planning to slip right back into Michael's bedroom, right back into his head. Joseph wasn't going to let that happen. He wasn't going to let you cross that line or get anywhere near his son until he had handled this. He needed to intercept you before you could even catch Michael's eye.
Saturday morning arrived with a heavy stillness. The sun was blindingly bright against the pavement of the long driveway as Bill pulled the car up to the gates.
From the backseat, you looked out the window, a warm smile already tugging at your lips. Your recording session on Friday had gone beautifully, and all you wanted was to throw your arms around Michaelâs neck, tell him all about the tracks you had laid down, and melt right back into his safety.
But as the iron gates slowly swung open, the car didn't continue for long down the driveway.
Standing right in the center of the asphalt, blocking the path, was fucking Joseph. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his shadow stretching long and dark across the hood of the car. He didn't look like a father greeting a guest, he looked like a prison warden.
Bill brought the car to a smooth, hesitant halt. He glanced in the rearview mirror, his eyes meeting yours with a look of quiet, tense warning.
Before you could even ask what was happening, the rear passenger door was pulled open from the outside. The hot morning air rushed into the air conditioned car, and Joseph leaned down, his sharp, calculating eyes locking onto yours.
"Get out," Joseph said, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly tone that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It wasn't a shout, but the absolute coldness in his tone left no room for argument. "We're gonna have a talk before you go anywhere near my son."
You stepped out of the backseat, the tiny rocks crunching beneath your shoes as you stood face to face with the man who had loomed over your boyfriend his entire childhood. You didn't flinch. You didn't shrink. Instead, your crossed your arms, mimicking his posture, and looked him dead in the eye.
"If Michael is still busy, Joseph, I can wait in his room," you said, your voice level, completely lack of the fear he usually demanded from people. "You don't need to block the driveway."
Joseph let out a short, harsh laugh, dry and condescending. He shook his head, looking down at you like you were nothing more than an insect he was about to step on. "Really? You think you own a key to this house? You think âcause you got a lilâ name for yourself on the radio now, you equal?" All the irritation, the years of suppressed resentment he had harbored since you were a child finally spilled out into his expression. "You always been an arrogant lilâ girl. Walkinâ into my house, actinâ like you belong here. I saw right through you from day one."
A cold, humorless smile touched your lips. You weren't stupid. You had known Joseph hated your guts since you were little, you just never gave a shit.
"I donât give a damn what you saw," you shot back, stepping closer, your tone sharp as glass. "I'm not one of your sons. You don't control me, you don't intimidate me, and you don't tell me where I belong. Michael invited me here. I'm going inside."
You made a move to step past him, but Joseph moved with surprising speed, his massive frame shifting to completely block your path. The condescending smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a ruthless, terrifying gravity that made the air between you turn to ice.
"You gettinâ a lil loose at the lip," he hissed, his voice dropping into a low, venomous register that finally made your heart stumble. "If you don't do exactly what I say, I will pick up the phone and with one call your album will be pulled from the shelves, them tracks will be banned from the airwaves, and I will personally make sure that lil career is dead and buried before it even began.â
The sheer harm in his words hit you like a physical blow. Your breath caught in your throat, your confidence faltering for the very first time. You opened your mouth to curse at him, to tell him he was lying, but he leaned in closer, his eyes flashing with a sickening certainty.
"And don't think Michaelâs safe from me either," Joseph whispered, his words cutting deep. "He ridinâ high on that album right now, thinkinâ he's an independent man. But he still answers to me. If you keep messinâ up his head, makinâ him soft, makinâ him miss rehearsals, Iâmaâ break his solo career piece by piece. Iâll pull the plug on his next project. I will ruin him, and I'âmaâ make sure he knows it was your fault."
The world seemed to spin on its axis. The defense you had put up just seconds ago completely evaporated, replaced by a suffocating dread. He wasn't just threatening your dreamâhe was threatening Michael's. He was threatening the music Michael had worked so hard for.
Joseph saw the sudden terror in your eyes and smiled, a cruel, triumphant expression. He reached out, his finger cutting through the air to point directly toward the front door of the mansion.
"So hereâs your ultimatum, girl," Joseph commanded softly, the venom practically dripping from his lips. "You're gonnaâ walk up them stairs, look my son in the eye, and you're gonnaâ break up this lilâ fling yâall got goinâ on. Right now. You're gonna make him believe you don't want him anymore, that you're choosinâ your own fame over him. Either you play the bad guy, or I will."
You donât respond, you simply walk past him and toward the door. The absolute silence of your defiance makes Josephâs smile falter for a split second, but he doesn't chase after you. He doesn't need to. He already knows what your choice is. He knows he has you backed into a corner, and that knowledge follows you like a shadow as you push open the heavy front door.
You discreetly head upstairs, keeping your steps quiet as you navigate the familiar hallway up to Michaelâs room without anybody noticing.
Luckily, the faint, rhythmic muffled thuds from downstairs prove heâs still trapped with his brothers, so that gives you time to think. Your hands are shaking so violently you have to sit on the edge of his mattress just to keep from collapsing. How could Joe do this? Was he seriously that evil that heâd sabotage his own son? To destroy everything Michael had built, everything he had achieved, just to maintain a twisted sense of control?
You felt like you were going to throw up. The air in the bedroom, which usually felt like your only sanctuary, suddenly felt hot and suffocating. How were you gonna tell Michael? You can already picture his faceâthe way those big, beautiful eyes would fill with total confusion, then shatter into a million pieces of heartbreak.
Before you can even try to form the words in your head, the doorknob jiggles.
The door swings open, and Michael steps into the room. Immediately, an excited look takes over his face the second he sees you sitting on his bed. The heavy exhaustion from rehearsal vanishes from his features in a heartbeat.
He practically skips across the room and engulfs you in a tight, desperate hug, burying his face in your shoulder. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, he's wearing that big, adorable smile that you love so muchâthe one that always makes his whole face light up.
"You came early!" he beams, his voice a breathless, joyful whisper. He cups your face, his thumbs brushing over your skin as he presses a few gentle, lingering kisses to your lips before he even lets you speak. "I missed you so much, mama. I wanna hear all about your day yesterday. Did the recording go good? Tell me everything."
You feel utterly sick. The warmth of his lips against yours contrasts so sharply with the cold dread in your stomach that you stiffen under his touch.
Michael's smile slowly falters. He's perceptive of you, always has been, and he quickly notices the hollow, disassociated expression in your eyes. His hands drop from your cheeks to hold your wrists, his brow furrowing with immediate concern.
âBaby, whatâs wrong?â he asks softly, his voice dropping into a vulnerable, frightened register.
You look up at him, your heart shattering into pieces inside your chest as you force the words past the lump in your throat.
âMike.. we gotta talk..â you say lowly.
Michaelâs hands tightened on your wrists, his grip instantly turning from a warm embrace into a frantic, grounding hold. That smile started to vanish slowly, replaced by a sudden, sharp panic that made him look so agonizingly young.
"What happened" he whispered, his large brown eyes searching your face, desperately scanning for any sign that you were just playing a cruel joke. "Baby, you're scaring me. Did somethinâ happen at the studio? Did somebody say somethinâ to you?â
You had to pull your hands away because if you kept feeling the steady, frantic beat of his pulse against your fingers, you were going to break down and tell him everything. You slid your wrists out of his grasp, the friction of the movement feeling like a physical tear, and stood up from the bed. You walked toward the window, turning your back to him so he couldn't see the tears that were already shining in your eyes.
"No, Mike. Nobody said anything," you said, your voice trembling despite your absolute best efforts to keep it cold. "The session went fine. It's about us."
Behind you, you heard the soft rustle of the mattress as he stood up. His footsteps were hesitant as he walked towards you.
"Us?" Michael asked, a nervous, breathless chuckle escaping his throat. "What do you meanâwhat about us? We're good? I was just thinking about you all day yesterday. I even started writing down some lyrics for you, andâ"
"Michael, stop," you choked out, forcing yourself to use his full name. You turned around, gripping the window sill behind your back so hard your knuckles turned white. You had to look at and lie to the only person who knew you better than anyone else. "We can't do this anymore."
Michael froze in the middle of the room. The words seemed to hit him like a physical blow, his heart stopping to his stomach. He blinked, his brow furrowing in utter confusion.
"What?" he breathed, the sound barely escaping his lips. "Where is this coming fromâDid I do something wrong? Is it because I was late the other day? Baby, I'm sorry, I promise I'll be better with my time. I can try to talk to Joseph, I'll make sure he doesn'tâ"
"It's not your dad, Mike! It's me!" you lied, your voice cracking, it teared out of your throat, the pressure in your chest was becoming too much to contain. You forced your eyes to harden, looking right past his heartbroken expression. "It's me. I've been thinking about it all weekend. Ever since my music started taking off, everything is changing. My career is growing, Mike. I'm getting pulled into meetings and promos... and I can't have this distraction anymore."
Michael flinched, his head jerking back slightly as if you had slapped him. Distraction. It was the exact word his father had hurled at you since you were children, and hearing it come out of your mouth seemed to pierce a hole straight through his heart.
"A distraction?" Michael whispered, his voice cracking violently. He took a step closer, his eyes filling with sudden tears that threatened to spill over his thick, beautiful lashes. He reached out, his hands hovering in the air between you, trembling, wanting so badly to touch you but suddenly terrified to try. "Baby, how can you say that? We've been doing this since we were kids. You're the one who gave me the courage to even do my solo album. We promised we'd support each otherâ"
"That was before, Michael." you said, the cruelty of your own words making you feel physically sick. "Weâre not kids anymore. Were grown. We're competing for the same numbers, the same radio play, the same attention. I need to focus on my life, on my name. I can't keep carrying the weight of your family's drama, or sneakinâ around behind your father's back, or waiting for you to finish a five hour rehearsal just so I can freaking see you!"
A single tear finally escaped, tracing a slow line down Michael's cheek. He didn't even bother to wipe it away.
"I don't care about that," he tried, his voice rising slightly in a desperate, agonized plea that shattered whatever was left of your strength. He took two steps, closing the distance between you, and before you could push him away, he grabbed your upper arms. His grip wasn't harshâit was begging. "I don't care about the songs. If you want me to stop, I'll stop. I'll give it all up! I don't want a career if it means I don't have you. You're my peace, baby. You're the only part of my life that belongs to me."
"Dont say that!" you sobbed, the tears finally bursting from your eyes as you violently pushed against his chest, breaking his grip. You couldn't let him say things like that. He was Michael Jackson. He was born for the stage. If you let him sacrifice his dream for you, Joseph would ruin him anyway, and Michael would end up hating you for the rest of his life. "Don't you dare say that shit to me! Music is your entire life, Michael! It's who you are!"
"No, it's not!" His chest was heaving, his face flushed with a desperate, wild look in his eyes you had never seen before. "It's just a jobâIt's just songs. But you're my best friend. You've loved me since longer than I can remember. I canât lose that now!â
He stops and looked back at you, his hands dropping to his sides, completely defeated. His eyes were red, utterly hollowed out by a betrayal he never saw coming.
"Please," he whispered, a tiny, broken sound that completely destroyed you. He slowly dropping to his knees on the carpet right in front of you, wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face directly into your stomach, his shoulders shaking violently as he wept. "Please don't leave me. Don't do this to me. I'll do whatever you wantâJust don't walk out that door. I can't do this alone."
You stood frozen, lookingdown at one of the biggest stars in the world completely brought to his knees by your words. The pain in your stomach was so intense you felt sick. Slowly, with an agonizing hesitation, you lifted your shaking hands and placed them on his head, your fingers tangling into his soft curls one last time. You leaned down, pressing a single, desperate kiss to the top of his head, letting your tears fall into his hair.
"I'm sorry, Mikey," you whispered, using the childhood nickname that felt like a goodbye to your entire youth.
Gently but firmly, you unclasped his arms from your waist. Michael let out a soft, choked gasp of air as you pulled away, his hands falling limply to his sides. He didn't look up as you grabbed your purse from the desk.
You walked across the room, every step feeling like you were dragging a mountain behind you. When you reached the doorway, you paused for a fraction of a second, looking back at his trembling frame on the floor one last time.
You stepped out into the hallway and clicked the door shut behind you, leaving the sanctuary of your childhood behind in the dark, completely blind to the fact that Joseph was standing at the end of the corridor, watching you walk away.
1984
Three years had passed, and the world had completely rewritten itself under the weight of a single album: Thriller. Michael was no longer just a successful solo artist stepping out from his family's shadow, he was a global phenomenon, the biggest superstar in the world, holding the crown for the highest selling album of all time.
You had also carved out your own legendary path, too. Your name sat comfortably at the top of the charts right alongside his, your tracks playing on a near endless loop across every radio station in the country. But the glitz and glamour of the top spot felt cold whenever your worlds inevitably collided.
Because you were both the reigning royalty of the music industry, you were constantly forced into the same rooms. High profile galas, award shows, after parties, elite industry celebrationsâyou were always just a crowd away from each other.
But Michael actively avoided you.
The first time you saw him across a crowded room at a gala, your heart had stopped. He was surrounded by a massive entourage, towering bodyguards, and flashing cameras, wearing a sharp, iconic military jacket that shimmered under the chandeliers. You had tried to catch his eye, to send him just a fraction of the warmth you used to share, but the moment his gaze drifted over and landed on you, his expression went entirely blank.
