𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐫 @prettiestjackson - Tumblr Blog

The Color of Him

Michael Jackson x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: Michael's got a terrible habit of disappearing when the world gets too loud. He has to find an escape from everything, and that includes reader. But, he can't hide from his person forever.

CONTENT: fluff, hurt/comfort, vitiligo onset, prescription pain pill use, thriller!Michael, era 1984, post-pepsi accident, communication issues, established relationship, very emotional

Original Request: @ttangerinexo : Angst where Michael basically becomes a recluse and doesn't really speak or meet with gf!reader. He kinda disappears. She becomes tired of trying to reach out to him, his friends and family after trying countless times to see if he's okay or his whereabouts but he doesn't wanna talk or be