He didn't glare. He didn't look angry. He simply looked right through you, turning to speak to a manager, deliberately putting his back to you.
The rejection stung worse than a slap. For three years, that had been his pattern. If you walked into a VIP lounge, he quietly exited through the back. If you were seated at a table near the front of an auditorium, his team ensured his seat was on the exact opposite side of the aisle. The sweet, bashful boy who used to hide his face in his hands had built an impenetrable wall around himself, still deeply guarded from the pain you had caused him three years ago.
But the cold shoulder didn't mean he didn't still love you.
In the quiet, lonely sanctuary of his limousine, away from the screaming fans and his new reality, the ghost of your memory still held him captive. Every single time your voice came out through the car radio speakers, a sharp ache would form directly in his chest. He would open his mouth to ask the driver to shut the sound off to protect his heartâbut he never could. He would just sit there in the dark, listening to the beautiful texture of your vocals, wondering if any of the lyrics were about him.
And it was even worse during the awards season. Michael had to sit in the front row of packed auditoriums, the flashing lights reflecting off his sunglasses, and watch you walk up the steps to the stage to receive win after win. You looked utterly breathtaking under the spotlights, your hair styled flawlessly, your confidence radiant as you accepted your awards.
To the rest of the world, Michael looked like an untouchable king, politely clapping his sequined glove in approval. But behind the shades, his eyes were wide and glassy, tracing the your smile, the curve of your hips, completely torn between the deep resentment of how you had abandoned him and the overwhelming love he still carried for you.
He wanted to hate you for what you did. He wanted to believe the lies you had screamed at him about competition and distractions. But every time he looked at you, the palace of fame he had built felt like a prison.
1984
The pulsating bass of the latest hits vibrated through the floorboards of the Hollywood venue, a lavish penthouse draped in dim lighting. The room was a mob of elite talent. Actors, producers, and chart topping musicians all drinking champagne and unwinding from the high stakes tension of the award show that had concluded just hours prior.
The air grew impossibly tighter the moment the heavy double doors opened, and a quiet, electric wave of whispers rippled through the crowd.
Michael had walked in.
He was flanked by a couple of security guards, his presence immediately commanding the room despite how quietly he moved. He wore a stunning, tailored black jacket with silver accents that caught the low light, his curls falling perfectly around his face. To anyone watching, he looked like the absolute epitome of an untouchable iconâcalm, poised, and towering above the industry.
But the moment his eyes scanned the room, the composure faltered.
He noticed you immediately. You were standing near the center of the lounge, comfortably mixed into a lively group conversation with a few other major celebrities. You were wearing a beautiful champagne colored dress, laughing at something a fellow artist had said, your head tilted back as the warm light danced across your skin.
Michael stood frozen for a split second, his breath hitching in his throat.
For the rest of the night, he didnât know what got into him. The discipline he had spent three years perfectingâthe strict rule to look away, to walk in the opposite direction, to erase your presence from his viewâcompletely vanished. He couldn't stop looking at you. No matter who stepped up to congratulate him on his historic night, or how many executives tried to corner him to talk business, his gaze kept drifting right back across the crowded room, pulled to where you stood.
You never noticed it, though. You were completely absorbed in your surroundings, glowing in the success of your own career, and seemed to be genuinely enjoying your time. You smiled, sipped your drink, and conversed with an effortless grace that made his chest ache with a burning nostalgia.
Watching you look so happy, so unbothered by the madness of the room, a quiet, painful spiral of thoughts began to consume his mind.
He wondered if you had thought about him at all since you two had last spoken. He wondered if when his songs played on the radio, your chest squeezed the way his did with yours. Had you meant it when you said you needed to focus on your own name? Did you miss him, or was he truly just a chapter of your youth that you had successfully closed?
As you shared another bright laugh with the celebrities around you, Michael gripped his glass a little tighter, his heart pounding against his ribs. The anger and the hurt were still there, heavy and suffocating, but as he watched you shine from across the room, the love he had carried for you still, threatened to spill over the walls he had built to keep you out.
During the night, you found yourself out on the balcony. The booming bass of the music inside the penthouse was reduced to a distant, muffled noise. The air was crisp, a contrast to the heat of the crowded party indoors. You leaned your forearms against the cold stone railing, staring out into the, glowing Los Angeles city lights. Your hair flowed gently in the breeze, a stray curl catching across your cheek as you blinked back the heavy exhaustion of the night.
You didn't know how much longer you could be here.
To the rest of the world, you were at the absolute peak of your life. You had the fame, the money, and the industry bowing at your feet. But standing out here in the dark, the emptiness in your chest was deafening. You should be sharing these events and these massive successes with Michael. He should be the one holding your hand, spinning you around the room, laughing about how you both actually conquered the world just like you promised you would.
But you had been such a coward back then. You had actually listened to Joseph, letting his venomous threats terrify you into breaking the only heart that truly mattered. You had played the villain to protect him, and now, your relationship was forever broken.
You let out a ragged sigh. Michael probably hadnât even thought about the past like this. It didn't seem like he had. Watching him avoid you for three years, watching him look right past you with those cold, unbothered eyesâhe had moved on. He didnât need you anymore.
A soft, hesitant clear of a throat suddenly broke the silence, shattering your thoughts.
Your head snapped around, your heart leaping violently into your throat.
Michael.
He was standing just a few feet away near the glass double doors, the light from the party casting a soft golden halo around him. He looked goodâway too good. The tailored black jacket hugged his frame perfectly, and his dark curls shimmered slightly under the patio lights. He looked like a living legend, completely out of reach, yet his posture carried a faint trace of that familiar, hesitant stillness you knew by heart.
âMichael..â you muttered softly, the name escaping your lips before you could even think to stop it.
He didn't say anything at first. He kept his hands tucked loosely into his pants pockets, his movements agonizingly slow as he walked up to stand right next to you at the railing. He didn't look at you, he just stared out at the glowing city line through his sunglasses, his jawline sharp and rigid in the moonlight.
There was a small, agonizing beat of silence, the tension between you so thick it felt like it was crushing the air right out of the balcony.
Then, he finally spoke, his voice smooth, velvety, and entirely calm.
âWanted to say congratulations.. top 3, 4 weeks in a row.â
The casualness of his tone sent a quiver straight through your veins. He was tracking your success. He knew exactly where your music sat on the charts.
â.. Thank you," you replied, your voice dropping into a soft tone. You gripped the stone railing a little tighter, choosing your next words as if you were walking on a tightrope, terrified that a single wrong word would send him back inside. "You too, you did amazing on Thriller. Whole worldâs talkinâ about it."
Michael didn't move a muscle, but the corner of his jaw tightened just a fraction under his sunglasses. The steady, distant hum of the traffic below drifted up into the night air, but on the balcony, the silence returned, heavier and more suffocating than before. Michael still didn't look at you. He kept his hands in his pockets, his chin tilted up slightly as he stared out at the endless grid of the city lights.
It was silent for a long, agonizing beat before he simply asked:
âWhy?â
The word was so quiet, so completely stripped of the smooth, polished superstar persona he had been wearing all night, that it caught you entirely off guard. You blinked, turning your body slightly toward him.
âHuh?â you said, your voice barely a breath.
âWhy did you leave me?" Michael said, his tone shifting from smooth calculation to a raw, trembling gravity. He finally turned his head, his hand reaching up to slowly slide the sunglasses off his face, forcing you to look directly into his brown doe eyes. "I want the real reason.â
"Michaelâ" you choked out, your throat instantly tightening as the lie you had lived with for so long began to crumble under his gaze.
"And don't tell me it was about our careers," he interrupted, his voice dropping into a breathless, desperate whisper that cut through every defense you had. He stepped closer, the space between you disappearing until you could feel the sudden, familiar warmth radiating from his chest. "Don't tell me I was a distraction. I donât wannaâ hear that. I know you well enough to know that there was another reason that we separated. So just tell me... please. Why did you leave?"
As the weight of his gaze pinned you to the railing, the armor you had worn all this time completely shattered. You couldn't keep the lie alive anymore. The words came crumbling out of you in a desperate, tearful rush, a confession you had choked down every single day since you walked out of his life.
You laid bare the ugly truth of that Saturday morning at the estate. You told him how Joseph had basically cornered you the second you arrived. You mentioned the venom in his fatherâs voice, detailing the exact ultimatum Joseph had given you: end your relationship, or watch Joseph dismantle both of your rising careers in the blink of an eye. You admitted to him how terrified you wereânot just for your own dreams, but for his. You explained that you were a coward who actually believed his father's threats, and that playing the villain was the only way you knew how to protect the both of you.
As you talked, the transformation on Michael's face was devastating to watch.
The guarded, distant coldness on his face melted away first, turning into absolute shock as the missing pieces of his life finally fell into place. Then his eyes widened, the glassiness of his tears giving way to a sudden clarity. Then, as the realization of his father's betrayal settled deep into his chest, his expression shifted from disbelief to anger. The corners of his mouth trembled, his jaw tightening so hard the muscles jumped beneath his skin. The resentment he had carried against you for three years didn't just crackâit completely disintegrated, leaving his features entirely bare, struck by the agonizing realization that the girl who had broken his heart had actually been trying to save it.
âIâm sorry, Michael, Iâm so sorry," you sobbed, the tears pouring down your cheeks as the weight of that secret finally lifted from your chest. "I didnât want any of this! I just wanted to protect you. I didnât know what else to do.â
You covered your face with your hands, your shoulders shaking violently in the cool night air. "I justâI love you so much. I didnât want you hurt. You had worked so hard... I didnât wanna be the cause of your success falling apart."
But Michael didnât hear anything else. The mention of Joseph, the threats of the executives, the stolen yearsâit all faded into a dull hum. The only words echoing in his mind, striking his heart with the force of a punch, were the ones you had just confessed.
You loved him. You still loved him? After all this time, after the coldness, the avoidance... you were still his.
âYou love me?â he said softly.
The velvet, breathless quality of his voice was so thick with emotion it sounded entirely broken. He took a slow, trembling step toward you, his hands coming out of his pockets, hovering in the space between you as if he were waking up from a nightmare.
You slowly lowered your hands, looking up at him with teary, swollen eyes, the city lights turning into a blur of gold and silver behind him.
âI know," you whispered, a heartbreaking sob catching in your throat. "I shouldnât. Not after what I did to you.â
Michael didn't care about what you shouldn't do. Before you could even draw your next breath, he closed the distance between you. His trembling fingers found your jawline, his thumbs gently wiping away the hot tears on your cheeks as he pulled you flush against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his large frame shaking as a ragged, heavy sigh of pure relief tore out of his throat, holding onto you so tightly.
You immediately wrap your arms around him, your hands gripping the fabric of his sharp jacket as you bury your face into his chest, crying softly. The wall that had stood between you all these years completely vanishes, replaced by the familiar, comforting warmth of his heartbeat thumping against your cheek.
Michaelâs arms tighten around you until there is absolutely no space left between you. He holds you with a desperate, fierce intensity, as if heâs trying to make up for every single day wasnât able to hold you.
"I know, sweet girl, Itâs okay.." Michael whispers into your hair, his own voice cracking as his tears finally spill over, wetting the crown of your head. He rocks you gently on the secluded balcony, completely ignoring the flashing lights of the roaring party just behind the glass doors.
Michael pulls back just enough to look down at you, his pretty brown eyes glassy with tears but shining with a warmth you hadn't seen in so long. His gaze drops to your lips, his chest heaving with a soft, breathless sigh that tells you everything you need to know.
He doesn't wait. He leans down and presses his lips to yours, and the moment they meet, the entire world outside of this moment completely ceases to exist.
The kiss isn't like the careful, hesitant ones from before. Itâs deep, intense. It carries the weight of three long years of aching silence. The lasting love that neither of you could ever truly erase. Michael cups the back of your neck, his fingers gently tangling into your curls to pull you impossibly closer, while his other hand rests firmly on your waist, keeping you close to him as if he's terrified you might disappear the second he lets go.
You melt completely into his touch, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around his neck, kissing him back with everything you have left. The taste of him makes your knees go weak.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you completely out of breath. Michael lets out a soft, wet chuckle against your lips, his thumbs gently wiping away the fresh tears on your cheeks as that smile you love so much finally returns to his face.
"âM not lettinâ you go this time," he whispers, his voice a velvet promise in the midnight air.
MORE GIRL DAD LEON PLS!!!! Maybe his little girl is having a fever in the middle of the night and heâs freaking out because of PTSD, while his wife is trying really hard to keep everyone calm? I just think Leon pacing back and forth with his daughter in his arms waiting for her temperature to go down would be very cute :(
No pressure at all if youâre not in the mood for it though!! Hope youâre having an amazing day!! <3
You read 2:17 a.m. on the digital clock on your nightstand when you woke up abruptly.
You didnât know why, but you had the feeling that something was wrong.
Your ten-month-old daughter had been far too quiet throughout the night. You hadnât heard that soft breathing you were so used to. Not even her little snores. There hadnât been the slightest movement in the crib, which you could see through the baby monitor sitting on your nightstand.
Leon, who had seemed to be in a deep sleep when you went to bed very much later than him, was already sitting up, as if heâd been that way the whole time.
You hadnât noticed him waking up. His body was completely tense, his head turned toward the hallway visible through the wide-open bedroom door.
âLeon?â you murmured sleepily, rubbing your eyes as you adjusted to the darkness.
âI heard her.â
That was all he said. You were about to reply, but he was already on his feet, heading toward your daughterâs room.
You followed him down the hallway, barefoot, trying to make as little noise as possible, though you knew it would hardly matter.
The babyâs door was also ajar. Leon pushed it open a little more, and you noticed his fingers trembling.
He approached the crib the same way.
As youâd expected, the baby was still there but, to your surprise, she was completely flushed, the little bit of hair she had stuck to her forehead.
She stirred when Leon leaned over her. She let out a small, weak whimper, and something twisted painfully inside you. You started to worry when Leon carefully picked her up before you could say anything. She curled up against him immediately, her tiny hands clutching his shirt.
Thatâs when you noticed it.
Leon trying to keep his breathing steady. His jaw clenched; his entire body tense, even more than before. The way his arms wrapped around her, as if he had to protect her from something, a bit more than necessary.
âSheâs burning up,â he finally said.
You could hear his voice trembling.
You placed one hand on his back and brought the other to your daughterâs forehead.
He was right. She was burning. Too much.
âOkay, okayâŠâ you said slowly, trying to stay calm for both of you. âShe probably has a fever. Letâs take her temperature.â
Leon didnât move.
His eyes darted from side to side, nervous, until he started pacing the room restlessly.
âSheâs too hot,â he repeated, looking at you as if begging you to make it stop. You really wished you could. âShe was fine when we put her to bed, love. She was fine, and nowââ
You gently took his arm.
âLeon, sweetheart, look at me.â
It took him too long, but eventually his eyes met yours.
You couldâve sworn you saw a tear slip from one of them, but you chose not to draw attention to it.
âGo to our room and sit on the bed with her,â you said softly. âIâll get the thermometer and some water.â
He nodded and did just that.
His movements were clumsy, mechanical. When he reached your bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed, holding the baby close, tucking her against his chest as if afraid heâd lose her if he did anything differently.
You hurried downstairs and moved through every room in the house. The kitchen. The living room. The garage. The small laundry room. You gathered the thermometer, cool wipes, water, several types of medicine, and even your daughterâs medical booklet⊠just in case you had to call the doctor.
Or if we have to take her to the ER.
You shook your head. You had to push the intrusive thoughts aside.
Between Leon and you, someone had to stay calm. Leon was usually the one in that role, but tonight, for some reason, the roles had reversed.
When you returned to the bedroom, Leon hadnât moved an inch. He was gently rocking the baby, as if afraid of hurting her or making her feel worse.
âSheâs breathing funny,â he said.
You knelt in front of him and took his hand, careful not to make any movement that might upset your daughter.
âSheâs congested, Leon. Thatâs all. When babies have a cold, they breathe like that... weird and all that, you know.â
âShe doesnât have a cold,â he replied flatly. âAt least, she didnât before we put her to bed tonight. And I donât think she just caught one while sleeping, out of nowhere. Something has to be wrong.â
You stood up and sat beside him, pressed close. You wrapped an arm around his back and began to stroke it. To your surprise, he didnât pull away. He rested his head, lightly, against your shoulder.
You knew he was on the verge of a panic attack, doing everything he could to calm himself.
âI shouldâve come to check on her earlier,â he said again.
âYou didnât do anything wrong, love.â
âYeah. Thatâs what they always say when something bad happens and itâs my fault.â
You took a deep breath, choosing not to engage with that comment so things wouldnât spiral further. You picked up the thermometer youâd set beside you and carefully placed it under your daughterâs arm. She fussed a little and almost started to cry, but thankfully she settled again.
Either luck, or the fact that Leon never stopped gently rocking her and humming softly.
When the thermometer beeps, you lower your gaze and remove it. Leon stares at the screen as if it were a bomb.
â102.3°âŠâ you say as calmly as you can. Maybe Leonâs nervousness is starting to rub off on you. âItâs high, yes, but itâs not dangerous. We should start trying to bring it down.â
âAnd if it goes higher? What do we do? Is something going to happen to herâŠ?â
You straighten up and gently hold his face, forcing him to look at you. Then you place a brief kiss on his lips without breaking contact.
âLeon, sheâs okay,â you say firmly. âSheâs here, sheâs breathing fine considering sheâs sick. Itâs just a fever, love. She probably caught a chill or something, and her little body is fighting it off as fast as it can. Nothing more serious is happening,â you reassure him.
He swallows hard.
âIâve seen fevers turn into something worse,â he murmurs. You hold back a sigh, knowing exactly what he means. Knowing heâs panicking more than he should, more than he deserves after everything heâs been through. âIâve seen people die because ofââ
That last sentence is the last straw for you.
âI know, but this isnât that, okay?â
You try to answer as calmly as possible, but itâs hard. You fight back tears and, above all, try not to let his words drag you down with him. You blink a few times and remind yourself that itâs normal for babies to get sick, and that this is the first time your daughter has fallen ill since you had her almost a year ago.
Sheâs a perfect baby, with perfect health, and sheâs probably picked up a virus from another child at daycare.
âWeâre not anywhere else,â you tell him again, calmer now. He knows exactly what other places you mean. âWeâre at home, with our little girl, who most likely caught a virus at daycare,â you explain. âWeâre both here with her, and this will pass soon.â
You sit back down beside him. He rests his head on your shoulder again. He stays like that for a while, longer than usual for Leon, who can never stay still. His breathing slowly begins to even out. Carefully, you wrap your arms around both of them, hoping tonight wonât be one of those nights where physical contact becomes a trigger for his anxiety.
Luckily, it doesnât seem to be.
Minutes pass, and you stay just like that until he finally seems a bit calmer.
âI canât lose herâŠâ your husband whispers, kissing the baby on the forehead.
âYouâre not going to lose her,â you assure him. You donât like how extreme his words are, but after everything heâs been through, can you really blame him for being afraid of losing everything? âYouâll see, sheâll be better soon. I told you, Iâm sure of it. It was daycare, really,â you repeat.
You dampen the small towel you brought with a bit of water and gently wipe your daughterâs forehead, her neck, her tiny hands. Leon watches every one of your movements, watching you with affection.
The moment you move away from him even slightly, he straightens again and starts pacing once more, slowly, never stopping the rocking, never stopping the soft humming.
Minutes pass, maybe even an hour, two, and Leon doesnât sit down once because he canât. All he can do is walk with the baby in his arms, whispering stories about how you met, how you got married, everything you had to go through to get here. He tells her how much he loves her and what he dreams of doing with her someday.
The way heâs acting reminds you of how he behaves when heâs trying to convince not only you, but himself, that he can control his panic attacks.
Of course, he never can do it alone, and he always ends up needing your help.
âEverythingâs okay, sweetheart,â he murmurs to the baby. âDaddyâs got you⊠Daddyâs here with youâŠâ
You check her temperature again.
â101.8°,â you tell Leon with a calm smile.
âItâs going down already?â
âOf course,â you smile again.
His shoulders relax a little, and even though heâs calmer, he keeps moving.
Ten minutes later, Leon asks you again, much more softly this time, if you can check her temperature once again.
â101.2°.â
This time, he finally sits down. You sigh in relief.
He rests his head against the headboard and closes his eyes for a second. You see exhaustion hit him all at once. Sadly, not just from tonight, but from the years of carrying too much concern for everyone.
âSheâs still warm,â he says quietly. You notice the apology in his tone and canât help but feel bad. âBut not like before.â
âSheâs doing great,â you reply, kissing the baby on the forehead. Then you kiss Leonâs cheek. âAnd so are you.â
He lets out a nervous laugh.
âIâm acting like an idiot.â
âYouâre acting like a first-time father would, love. Like a very good father, actually.â
That breaks him.
He swallows hard, unable to stop his eyes from filling with tears. He looks at the babyâs face, now peacefully asleep and her mouth slightly open, and gently strokes her head, unhurried.
âIâm used to saving the world,â he says softly, ânot⊠bringing down a babyâs fever. Maybe I should train for this, too.â
You rest your head on his shoulder.
âLove, parents donât get training manuals when babies are born. You love her and you worry about her. Thatâs more than enough.â
He hugs her tighter and reaches for you with his free arm.
You stay like that for a while, holding each other in silence, until Leonâs breathing finally becomes steady again, as if nothing had happened.
You climb into bed, and Leon follows. He refuses to let go of the baby, even when youâre both certain her fever is gone.
You donât mind at all. You hold the baby while Leon goes to get the crib from her room and brings it into yours. When he returns and sets it beside his side of the bed, he reaches out for the baby. You hand her to him, thinking heâll place her in the crib but, instead, he sits back against the headboard, curls up with you, and keeps holding her.
âThank you,â he whispers against your hair.
âFor what?â
âFor staying calm. Youâre always the one who keeps it together in moments like this. You know⊠when my head starts spiraling, andââ
You smile, exhausted but strangely content after such a long night.
Leon was everything you needed, for the worse or for the better.
âThatâs what husbands are for, love. And thatâs what Iâm here for as your wife. I know youâd do, and you already do, the same if our roles were reversed.â
He kisses your temple.
Then he places the baby in the crib and finally lies down, letting you pull him close, settling near enough to wrap his arms around you and not let go.
âThank you for everything. I love you,â he whispers one last time before you both fall asleep.
Summary: Clark started noticing that you were growing older faster than he was. He has to come to terms with it, no matter how painful.
tags: angst, growing old, clark being in grief because he will outlive you, major character death
Clark Kent x Fem!Reader
more kent family adventures here!
The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, painting your bedroom in hues of gold. Clark stirred awake before you, as he often did, his instincts attuned to the world long before the rest of the house woke up. For a while, he just lay thereâwatching you breathe, listening to the faint rhythm of your heartbeat beside him.
It was one of his favorite things in the world.
Your hair was splayed across the pillow, catching the sunlight. He reached out to gently brush a lock away from your face, smiling to himself. But then he paused.
There, glinting silver among the strands, was something that made his chest tighten. A delicate gray hair.
It was so small, so ordinary, and yet for him, it felt monumental.
He froze, fingers hovering in midair. The smile faded, replaced by something uncertain and heavy.
You stirred at his touch, blinking drowsily. âClark?â you murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
He blinked rapidly, quickly forcing a soft smile. âHey,â he whispered, his hand finding yours. âDidnât mean to wake you.â
You smiled faintly, eyes still closed. âYouâre always awake first,â you teased, squeezing his hand before turning on your side. âYou should try sleeping in for once.â
Clark chuckled quietly, but the sound felt distant to him. He leaned forward and kissed your temple, lingering there longer than usual. You didnât notice, already half-drifting again, but he did. He noticed everything.
Because in that quiet moment, a thought took root in his mind and refused to leave.
You were getting older. Slowly, beautifully, naturally. Time was leaving traces on your skin and in your hairâand he wasnât changing the same way. His reflection had looked the same for years now. The fine lines that came and went with stress disappeared almost overnight. Even the gray that sometimes threatened his temples would fade within a week.
You, on the other hand, were fully human. And though he loved that. He loved every second of your lifeâs rhythmâŠit terrified him too.
He lay there for a long time, tracing his thumb over your knuckles, listening to the sound of life outside the bedroom. Somewhere down the hall, Leia was laughing with Jon over breakfast. She was seventeen nowâsharp, confident, witty like her mother. Jon, thirteen, had inherited his fatherâs restless curiosity and his motherâs stubborn heart. They filled the house with noise and chaos and light.
And one day, Clark realized with a pang, they would be grown. They would have their own lives. And he⊠he might still look the same. Still be the same.
But you wouldnât.
He swallowed hard and blinked back the stinging in his eyes.
When you finally sat up and stretched, noticing the way he was watching you, you gave him that soft, familiar lookâthe one that always made him feel seen. âWhatâs wrong?â you asked.
He hesitated, then shook his head with a small, practiced smile. âNothing,â he said, though his voice betrayed him.
You studied him for a moment, frowning slightly. âClarkâŠâ
He sighed, defeated. His fingers brushed the side of your hair again, and this time, he couldnât hide the tenderness in the motion. âI saw a gray hair,â he said quietly.
You blinked, then laughed softly. âOh, that? Yeah, I found one last week.â You smiled, amused at his reaction. âItâs just one, Clark. Or a few, maybe. Comes with the territory.â
But he didnât laugh with you. He just looked at you, eyes full of something far deeper than worry. âI know,â he murmured. âItâs just⊠sometimes I forget that time doesnât move the same for me. And then I see something like that, and it hits me all at once.â
You softened instantly.
He looked down, his voice quieter now. âI donât ever want to lose you,â he admitted. âAnd I donât know how to⊠how to face that I might, one day, have to.â
You reached out, taking his face in your hands. âClark,â you whispered, pulling him closer until his forehead rested against yours. âYou canât think like that. Youâre not losing me. Not now. Not for a long time.â
His eyes glistened. âBut somedayâŠâ
âSomeday doesnât matter right now,â you interrupted gently. âYou canât live in that fear. We have today. We have Leia, and Jon, and every morning that starts with you beside me.â
He closed his eyes, breathing you in. Your warmth, your scent, the pulse of life beneath your skin. He nodded slowly, because you were right. You always were.
Later that morning, after youâd gone to make coffee, Clark stood by the window and watched the sunlight dance across the kitchen where Leia was helping Jon with cereal. Their laughter echoed through the house, bright and alive.
He looked at you, with your hair pulled into a loose bun, a silver thread or two catching the light.
You were aging. He wasnât.
-
One night, after youâd fallen asleep, he sat in the living room in the dark, his hands clasped together so tightly they trembled. The house was still, save for the gentle hum of your breathing down the hall.
And then, softly, like a man afraid of being overheard by the universe, he began to pray.
âPlease,â he whispered into the quiet. âIf thereâs anyone listening⊠if thereâs anything left in me thatâs still human enough to be heardâŠplease.â
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, the tears slipping through his fingers. âDonât make me live without her. Donât let me watch her fade while I stay the same.â
Clarkâs voice broke, raw and pleading. âI donât need to fly. I donât need to be strong or invincible. Iâd trade it all, every ounce of power, for one lifetime with her. Just one. Growing old together, the way people are supposed to.â
He bowed his head, the weight of years pressing down on him. He thought about how your hair had begun to curl differently now, how your hands bore faint traces of time, how your eyesâstill bright, still fierceâcarried more softness when you looked at him these days.
He remembered the first time heâd seen you, young and full of laughter. How youâd teased him, how youâd made him feel human even when the rest of the world insisted he wasnât.
And now, as he sat in the quiet of your shared life, the thought of you slipping away while he stayed the same tore something deep inside him.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was small. âLet me be like her. Let me age. Let me feel it all. The aches, the years, the growing old. Let me earn every second with her.â
You had stirred at some point, perhaps sensing that the bed was empty. Quietly, you padded into the living room, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. The moment you saw himâhis face buried in his hands, his shoulders tremblingâyou knew.
âClark? Honey?â you whispered gently.
He startled slightly, wiping his eyes quickly, but youâd already seen the tears. You crossed the room, kneeling before him, taking his hands away from his face.
âWhatâs wrong?â you asked softly.
He shook his head, the words caught in his throat. âItâs nothing, I justââ
âDonât,â you said. âDonât lie to me.â
For a long moment, he just stared at you, your eyes searching his, your thumb brushing the dampness from his cheek. Finally, he broke. âYouâre changing,â he said quietly. âAnd Iâm not. And I hate it.â
You blinked, caught off guard, but before you could speak, he continued, his voice trembling. âEvery time I see another year touch you, itâs beautifulâŠand it hurts. Because I know Iâll stay the same while youâŠâ He swallowed hard. âWhile you keep moving forward.â
You cupped his face gently. âClark,â you murmured, your voice full of tenderness. âThatâs what love is supposed to be. Moving forward together, even if the steps donât always look the same.â
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. You could feel the faint tremor in him, the quiet desperation.
âI donât want to outlive you,â he whispered. âI donât want to be here without you.â
You kissed his forehead, your lips lingering there. âThen donât think about how much time we have,â you said softly. âThink about what we do with it.â
Clarkâs eyes opened then, glassy but full of devotion.
You smiled through your own tears and added, âBesides⊠when I grow old and gray, youâll still be the same man who makes me feel like Iâm the luckiest woman on Earth. That wonât change.â
He didnât trust himself to speak, so he pulled you close instead, burying his face in your shoulder. You held him there, your fingers threading through his dark hair as the quiet night settled around you.
Outside, the stars burned bright and ageless, but inside the Kent home, there was something far more enduring.
A man who could live forever, praying only for the chance to grow old.
-
The years had passed quietly. They crept in with gentle familiarity, one silver strand at a time, one softened line, one slower morning. You were well into your later years now. The house had grown quieter, still full of love, but slower somehow, softer. Leia and Jon had their own lives, their own homes, yet they visited often. The laughter still echoed in these walls, but it came from the memories now as much as the moments themselves.
You moved more carefully these days. Your hands trembled slightly when you held your tea. Clark never let you carry anything heavier than a plate. He still looked almost the sameâthe same strong lines of his jaw, the same impossibly bright eyes. Maybe a touch more silver at his temples, but it suited him in that effortless way everything did.
Sometimes, when the two of you went out, to the farmerâs market, or to the park to feed the birds, strangers would smile kindly and say, âHow lovely that you brought your mother out today.â
You always laughed it off. Clark, though, would just smile politely and squeeze your hand, his eyes soft and aching.
You and Clark sat together in the home you had built, still the same place where Leia had taken her first steps, where Jon had learned to fly for the first time (through a window that had long since been replaced). The walls carried laughter in their beams and love in every scratch, every photograph framed on the shelves.
The evening sun poured through the window, painting you both in honeyed light. Clark sat beside you on the couch, reading a book with one arm around your shoulders. His hair was still thick and dark, his face still the same boyish handsomeness it had always been. There were barely any changes, perhaps a softness in his eyes that came only with time, but not a single line that betrayed the years.
You, however, had changed.
Your hair, long streaked with silver, was gathered loosely at your neck. Your hands bore the quiet story of years lived fully, creased, delicate, and a little unsteady. There were days when the aches in your body slowed you down, when Clark had to help you out of bed or hold your arm as you walked down the porch steps.
You hated needing help. You hated feeling small when once you had been strong.
But Clark never seemed to see you that way.
He treated you with the same care he had when you were young, the same reverence, the same awe, as though every wrinkle and every gray hair was a miracle he was lucky to witness.
Still, that didnât stop the doubt from creeping in.
You watched him for a long moment, studying the man who hadnât changed much since your youth. The same broad shoulders, the same earnest face.
When he caught your gaze, he smiled. âWhatâs that look for?â
You hesitated before answering, voice soft but trembling. âDo you still love me?â
His smile faded, replaced by quiet concern. âWhat kind of question is that?â
You looked down at your hands. âI mean⊠really love me. Even though IâmâŠâ You gestured to yourself vaguely. âOld. Slower. I canât keep up like I used to. Youâre still⊠you. Still strong, still young. Sometimes I look at us, and I thinkâŠwhat do you even see in me anymore?â
Clark set the book aside and came to sit beside you. He reached for your hands, holding them carefully, as though they were made of glass.
âI see you,â he said softly.
You shook your head, tears forming. âClarkââ
âNo,â he interrupted gently. âYou listen to me. I see the woman who taught me how to live in this world. The woman who showed me that being human isnât about what you can lift, or how fast you heal, or how long you live. Itâs about love. Itâs about what you give to others.â
His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, tracing the faint blue veins beneath your skin. âYou gave me everything, sweetheart. You gave me Leia and Jon. You gave me a home. You gave me laughter, and warmth, and a reason to come back every night.â
Tears slipped silently down your cheeks. âBut I canât even do much anymore. Youâre always taking care of me now. I feel so⊠useless.â
He smiled sadly and leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours. âYou could never be useless to me. Do you know what it means to take care of you? It means I get to repay even a fraction of what youâve done for me. All those years you worried over me, patched me up, waited for me to come home in one pieceâŠyou think I ever forgot that?â
You let out a shaky laugh, still crying. âI just donât want to be a burden, Clark.â
He shook his head. âYouâre not. Youâre my heart. You always have been.â
You sat in silence for a while, listening to the wind outside, the creak of the old house. His arm came around your shoulders again, pulling you close.
âDo you remember,â he whispered after a moment, âwhen we were young, and you told me that even if we could never have kids, weâd still be a family? Just the two of us?â
You nodded faintly.
âWell,â he said, voice full of quiet emotion, ânow itâs come full circle. The kids are grown, living their own lives. And itâs just the two of us again. Still a family. Still us.â
You smiled through your tears, resting your head against his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your ear, the same rhythm you had known for decades.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head and whispered, âYouâre everything to me, gray hairs and all. Youâve given me a life I could never have imagined. Youâre still my miracle.â
You smiled softly, eyes closing as warmth filled your chest. You realized that time hadnât stolen anything from you. It had only deepened what you already hadâlove that was stronger than youth, truer than beauty, and far greater than time itself.
Clark held you tighter, and you could feel him smile against your hair.
âAlways,â he murmured. âIâll always love you.â
-
Clark had always thought he understood time.
He could fly faster than it, move through it in the blink of an eye, but timeâreal time, the kind that wears away at the edges of a personâs soulâwas something he could never escape. It always caught up, not to him, but to the ones he loved.
He saw it first in you.
When you both were young, he never thought much about how it would look one dayâhow your hair would silver while his stayed dark, how the laugh lines at your eyes would deepen while his reflection stayed frozen, unchanged. You used to tease him about it. He used to laugh. But now, when you reached for him at night, your hand a little frailer, your breath a little slower, he realized that time had drawn a line between your worlds.
He watched you live in full color. Each year marked with growth, change, wisdomâŠand he, forever the same, remained a witness.
Leia grew up in that same light. His little girl, the one who once slept curled against his chest, was now a womanâa brilliant, graceful woman who had inherited his eyes and your warmth. He still remembered how she used to reach for him with her tiny hands and call him âDaddy.â
Now Leia came to visit with streaks of gray in her hair and a laugh so much like yours that it ached.
And JonâŠstill the same mischievous smile, still the same spark. But even Jon had changed, grown older. His shoulders ached after long flights, his powers waned in small, barely noticeable ways.
One evening, Clark stood by the window of your home, the golden light fading into a soft indigo dusk. You were sitting in your favorite chair, a blanket over your legs, reading a worn book. Leia sat across from you, her hair tied up, glasses perched on her nose as she helped you with something on your tablet. The resemblance between you two struck him. Not in the way people always said, âShe looks just like her mother,â but in the way she moved, the gentle patience in her gestures, the small hum she made when she was thinking.
And then it hit him. Leia, too, was aging. Slowly, naturally. Like you.
It was something he had always wondered about in silence. Whether his children would inherit his longevity or your humanity. He had always told himself it didnât matter. But now, seeing the faint silver threading through Leiaâs hair, it crushed him in a way he hadnât expected.
Because one day, one day soon, by his measure, he would be the only one left unchanged.
He pressed his forehead to the glass, closing his eyes, trying to steady the ache in his chest. For all his strength, for all his power, there was nothing he could do to slow this kind of loss.
He had imagined, long ago, that maybe he would outlive the world itself. But now, he didnât want that. He didnât want eternity. He wanted thisâthe wrinkles on your hands, the laughter that grew richer with age, the quiet mornings when youâd wake up beside him and mumble that the coffee was too strong.
He wanted to grow old with you.
He would have given up his strength, his powers, his flight, his entire Kryptonian legacy, just to sit beside you as equals, gray and human, both fading together.
That night, after Leia left, he carried you to bed. You were half-asleep, murmuring something soft and familiar, and as he tucked the blanket around you, he found himself whispering,
âI wish I could slow down with you.â
You stirred, eyes half-open. âHmm?â
He smiled faintly, brushing a stray strand of white hair from your face. âNothing, sweetheart. Go back to sleep.â
But he couldnât. He lay awake for hours, listening to your breathing, memorizing the rhythm of your heartbeat.
He would sit sometimes on the porch, long after you had gone to bed, looking out at the stars he once flew among. He used to feel at home up there. Now, home was wherever you were.
-
One night, as he brushed your hair before bed, an old habit heâd never let go of, you looked up at him in the mirror and asked quietly, âAre you ever tired of taking care of an old lady like me?â
He froze mid-motion, his reflection meeting yours. âWhat?â
You smiled, faint and teasing. âBe honest, Clark. You could be out there doing anything, seeing the world, saving it, living. And here you are, tying my robe and making sure I take my pills. Donât you ever get tired?â
He set the brush down, stepping closer. âNo,â he said simply. His voice was steady, sure. âNever.â
You turned slightly, looking up at him. âNot even when people mistake me for your mother?â you asked softly.
His lips curved in a sad smile. âEvery time that happens,â he said, his hand finding yours, âI just thinkâŠif they only knew.â
He bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. âIf they only knew how much I love you. How lucky I am to have you. How every day I wake up and thank whatever force in this universe let me find you.â
Your eyes shimmered as you looked at him, still as impossibly gentle as heâd been the day you met.
âClarkâŠâ you whispered, voice cracking slightly. âYouâve loved me through everything. Through years and years. Youâve held me together even when I felt like I was fading. You never once made me feel like I was a burden.â
He cupped your face in his large, warm hands. âYouâre not a burden,â he said softly. âYouâre my everything.â
You smiled faintly, leaning into his palm. âYou know,â you said, your voice fragile but calm, âIâve loved you all my life. Every version of you. The farm boy, the reporter, the man who could catch the world if it fell. I loved you as a boy, a teen, a man who became the symbol of hope. I watched you become a dad.â
He swallowed hard, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.
âI donât know how much time I have left,â you continued. âBut I can tell you this, Clark Kent. Loving you⊠thatâs a life worth living.â
For a moment, neither of you spoke. He pulled you close, holding you so gently as though afraid you might break, but you didnâtâyou just melted against him, your head resting against his chest, listening to that steady heartbeat that had never changed.
Outside, the world carried on, but inside, everything was still.
You closed your eyes and smiled. âYouâll be all right, you know,â you murmured. âWhen Iâm gone. Youâll have the kids, and youâll have the stars.â
Clarkâs voice was low and shaking when he whispered, âNone of it means anything without you.â
You looked up, tracing his jaw with your trembling fingers. âThen make it mean something for both of us,â you said softly. âLive for both of us.â
He kissed your forehead, lingering there, breathing you in.
When you finally drifted to sleep against him that night, he stayed awake for hours, just listening to you breathe, memorizing every sound, every small movement, because for Clark, every moment spent with you was a prayer answered.
He never got tired.
Not of you.
Not even for a second.
-
A few years later, the house that had been your home was quiet that night.
Not silentâthe kind of quiet that feels alive, that hums softly with the rhythm of breathing and memory. The rain outside tapped gently on the windows, a calm, slow cadence that seemed almost deliberate.
You were in bed, the blankets pulled to your chin, your hand resting in Clarkâs much larger one. Leia sat by your other side, fingers curled around your wrist, while Jon knelt at the foot of the bed, head bowed. The lamplight was dim, golden and kind, painting the room in a soft glow that made everything look almost eternal.
You had grown frail, your breaths shallower now. But there was still a faint smile on your lipsâthe same one Clark had fallen in love with decades ago.
He had known this day was coming. He had told himself he was ready, had rehearsed this moment in his mind a thousand times. But now that it was here, he wasnât ready at all.
âClark.â
When your chest stilled, he didnât move. Neither did Leia or Jon. The air felt heavy, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
Clark bent forward, pressed his forehead to yours, and whispered your name like a prayer. âIâm right here, sweetheart,â he murmured. âIâm right here.â
Leia reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder. She had tears in her eyes, but her voice was steady. âShe knew, Dad. You were always right here.â
Jon swallowed hard, his throat tight, eyes glassy. âMomâs⊠gone.â
Leia nodded softly. âYeah.â
Clark didnât answer. He sat there for a long time, still holding your hand, tracing the lines of your palm as if he could memorize them once more, as if his touch alone could tether you back.
Hours later, when the rain had stopped and the night grew still, the three of them sat together in the living room. Leia leaned her head against Clarkâs shoulder, while Jon sat cross-legged on the floor, staring into the quiet fireplace.
It was Jon who broke the silence. âYou know,â he said softly, âI read somewhere that when a person dies, their brain keeps working for about seven minutes. Like⊠it replays their life. Their memories. Everything they loved.â
Clark looked down at his son, his expression distant but tender. âIâve heard that too.â
Leia shifted, looking up at her father. âSeven minutes,â she repeated quietly, almost to herself. âThatâs not very long.â
Jon shrugged, rubbing at his eyes. âI just hope⊠I hope I was in some of those minutes.â
Leia turned to look at her little brother, her lips parting in surprise. She was quiet for a long moment, remembering the smile on your face during your last moments.
Then she smiledâthrough the tears, through the griefâthat same soft, knowing smile sheâd inherited from you. âJon,â she whispered, her voice cracking but sure, âIâm a mother now.â
Jon blinked at her, confused.
Leia reached out and gently took his hand. âWe were all of her minutes.â
She looked at both of them, her father, still immortal and ageless in body but weary in soul, and her brother, who had inherited your humanity, your kindness.
âIf her brain really played those seven minutes,â Leia whispered, âwe were all of them. Every single one.â
Clark felt something in his chest break open. The truth of it was so simple, so piercingly real. You had poured yourself into this familyâevery heartbeat, every breath, every laugh and sleepless night, every whispered âI love you.â You had loved them with every part of yourself, and that love didnât fade. It lingered in the air, in the walls, in them.
His eyes closed, and the tears came then, silent and unrestrained. He reached out and pulled both of his children closeâone on each side, his arms wrapping around them the way they once had when they were small.
As the night deepened, Clark whispered to the stars outside the windowâsoftly, reverently, as though you could still hear him,
âThank you for giving me forever.â
-
Clark closed his eyes. He let himself believe that maybe you werenât really gone. Maybe those seven minutes werenât an ending, but a bridgeâa soft, golden moment stretched across eternity, where youâd wait for him, smiling the way you always did when he came home.
And when his time finally came, he knew heâd find you there, waiting with open arms, whispering, âWelcome home, my love. Iâve been saving every minute for you.â
(also guys good thing clark woke up after this nightmare! coincidentally, he had this nightmare the night he found out you were exposed to some cosmic energy that also renders you immortal! wow, so no one actually dies! haha im coping so hard)
summary: you and clark had a unique relationship, one you've never doubted until one day the lies become too much and the secrets â including the reason he's so infatuated with his ex-girlfriend, lois lane â all come crashing down.
content: angst, hurt/no comfort, fem!reader, insecurities, jealousy, lying, arguing, yelling, cursing, mentions of sex, mentions of drinking, mentions of weed, mentions of neglectful parents, gun violence, more angst, some fluff, david corenswet's clark kent, misguided clark kent, scorned reader.
a/n: went to go see Superman in theaters with my gf, and I'm literally obsessed with David's version. Based on the live performance of Silver Springs by Fleetwood Mac (it's sort of a mess, but I've been working on it for so long, so I'm just gonna post it). I hope you all like it (7.5k words)
You loved your job. In spite of the seemingly endless deadlines, cramped cubicles, and near-always burnt coffee, you couldnât think of a better place to work. There wasnât a day that went by at The Daily Planet that something exciting didnât happen.
Though youâd have to admit that the most exciting part was getting to spend your workdays sitting next to your boyfriend, discussing whatever breaking news occurred the second you stepped into the building.Â
Well, sort-of boyfriend. You didn't actually know what to call Clark â the many nights you two spent entangled in your soft egyptian cotton sheets mangled the âfriendsâ title a long time ago.
Now heâs the first person to ask you what beat you were assigned that morning, your favorite iced cinnamon latte in hand.Â
Though that's not to say you two didn't have your challenges. Clark was incredible: smart, handsome, funny, thoughtful, succinct, but he had secrets.
Youâd always assumed one day youâd crack them, get him to open up â you were a reporter after all, itâs what you did. You guess you never thought about what would happen to your relationship if you didnât â maybe you shouldâve.
You were working on an investigative report on Luthorcorp, and its both immoral and illegal involvement in biological weaponry, when Clark took a seat next to you, a bright smile on his face as he handed you the caffeinated cup you were so desperately craving.
âHows the article coming?â he smiles knowingly, and you just huff out a tired sigh, âabout as well as it could, given the fact that Lex Luthor is like a brown recluse; hard to get a hold of and venomousâ you mutter. I was only 10:30 am, but you needed this done by end of day or else Perry would have your head.
He sends you a soft smile, âWell, if anyone could do it, it would be you.â he murmurs reassuringly, before turning to look over at his own computer.
You try to resist, but you canât help but sneak a peek at his screen, deep down already knowing what he was working on.
âAnother interview with Superman. How do you do it, Clark?â you muse, taking a sip of your coffee as you laugh in impressed exasperation. Everyone at The Planet wondered how Clark managed to snag an exclusive with Superman after every fight; it was like an anomaly.Â
âI swear, you and Lois are the only two reporters here who manage to catch him. Youâve made yourselves very indispensable,â you laugh, your acrylic french tips clacking on your keyboard as you talk.
He can practically feel his cheeks heat up at your comment, scratching the back of his neck nervously as he chokes out a weak laugh. âYeah, just lucky, I guess,â he murmurs.
It was always the same excuse, but deep down, you knew there had to be more to it than just luck.Â
âYes, well, hopefully some of that luck rubs off on me.â you hum playfully as you open your emails, groaning at the to-do list from Perry a mile long.
Clark steals a glance over your shoulder, wincing in sympathy âPerry, again?â he hums, and you nod with clenched eyes. This was most definitely going to be a long day.
âI swear to god, Clark, I am going to kill him.â you murmur as you look up at him, his signature puppy dog pout and bright blue eyes meeting yours halfway.
Itâs moments like these that make you wish you could stay like this forever, eyes locked on his as the rest of the newsroom fades away to quiet murmurs.Â
You could be my silver spring, Blue-green colors flashin'
âWell, if you did that, then who would be signing those paychecks of yours?â he points out, causing you to roll your eyes playfully as you send the files down to the copy room to be printed.
âYeah, but imagine how much press weâd get when I publish the story from my jail cell,â you wink as you stand up.
You push your chair back into your desk, straightening out your black pencil skirt and plain white blouse as you murmur a quiet âbe right backâ, your shiny black heels clacking against the tile floor of The Planet as you leave the newsroom in a rush.Â
You weave through the endless hallways, sending small waves to the colleagues you recognize, before you finally reach the letterpress. You work the buttons on it swiftly, practiced, as you wait for the 48 pages â front and back, double spaced â to be done.
You move away from the machine, leaning against the wall as you bite your bottom lip in boredom, going over the mental checklist for your day.
Thankfully, the silence doesnât last long when Cat comes waltzing in, a tired smile on her face as she waves at you. âHey! Perry, send you down?â she laughs knowingly. Before this was your job, it was hers, and letâs just say, she didn't miss it.
âGotta start somewhere, right?â you tease. You were by no means new, but you were the newest edition having joined seven months ago, and therefore being stuck with the worst jobs.
Sure, you still got to write a fair deal, but it was accompanied by hours of printing, fact checking, and shockingly enough, grocery runs to the market on Fifth Ave when Perry ran out of his favorite vanilla coffee creamer.
She smiles as she bumps your shoulder playfully, leaning next to you against the wall, sipping on her low-fat flat white. She was one of your best friends at The Planet ever since you started â well, besides Clark, of course.
âSo I hear you and Kent have been getting cozy,â she teases, shooting you a wink that makes your cheeks heat.
Thatâs the thing about Cat, she knew everything that went on at The Planet, even if she didn't mention it outright.Â
âYeah, well, itâs nothing serious,â you assure halfheartedly, though itâs not hard to see that you want it to be.
âWell, itâs as serious as heâs been since his relationship with Lois ended.â she muses, shooting you a smile that was meant to be encouraging, but instead only spurs an uncomfortable ache in your chest.Â
Of course you knew Lois and Clark had a thing before you two met, hell, everyone at The Planet knew â but it didnât occur to you how serious it was until now.
âWeâre justâŠtaking things slowâ you muse softly, an uncomfortable thought entering your brain, âDid he uh- was he gone a lot when they were together?â you pray that the hint of insecurity isn't noticeable in your voice.
Cat frowns, taking a sip of her drink âI don't really remember, but I don't think so. Those two were practically attached at the hip. Where youâd find one, youâd usually find the otherâ she laughs, shaking her head at the memory.
âI guess some things never change.â you murmur quietly, eyes locked on your pair of So Kates as she frowns, realizing that maybe she should have kept her thoughts to herself this time.
âOh, honey, no. Heâs- heâs obsessed with you.â She assures, rubbing your back softly, wincing internally at her big mouth. "He just disappears sometimes, y'know? and he never tells me where he is." you mumble softly, causing her to frown thoughtfully.
"Well, my advice is to talk to him about it. He can't change if he doesn't know he's creating a problem," she tells you honestly, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't make you feel a little bit better â though not by much.
âAnd do us all a favor and donât wait too long on making things official, okay? Anyone here can tell Clark is crazy about you. I mean, no one else gets their iced coffee hand-delivered to their desk every morning,â she winks knowingly, and you had to hand it to her â no one gave heartfelt speeches like Cat.
Your conversation is cut short when you hear the copy machine beep, a telling sign that your pages are ready to be sent over to Perry's office.
You snatch up the fresh, warm pages, tucking them under your arm as you shoot Cat a small goodbye and make your way out â your heart just a tad heavier than before.Â
And don't say that she's pretty? and did you say that she loved you?
You make your way towards the elevator at the far end of the deserted hallway, refusing to put yourself through fifteen flights of stairs to reach Perry's office. Unlucky for you, as the doors open, youâre met with none other than Lois Lane herself.
She's dressed in some fitting black slacks and a cute purple striped blouse, making you slightly jealous that you didn't think of it first. That's not fair, you think to yourself, she has never once been unfair or rude to you.
To make matters worse, she shoots you a friendly smile and a small wave as you enter, hitting the floor twenty button in silence.
You can't help but wonder if her and Clarkâs relationship had the same cracks yours did, or if it was a you problem.
âHey, how's the article coming?â she asks, her interest genuine as she leans against the elevator wall. God, did she have to be so pretty?
âAs well as possible, you know how Luthor is,â you muse, and she laughs. Lois is highly aware of the unique challenges that come with getting any type of information out of Lex Luthor. âHowâs yourâs coming? I didnât catch what your beat was.â you ask politely.
She smiles tiredly, âIâm doing politics. I managed to get an in-depth interview with Superman about what happened near Midtown,â she muses, and suddenly you feel so stupid.
You couldnât even get a representative from Luthorcorp to take your calls; meanwhile, she was getting an exclusive with the Man of Steel himself.
Nevertheless, you smile cordially, âWell, I canât wait to read it. Iâm sure itâll be great.â you offer softly as the elevator doors open, like a saving grace.
You wave goodbye as you straight shoot towards Perryâs office, the large mahogany door propped open enough for you to get a peek inside.Â
Thankfully, Perryâs not in there, and youâre able to drop off the paperwork at his desk and book it out in a matter of seconds. The last thing you wanted was to get caught in another one of Perry's hour-long lectures about âthe wows and woes of honest journalismâ.
By the time you make it back down to the news room, your face is flushed from the excessive amount of stairs you descended â refusing the elevator in fear of getting caught in another awkward conversation.Â
You had enough on your plate, the last thing you needed was your brain being clouded by insecure jealousy when you had a job to do. A job you very much did not want to lose, no less.
Realistically, you knew that things between Lois and Clark were over, that they were just good friends, and that the love they shared had fizzled out a long time ago.
But once in a while, youâd catch them in a quiet moment together, their chemistry palpable as you sat back like some bystander. Â
Unfortunately for you, when you catch sight of your cubicle, you feel your heart still in your chest as you observe Clark and Lois deep in conversation, the only thing youâre able to hear being soft whispers and shared laughter.
Part of you wants to run away, because if you stay here and dissect this moment, then it forces it to become real â not some figment of your imagination constructed out of jealousy, but a moment that changes how you perceive your own relationship.Â
But you know you can't run, not for lack of desire, but because your half-dranken â and now watery â iced latte still sits on your desk, spilling its condensation all over your last report, and if you leave now, itâll be drenched in minutes.
So you begin to walk, heels clacking against the tile flooring in a way that would usually alert Clark that youâre there, prompting a bright smile from his end, but that isnât what awaits you. Instead, you make it all the way to your desk without so much as a glance from Clark.
And, even though youâre not proud of it, you try your hardest to listen in on what they're saying, only half paying attention to the new conference calendar pulled up from your email.
You can feel your nails dig into your computer mouse as you bite your tongue, trying your best to tune out the soft laugh Lois lets out.
Theyâre friends, theyâre allowed to talk, you reason. You just assumed that all of the time they spent together outside of work would be more than enough.
âYes, well, no one does it like you, Lois. You deserve that promotion more than anyone,â he smiles softly at her, and she stifles a grin. âWell, make sure to tell Perry that, will ya?â she laughs, leaning against his desk as she takes a sip of her extra sweet cappuccino.
You bite the inside of your cheek as you steal a sideways glance at them, Clark's back half turned to you, Lois leaning down in front of his face, whispering something in his ear that makes him choke out a weak laugh.
Itâs the same stumbling laugh he lets out whenever you pick a particularly pretty piece of lingerie to wear under your dress during your dates, or when you pepper kisses down his neck while you two pretend to watch some old movie on the TV in your apartment.
It makes you sick. It makes you want to run and hide because neither of them have noticed you yet, and it's the first time in a while that youâve felt well and truly invisible.
Itâs not often that youâre thankful for Jimmy, he doesnât know a good thing when heâs got it, and he acts like having a million girls fawning over him is an issue â but right now, you feel pretty fucking thankful when you see him approach, calling out your name.
âHey, are you coming to the LutherCorp conference next week?â he asks with a knowing smile, you never missed an opportunity to rag on Lex Luthor, even if the process of getting to him was comparable to pulling teeth, âWouldnât miss it for the world,â you smirk.
Itâs only when your voice rings that Clark whips his head around, shocked out of his daze as he looks down at you, a half frown on his face. Why didn't you tell him you were back?
You and Jimmy exchange a few more words before he departs, and Clark quickly cuts in âHey, I didnât see when you got back, how was the run to Perry's office?â he laughs, attention undividedly on you.
âDid he give you another spiel on ethics in journalism?â he teases, but you can't bring yourself to find anything funny anymore, not when youâve spent the last fifteen minutes comparing you and Clark's relationship to the one he and Lois shared.Â
âYes, well, you seemed pretty⊠occupied. And no, he wasnât there.â Is all you manage before you look at the time. It was your lunch break, thank god.
Before Clark can ask you anything else, youâre out of your chair, black coach bag in hand, as you rush towards the door of the news room, gone in an instant and leaving him feeling utterly awful.
so I begin not to love you. Turn around, see me runnin'
âI donât want to hear it tonight, Clark, just leave.â you mutter, the front door of your apartment half open as you stand in the doorway, arms crossed as you shoot daggers at his tall frame. If looks could killâŠ
You had just spent over three hours waiting downtown at the small Italian place you two loved, just for him to pull a no-show.
Youâd even dressed up in that short pink lacy dress he liked so much to surprise him. You canât believe youâd been so stupid.
You shouldâve known this would happen, Clark was known for doing stuff like this. Part of you wonders if that's why he and Lois didnât work out â though something ugly and cruel inside of your brain tells you that this situation wouldn't have even occurred if she were in your place.
âI am so sorry, you gotta believe me- Something came up and I lost track of time, it won't happen again,â he murmurs, hair mussed and cheeks flush as he stares down at you, guilt evident on his face.Â
The worst part? You wanted to forgive him. To tell him it was okay and go to bed without a fight, but you couldnât. Not anymore.
âItâs not just this time, Clark, this is a constant issue. You always disappear off somewhere, and you never tell me what it was that you were actually doing.â Youâre borderline begging at this point for him to let you in, to be honest.Â
âI know how bad it looks, but I swear to you that if I had known this wouldâve happened, then I would've planned better.â he begs, but youâre not satisfied. Youâre tired of the half-truths and dodged questions.Â
âThen tell me where you were, Clark.â you huff, voice unwavering as you stand your ground. You loved Clark, but you were tired of whatever back-and-forth game you guys seemed to play each week.Â
âI was at The Planet,â he whispers, and you canât help but scoff, because you know that's not true. âThe Planets closed, Clark. And I know you don't have the administrative key to enter, so-â âI was with Lois. She has the key.â
Oh. And just like that, the fire inside of you dies. You don't know why youâre shocked, Lois is who he was with half of the time he left you hanging, but he usually would at least call you first.
âWhat?â you whisper, voice sharp enough to cut through steel as you shake your head in frustration. âShe needed help on an article, and-â âSheâs a grown woman, Clark.â you hiss, taking a few steps away from the door as you try to calm yourself down.
âYouâre telling me that you stood me up because Lois needed help on an article? Do you really think Iâm buying that?â you scoff, and he winces at how utterly ridiculous it sounded â lying was never his strong suit.Â
You didn't doubt that he was with Lois, but it was a well-known fact that Lois Lane didn't need anyoneâs help writing a report, especially not his. Leaving you to wonder what it was that the two of them were actually doing together, especially if he felt the need to lie about it.
Believe it or not, Clark had every intention of showing up on time for your date; hell, he even had the bouquet of pink lilies in hand when Lois called him about some important confidential breach at The Planet from a computer whose IP matched Luthorcorps exactly.
He wouldn't have even gone if it weren't for the fact that she needed his abilities to help break through the safe in Perry's office, which contained the computer lockdown codes; without them, Luthorcorp would have access to every piece of media â published and unpublished â and sources within the database. Not that he could explain that to you.
âShe just⊠she needed me there, Iâm sorry,â he whispers, remorsefully. âYeah, well, I needed you too, but I guess that didnât really matter, did it, Clark?â you scoff bitterly, eyes practically drilling holes into your fuzzy cow slippers that adorn your feet.
You refused to look up at him, you knew that if you did, he would see the tears building in your eyes and the last thing you needed was for him to see you cry â to see how he affected you.
It had only been three days since the incident at The Planet, and neither of you had brought it up. He had just called you the next day, inviting you out for lunch, and you all but jumped at the opportunity â wrongly assuming once again that this was the last time he would put someone else first.
Itâs not until this very moment, standing here in your own agony, that you wonder if he realizes how badly it hurt you â or if he even understood why.Â
âJust go, Clark.â you hiss, as he takes a cautious step towards you, prompting you to take a larger one back, refusing to let him console you when heâs the one who caused this.Â
âI don't- I canât see you anymore. Not when every time you leave me, it has something to do with her,â you choke out, wiping away a stray tear before lifting your head to face him.
"please, don't do this-" "It's fine, Clark. I mean, we were never really serious anyway, right?" you mutter weakly, arms wrapping around yourself instinctively as his voice falters, because he knows that's not true, you both do.
Every fiber of his being is begging him to stay there, to make things right, but he canât. Not now, not anymore, not when itâs clear as day that you didnât want him around right now.
And when he exits down the hallway, stepping into the old creaky elevator, it finally occurs to you that maybe Lois and Clark will be the reason that the two of you won't work out.Â
And can you tell me, was it worth it? Baby, I don't wanna know
The next day at The Planet makes you regret every positive sentiment youâve expressed about the place â a place that used to be synonymous with creativity and intellectualism, now paralleled by hurt and insecurity.Â
You get to work early â much earlier than you ever have before, anyway â taking a seat at your cubicle, dead set on keeping your eyes on your own space.
The last thing you want is to torture yourself by anazlying Clark's desk looking for some evidence that his and Loisâ meeting last night was anything less than wholesome.Â
Thankfully, the one thing youâve always been good at was compartmentalizing â tuning people out was like second nature, and youâve never been so grateful for that skill up until now.
Youâre just praying that Clark runs late, as per usual, and you can get out of here before he even steps foot in the building.
Unfortunately, that dream is squashed when you hear the tell-tale sound of Clark's messy footsteps across the tile floor, making their way over to where you sit, revising some old sports column for Jimmy as a favor.
You're semi-snapped out of it when an iced latte is placed gently on your desk, but you donât look up â you don't even move, acting as if he wasnât there at all.Â
Truthfully, you didnât have a game plan for today. After the events of last night, which included falling asleep on your kitchen floor after pounding back a bottle of chardonnay, you didnât have much time to plan out a strategy.Â
When it becomes glaringly obvious to Clark that he isnât going to get an acknowledgment from you, he takes a silent seat at his desk, pulling up some old beat he needed to fact-check before handing in.
Clark was always like that, neat, careful, meticulous; you wonder why he couldn't have been that way with your heart.
A few hours of less-than-comfortable silence go by before you finish your last article of the week â though it did include working through lunch, which Clark wasn't too keen on, making it a point to drop off a chicken salad sandwich on your desk quietly.
You pack up your belongings in record time as you tear out of the news room, Clark standing up abruptly to follow you as you head towards the elevator, signature black Coach bag in hand. He still remembers the day you bought it â you had dragged him shopping with you, claiming you needed an âoutsider's opinionâ.Â
Before you can get to the closing elevator doors, you hear a familiar voice call out to you, âcan we please talk?â Clark bumbles out, hand clasped gently on your shoulder as he looks at you pleadingly.
You freeze for a second before the pain flashes through you all over again, and you shrug him off. âClark, you abandoned me and then lied about it. I mean, what is there to say?â you scoff, eyes narrowed in his direction as he looks down, guilt-ridden.
When the events of last night first happened, he flew to the Fortress to clear his head â get a grip on his feelings.
He didnât even realize how bad all of the lies must have been weighing on you until he talked to Superbot #4 about it.
For a being with no human emotion, he sure was great at reading people.
He doesnât even know what to say, because as much as he wants to tell you everything, he can't go down that path again. Lois had found out about his secret two months into their relationship, and it complicated everything.
He had never intended on telling her, the same way he never intends on telling you. He would never be able to forgive himself if you'd gotten hurt because of your connection to him, so instead, he buries it deep inside him.
âI donât know what youâre talking about, we were working on her article.â he murmurs, doubling down as his eyes stare down at his pair of black loafers blankly. Because even he knows that heâs lying to your face, and itâs killing him.Â
You choke out a humourless laugh as you shove past him, âRight. Well have fun screwing her, because Iâm done letting you screw me,â you scoff, entering the elevator and pressing the first floor button without so much as a second glance.Â
Itâs official, Clark Kent was an idiot.Â
Time cast a spell on you, but you won't forget me
Clark dedicates the next week to trying to make it up to you, trying to prove to you that nothing like that was going on with Lois, not anymore.
That deep down, there's only ever been you.
It's the third time in a row youâve come home to some variety of flowers laid against your door, wrapped up prettily with a long card attached.
You roll your eyes as you pick them up, unlocking your front door and tossing them onto your kitchen counter where the other ones sit neatly in vases â card long discarded.
Just because Clark was a lousy boyfriend didn't mean the flowers had to suffer. Plus, as much as you hated to admit it, Clark knew exactly what you liked.
Whether that be in bed, with your legs thrown over his shoulders as he drilled into you, or getting ice cream downtown in the same flavor you always got.
Spending nearly every night with a person for months will do that to you.
Itâs the same way you knew everything about him â his favorite band, his favorite place to get falafel, the way heâd stifle a smile whenever he caught you singing and dancing to some old Fleetwood Mac song through the walls.
That's the only real explanation you have for his astute ability to somehow match the flowers he bought you to your apartment's decor perfectly â the white roses, pink lilies, and cream peonies working to complement the pink lacy tablecloth, throw pillows, and curtains adorning your apartment.Â
He really was trying, that much was evident â especially with the way heâd taken to hand-delivering your favorite cinnamon donuts from the bakery down the street to your desk whenever you offhandedly mentioned craving one to Jimmy.
Sure, he could've gotten you a gift card â but he knew you well enough to know how much you hated them.
Youâd gotten enough impersonal gifts from your parents over the years, you liked that Clark was thoughtful. Maybe part of you still did.
But at the end of the day, you refused to let yourself get sucked back in again. If Clark wanted to fix things between you, then he would tell you the truth about what happened the other night with Lois.
A few times you could handle, but part of you knows that now, even if he told you what had happened the last time, you didnât know if youâd be able to forgive him unless you knew the truth about all of the other times they snuck off.Â
That's the thing about lies, they spiral and build until they suffocate everything else underneath them, trust included.
But as you sit at your kitchen table, looking out onto the steady metropolis sunset, you ask yourself why you put up with this for so long. Maybe it's because you never thought Clark could be capable of cheating â that maybe his life really was as unpredictable as he made it out to be.
Or maybe itâs because you were out of your mind in love with him, and love makes people excuse a lot of things.
It's not until you take a step back, looking over your living room, that you realize Clark is everywhere. Your eyes lock onto the cow stuffed animal that sits on the mantle of your fireplace â the same one Clark had managed to get to work even after the two of you couldn't find a lighter in the apartment last winter.
You don't even realize youâve made your way over there until you feel the familiar soft fur underneath your fingertips. Clark had won this for you at some fundraising event that The Planet had sponsored for a new youth journalism program down in Gotham.
They had a ton of journalism-related games, and he had won you the stuffed cow after he had beaten out everyone at some âhistoric international journalistâ trivia. he was a nerd, but he was your nerd. At least, he used to be.
That was before all of the lies, all of the secrets. Back when he was just Clark Kent, youâre new coworker who was just a tad friendlier than the rest.
You never thought youâd long for moments like that again, moments before things got so complicated.
You don't even notice youâre crying until a tear falls onto the eye of the stuffed animal, shattering the fond memory and causing you to recoil. Your manicured finger slides across the fur gently. God, you missed him.
You missed the way he could barely fit in your queen-sized bed, and the way heâd shower with his glasses on after you two had a particularly riveting night.
You especially missed the way heâd hold you after a long day at The Planet, his arms wrapped around you like they were invincible, his head lying atop yours comfortingly as he'd whisper sweet nothings in your ear.
But most of all, you missed when he let you love him. no limits, no secrets, no half-assed excuse about some prior commitment he had made.
But then again, you guess that's the price you pay for falling in love with someone as unreliable as Clark Kent.
I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me
Nevertheless, the days drag â a day becomes a week, a week becomes two, and you and Clark still havenât spoken. He still brings you your morning coffee and apology flowers, but itâs different now. Heâs quieter than before.Â
You wonder if anyone else notices it before concluding that if they do, they certainly don't make a point of bringing it up. Even Catâs been watching her words around him lately, and you haven't seen Lois nearly as many times as youâre used to.
Part of you wonders if youâve blown this way out of proportion, ended things over something so trivial.
Everyone had secrets, you knew that, you just didnât expect Clark to keep so many after youâd given all of yours to him.
It's Friday when everything changes. Youâd just spent an extra three hours at The Planet doing some damage control for the geo-politics beat with Cat â which went up in literary flames after some new intern messed up the ordering â when you decided to call it quits.
âWell Iâm gonna head out, wanna come with? Delphineâs is having a deal,â you muse pleadingly. Delphines was a little ice cream shop down on Third Ave that you and Clark used to frequent.Â
âIâm alright, I promised Joe weâd try out those pot brownies together tonight,â she winks, and you let out a laugh.
âRight, have fun with that,â you muse, already expecting a call from her later tonight while sheâs high out of her mind.Â
You exit the office building, a chill sweeping past you as you and Cat go your separate ways. Youâre clad in your usual attire â a fitted skirt and blue striped blouse, plus the suit jacket Clark had left behind for you to use once he found out you were staying late.
You wouldn't have taken it, but it really was getting colder out, and the last thing you needed was to get sick when you had deadlines.
Youâre walking down some dimly lit street, half a block from The Planet, when you feel the familiar barrel of a gun pressed against your temple.Â
âGive me your purse, and Iâll consider not blowing your brains out,â you hear a slimy voice mutter as you let out a blood-curdling scream, the man's hand clasping itself over your mouth immediately as you drop your purse onto the floor shakily.
He keeps the gun pressed firmly against your temple as he snatches the bag, rifling through it to find your wallet, tossing out your favorite pair of sunglasses and spare lip gloss onto the floor in the process.
You can't even bring yourself to breathe until you see the familiar blur of red and blue knocking the gun out of the man's hand, wrapping them around his back swiftly, and sedating him before alerting police dispatch.Â
You scramble away from the scene, tripping over your heel in the process, igniting a fiery pain up your ankle, but you can't bring yourself to care.
Tears run down your face as you try to process what the hell just happened â you knew Metropolis wasnât exactly a haven at night, but it wasnât Gotham.
âAre you alright, maâam?â Superman asks, looking you up and down for any visible injuries, and you swear for a second you can hear his voice waver, but you just chalk it up to being in shock.
âI think so,â you whisper, lifting your trembling hand up to your face to wipe off the tears, fingers ghosting over where the gun was pressed to your temple.
You feel Superman corral you softly towards a well-lit alleyway, away from the prying eyes that lurk down from the apartment buildings that sandwich you.
âIt's alright, youâre safe now,â he murmurs, looking down at you reassuringly, but you canât help but wonder, âHow did you get to me so fast? I didnât even scream, but you- you were already here.â you murmur, brain on hyperdrive.
âI was justâŠin the areaâ he murmurs unconvincingly, his head shaking as he winces â real nice save.
âRight...well, thank you.â you choke out softly, fiddling with your skirt contemplatively â the last thing you wanted to do was take the subway home after that, but youâd rather chew on wood than call Clark for help.
âWould you like me to escort you to Delphines?â he asks gently, hand resting on your shoulder softly â he hated seeing you this shaken up, it threw him off balance, maybe that's why he didn't notice his mistake when he made it.
âHow did you know where I was going?â you mutter, brows furrowed as you take a step back, cautiously.
âI didnât. I just assumed, yâknow, a luckyâŠguess?â he stumbles out, but you know what you heard.
The only person you told about going to Delphines was Cat; there was no one else in the news room that late, meaning whoever this was must either know you really well or have heard you.
âAre you following me?â confusion evident in your voice as he winces at his carelessness.
There was no going back now; you werenât stupid, and he wasnât going to pretend you were just to save face.
This was it.
I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice can haunt you
You're standing in the alley, a vigilant look on your face as you stare Superman down â you never thought youâd live to see the day the Man of Steel was sweating.
You watch as he pulls out a pair of eerily familiar glasses, his eyes cast downwards. That is, until he lifts the pair towards his face, setting them on the bridge of his nose gently, turning to look at you.
There were very few times in your life that youâve felt yourself become speechless â one time in the fifth grade when you had to give a presentation on ladybugs, another time when youâd gotten the call that you had gotten the job at The Daily Planet, the other being this moment.
Because as much as you didn't want to believe it, the man staring back at you wasnât Superman; it was Clark.
You feel your mouth moving, but nothing comes out, eyes darting between the pile of clothes strewn across the floor, which you now recognize as the ones he was wearing at work today, and him â the man you used to think you knew better than anyone.
He takes a slow step forward. âI can explain, I swear-â he murmurs, but your brain is already working out the sordid details.
âExplain what?â you huff shakily, âthat youâve been lying to me for months?â you hiss, a hollow feeling of betrayal sitting heavy in your chest.
âI wanted to tell you- I didnât want to keep secrets, it just happened-â âit just happened? Clark, secrets like this don't just happen.â You scoff, eyes glaring daggers up at him before the harsh reality dawns on you, hitting you like a freight train going a mile a minute. Lois.
âSo this is why only you and Lois get interviews from Superman. She knows.â You breathe out, though it's phrased more-so as a statement because deep down you already know the answer as your tongue presses against your teeth, pushing back tears.
How could you have been so fucking stupid?
No matter what fucked up semblance of a relationship you and Clark had, she would always be the one he trusted with his secrets, with his heart.Â
âYes, but I swear it's not like that. I didnât tell her, she found out on her own, and-â âAll those times you ditched me to see her, it was never about The Planet, was it? It was about this.â you whisper, cutting him off as your heart aches painfully in your chest.
Clark runs his hands through his hair in a panic, internally screaming at himself to come up with a way to fix this.
âYes. But now you can see that there's nothing going on between Lois and me. I swear to you, I would never do anything to be unfaithful to you-â but heâs cut off by your scoff.
âAre you really this dense? You already did, Clark. From the moment you decided that she was the one you were going to confide in, you chose her.â You glare, tears running down your face as he shakes his head. How did he keep fucking this up?
âI didnât want to put you in danger,â he explains weakly, âI never even told her, she found out on her own â I chose to tell you now.â Heâs all but begging on his knees to get you to hear him out, but the damage is irreparable.
âYeah, because I caught you in a lie, Clark.â You choke out, the tender ache of hurt and exhaustion replacing the anger that once burned your chest.
It was true, you both knew it. If this night had never happened, he wouldâve continued to keep this a secret.
He thought he was protecting you from the world, but itâs in this moment that he realizes he was only protecting himself from what you might think of him if you ever found out.
There was always some hoax about Superman drifting around online, another nail in the coffin of what used to be his golden reputation. He didn't think heâd ever be able to handle it if you thought of him that way, too.
So he kept the two separate â when he was with you, he was just Clark Kent, the nerdy, crossword-loving, caffeine addicted reporter from The Daily Planet â shielded from the ever-changing reputation that bore into his soul every waking moment that he wasn't with you.Â
But whatâs done was done, and even though he meant it when he said nothing was going on between him and Lois, it was easier for him to confide in her about things like this.
Especially because he didn't care about what she thought of him, at least not in the way he did with you.
âGod, Clark, don't you know me well enough to know that I don't care about your reputation? That if I had known all of this, I would've been there for you, that I would've understood?â
That you didnât need her, you want to choke out, the tears coming back tenfold.
âThis whole time, I thought there was something wrong with me â that I was overbearing, that I somehow pushed you into Loisâ arms.â You choke weakly, and he feels his heart still in his chest, nauseous bubbling up in his throat as he realizes how badly heâs fucked all of this up.
âMy God, Clark, you made me question everything about myself because you wanted to live a lie.â you lament, eyes squeezed together in agony â the kind that makes your heart ache and throat close up.
He canât help but inch closer to you, eyes pleading as his hand reaches out to touch your face, trembling slightly as his large fingers tilt you towards him. âBaby, please know that I never did any of this to hurt you.â
You shrug his hands off, glowering up at him, âDonât touch me.â you hiss, your own hand coming up to rub at your temple, which was developing an ear-splitting headache from the information overload youâd just endured.
âYou are the one who threw it all away â threw us away â the moment you decided to lie to me for months.â You heave, voice watery as you observe his own tears blurring his eyes.
Because for the first time, Clark doesn't know how to fix this.
All of his instincts scream at him to console you somehow, but in his heart, he knows this situation has spiraled out of control and there's nothing he can do to rein it back in, not anymore.Â
âPlease, just give me a second chance,â he pleads, brows furrowed as if heâs in physical pain. You want to yell some more, to scoff, but you don't. You steady yourself, because you have to.
âItâs over, Clark. You canât just take it all back now,â you whisper, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you look up at him in anguish.
He shakes his head, like he truly canât believe that this is the end. âJust answer this for me,â he pleads weakly, voice coming out shakier than youâve ever heard it. âDo you still love me?â
You stay silent for a moment, thinking over the question as your fingers curl around the strap of your purse.
A part of you thought youâd always love Clark Kent, from the moment he weasled himself into your heart, embedding himself in every aspect of your life, you were convinced youâd never be able to live without him.
You never considered what would happen if everything you believed in ended up being a hoax.Â
âI canât love someone I never really knew, Clark.â You whisper, eyes vacant as you turn on your heel and exit the alley, head held as high as you could muster as Clark watches you leave his life for the last time. Â
summary:Â Jaime Reyes is the biggest spiderman fan. His girlfriend on the other hand is Spiderman's biggest hater.Â
pairings: Jaime Reyes x Spiderman! FemReaderÂ
a/n:Â Part 3 baby! Hope you guys are enjoying this little series. Thereâs going to be one more part. I hope you guys enjoy it. Wrote this in my literature class.Â
warning: English isnât my main language. Angsty and kinda sad. Scenes taken out of No Way Home. Not edited
[MASTERLIST]
part one. part twoÂ
Timing was never right when it came to Y/nâs life. Uncle Benâs death, getting bit by the radioactive spider in the beginning of her relationship, Attempting to protect Palmera as she was surviving her teenage years. She finally wanted to scream to the world, well her world that she was Spiderman. But maybe the odds werenât in her favor, maybe it was better if he didnât know she was Spiderman. What he didnât know couldnât kill him. It was hard sometimes to understand what was good about being Spiderman. Donât get her wrong she didnât hate it but recently she wasnât the biggest fan. But there was something positive about being Spiderman and keeping it a secret. Everyone was safe. Safe from danger and all the villains Palmera had to offer, but now with Doc Ock outside of her apartment she hesitated on what was actually safe for her family. No one besides the Justice League and Milagro knew her identity. She had made it her job to be as discreet as possible making it impossible to trace Spiderman to her and her family. Aunt Marisol was the only thing she had left of the family. She couldnât lose her. Y/n wasnât going to lose her.Â
Y/n snapped back to reality noticing who Jaime held onto both of her hands searching for her gaze to calm her down. Before Milagro could even speak again Y/n got up from the bed taking Jaime by the hand and Milagro by the arm. She led them both as quickly as possible into their safe room, Marisol made in case any emergency wouldâve happened. Ever since Uncle Ben died due to a robbery her aunt had become paranoid with the villains in Palmera city. Spiderman eased Marisol nerves, making her grateful for her doing patrol. Y/n never really thought it was important to have that, but now she was thankful of her Auntâs paranoia.Â
Y/n rushed the Reyes siblings into the room noticing that everyone else was sitting inside panic filling their faces. As she paced back and forth trying to think what was best for them, Y/n looked towards the door and scanned the room once again, her eyes bumping into Jaime.Â
âGet inside Jaime. Itâs not safe outsideâ She responded seriously, not wanting to be questioned right now. Right wasnât the time for the family to find out about her secret identity but it also wasnât the time for Jaime to get all protective. Marisol could be dead right now for all they know.Â
âGet inside? Are you insane, Y/n! A literal murderer has your aunt and you want me to go inside, While you are there doing what, talking sense into him? Are you hearing yourself right now? Iâm not letting you go. This isnât a prick from your job. Itâs a guy that could kill you just by blinking. â Jaime replied, taking her by the arm. Y/n glared at him sternly.Â
âIâm not asking for your input on my decision, Jaime. Now stay inside. â Y/n responded using her super strength to push Jaime in the room locking the door behind her. She could hear Jaime pounding on the door, but it was useless, he wasnât able to break it down.
âY/n! Please open the door before you do something stupid. You are going to get yourself hurt!â Jaime yelled, still banging on the door. Y/n slipped on her suit that was hidden behind one of the bases as she heard Jaimeâs bickering.Â
âIâll be back! I canât let anything happen to Aunt Marisol.â she said against the door before running towards the kitchen where she could see the broken windows. She slipped her body outside of their apartment searching around in an attempt to see her.Â
On the other side of the door, Jaime continued to break the security door but he wasnât able to do a thing. His family looked around in confusion, noticing how Khaji Da was nowhere to be found.Â
âKhaji, I really need you right now.â Jaime replied, resting his forehead on the door stopping his constant banging, noticing the blood dripping from his knuckles.Â
Jaime, Y/n is going to be fine. Follow her orders and stay here.Â
Jaime felt his body drag against the door as he hid his face in his hands desperate tears threatening to spill out of his eyes. Milagros slowly walked towards him, sitting by his side.Â
 âWe are safe here, donât worry. Nothing bad is going to happen, I bet thereâs a superhero on their way soon. Y/n and Marisol will be okay. â Milagro replied, trying to ease the tension in the dark room.Â
âI am the superhero Milly! I canât wait here if I know that Marisol and Y/n are outside with a maniac.âÂ
Y/n climbed the tall building as fast as she could, finally reaching the top. She looked around desperately trying to find Doc Oc but she wasnât lucky, her view being blocked by smoke coming all around making it quite impossible for her to see. She turned around in her spot trying to discover what was going on as she felt her spider senses tingling. Before she could even process what was going to happen she felt herself being pushed towards the hard ceiling. She looked up to see the familiar pair of eyes looking at her. Y/n tried fighting back but the hold he had on her was strong. He was getting powerful.Â
âLook who finally decided to show up. I thought Mister Spiderman has gotten big for Palmera City, I see. Forgot about his little friends in Palmera. I was starting to miss you terribly.â Green Goblin yelled as Y/n attempted to swing a punch but failed miserably. Goblin laughed as she struggled under his touch.Â
âI was taking a break from your bullshit. Might I add that I personally didnât miss it at allâ Y/n muttered moving side to side. Her suit scanned Goblin in an attempt to see how he had gotten so powerful the past two weeks. Her eyes wide as Karen told her the information.Â
Target has upgraded his suit and he made more contributions to his DNA. Making him at least eighty percent stronger than before. I believe you should request for backup.Â
Y/n rolled her eyes as she muttered a no towards Karen, noticing how she had Batman and Blue Beetle on speed dial.Â
âWhat a pity. I wished we got a visit from the bat, to make things a little bit more interesting than having you around. Itâs too easy to win a fight and now thanks to my new upgrades you canât even fight back. What a shame. I think that your Justice league card should be revoked. They have you fighting the Joker when you arenât even capable of getting out of my grip. Has Metropolis rubbed on you?â Green Goblin yelled at Y/n as she moved her body attempting to get out of his touch.Â
âWhatever this is. You donât have to involve that citizen. This is between the two of us.â Y/n's voice changed as the artificial intelligence from her suit made her voice sound more âmasculineâ.Â
âOh you mean your little aunty? Let me tell you she isnât just a normal citizen. She is attached to you so that means it is a perfect way to get to you and might I add you are good at covering your identity couldnât find anything aside the fact that she was your aunt. Marisol is a beaut donât you think? What a shame she has to die. Maybe I couldâve been your new uncle Ben.â And with those words slipping out of Goblins mouth Y/n shoot her spider webs hitting a pipe in front of her while flipping the bodies making her have a hold on the villain in front of her.
 As she slammed through a few floors she could hear Green Goblin laughing as she went down floor by floor. Her anger took over, not even feeling the bricks scrapping her body. Y/n stopped looking down at the man as she heard her aunt yelling spiderman. She quickly looked up, noticing that Doc oc was near but Aunt Marisol was nowhere to be found. They were messing with her and it was working.Â
Before she could shoot her webs to go to the other villain, Green Goblin took her by the waist throwing her against the crystal door smashing them. Y/n ran as fast trying to avoid another hit or even more damage to her neighbors apartment. As she caught her breath, Green Goblin clapped slowly taunting her. As he stood a few steps away from her, he laughed looking at her directly.Â
âStrong enough to have it all, L/n?â He asked and before he could make the next move. Y/n shoot her webs taking a piece of the door that flew off and slamming it into him. Before It could even hit him, Green Goblin broke it.
âOr too weak to take itâ He continued as Y/n got up trying to swing a punch but Green Goblin quickly caught it, throwing her to the other side of the long hallway. Y/n could feel her body start to weaken as she heard her name come out of his mouth. Green Goblin smashes Y/n through a window but Y/n quickly fires webs and pulls herself back inside only to be flung through another window, out onto the balcony. Green Goblin pounces onto Y/n. As she lets out a whimper in pain trying to hit him with hands falling miserably she webs the balcony above to flip himself on top of Green Goblin smashing him down to the balcony below.Â
âOh no you donât!â Y/n tries to web herself away from him. Goblin grabs Y/nâs leg and throws her through a window.Â
She limped towards him as she felt her mask breaking. Leaving part of her face visible. Green Goblin smirks at her excitedly as he sees her features
âAlways thought you were a dude but now your shitty fighting skills make senseâ He responded laughing as his laugh echoed through her ears. She ran towards him pushing him against all the floors of the apartment complex. When they reached the first floor, Y/n took her mask off, taking the man by his suit as she spit her blood on him.Â
âI want you to see how well a girl beats your assâ Â She responded slamming him against the floor. As every hit got stronger, he laughed harder, messing with her head.Â
âDid you forget whoâs in control here? Kill me and your little miss aunt Marisol is dead. Whatâs it going to be, Y/n. â He replied, smirking at her. Y/n slowly turned around hearing footsteps behind her. She felt her eyes shut in pain as she noticed Marisolâs body from afar.Â
âGo! Please Marisol, run! Marisol please save yourselfâ As she hears her getting closer. Goblin gripped on her neck laughing maniacally.Â
âYour weakness, L/n , is morality. Itâs choking you! Canât you feel it?â Green Goblin gripped harder as she struggled to breath.Â
âMarisolâŠPlease goâ Y/n replied, barely audible as she noticed Green Goblins familiar booms coming towards her at full speed. Marisol, noticing her niece's face, froze dead in her tracks not believing what seeing but didn't notice the bomb that was coming at full speed towards her. Y/n let go of the green goblins body running as fast as she could towards Marisol but before she could get a step closer her body flew towards the wall as the bomb exploded.Â
âL/n,L/n , L/n. No good deed goes unpunished. You can thank me laterâ Green Goblin said as he left. Y/n tried to move her body as pain overtook her body. Pushing past the pieces of concrete Y/n slipped her body out of the blocks lipping towards Marisol. With all of her strength she pushed the concrete off Marisol's body trying to see what conditions she was in. Y/n leaned in trying to clean the blood off her face as she noticed the small smile on her lips. May tries to get up slowly covered in dust, Y/n slowly caresses her face trying to get the dust out. Y/n clutched her side in painÂ
âMarisol, Marisol, Iâm hereâ Y/n replied while sending her a pained smile. Marisol got up and pulled her into a tight hug. Y/n could feel her tears welding up. Marisol opens her mouth to talk but before a world could come out her body slowly gave up stumbling back. Y/n quickly catches holding her body close as Marisol mumbles incoherent things as Y/n searches her eyes worriedly.Â
âMarisol..itâs okay. We are okay, right? You are okayââ Y/n replied her breathing changing drastically making her feel a wave of anxiety.
âYeah, got knocked on my assâ Marisol replied softly letting out a light chuckle. Y/n gave her a side smile as she brushed Marisol hair out of her face. Â
âYeah, me too.âÂ
âThatâs all,â May replied softly, dozing off a little bit. Y/n moved her softly trying to keep her awake.
âI think I broke my ribsâ Y/n said trying to gain her attention. Marisol's eyes flutter open watching her wounded side. Y/n clutches to her side wincing as Marisol looks around taking in all the destruction around them.Â
âI canât believe that our nosy neighbors havenât shown up by now. Havenât they noticed that they donât have an apartment anymoreâ Marisol responded, trying to lighten the mood. Y/n looked around noticing the mess she had made. She scrunched up her face in disgust and disappointed in herself.Â
âThis is all my fault, Marisol. I never wanted to get you in danger, thatâs why I never told you. I wanted to keep you safe and I couldnât even do that'' Y/n replied, warm tears falling onto her cheeks. Marisol shook her head holding her hand for comfort.Â
âThis isnât your fault, Y/n. You are a hero! You did the right thing. Thatâs amazing.Now it makes so much sense the fact that you âoutgrewâ your asthma â She said grinning. Y/n let out a teary laugh as she shook her head. Marisol was at the verge of death and she still managed to make jokes.Â
âStill, Marisol. Itâs not my responsibility, I should be like a normal adult working studying, not risking my family's life!â She exclaimed as she squeezed Marisol's hand.Â
âNo, no, no, Y/n. You listen to me, You have a gift. You have power, and with great power, there must also come great responsibility.â Marisol replied seriously as Y/n nodded slowly, understanding her words.Â
âYeah, I know,â She said softly as she watched Marisol get up slowly.Â
âLetâs get the hell out of here. We need to check on the Reyesâ Marisol said as she got up slowly. As Marisol got up she noticed the blood on her hands, she felt her body falling to the ground. Y/n quickly leans over her inspecting her body.Â
âWhat happened? Are you okayâ Y/n replied, inspecting her body all over. She knew something bad was going to happen.Â
âIâm okayâ Marisol replied softly trying not to worry, Y/n. Marisol closed her eyes for a few minutes before fluttering them open to look at her niece.Â
âYeah, youâre okay. What happened, Aunt Marisol?â Y/n replied as she slowly inspected her, not wanting her to panic.Â
âJust have to catch.. Just need to⊠catch my breath.â Marisol replied, taking deep breaths. As she closed her eyes.Â
âOkay, well catch your breath. Iâm right here. Iâm not going anywhere. We are going to take our time, you catch your breath, and then weâll take you to a doctor okayâ Y/n said as her eyes dropped noticing Marisol's side. She slowly touches it, noticing her hands covered in blood making her heart stop
âAre you okay, mi niña?â Marisol replied softly, rubbing her cheek. Y/n starts yelling loudly for help desperately.Â
âSomebody help! I need an ambulance, please! Someone help me. Pleaseâ She replied resting her hand on top of mays looking around for help.Â
âWhat happened?â Marisol replied, already losing consciousness of what was happening. Y/n looked at her with teary eyes.She quickly rubs her tears away and looks at her.Â
âI just need to catch my breath. I need a minuteâ May said as she closed her eyes this time longer than the last. Y/n watched quietly not wanting to let her go.Â
âIâm right here. Iâm right here, Aunt MarisolâŠWe are okay, itâs just you and me.Itâs always been you and meâ She whispered, holding onto her hand. Y/n how Marisol smiled softly but her face fell when she noticed her hand let go of her cheek.Â
âMarisol? Marisol? Will you look at me? Marisol. Please MarisolâŠMarisol, please wake up and talk to me! Pleaseâ Y/n said as she shook her softly every word becoming louder than the next. Her cries became sobs as she tried to get Marisol pulse. Y/n broke down falling on top of her crying into her chest. She could hear from a few blocks away the sirens coming their way. Before she could even have another minute to mourn she heard Karen speak.Â
Miss L/n, I know this is hard but itâs time to go. They canât catch you here, I already called for backup.Â
Y/n let out a sigh as she cleaned her tears turning her back on Marisol not wanting to cry here, it wasnât the time. Right now she wasnât Y/n she was Spiderman and Spider had always agreed with the police that âheâ would leave before they got there and this sadly couldnât be the exception. She felt herself push her body to move to swing her body building to building.Â
With great power comes great responsibility,even leaving loved ones behind.Â
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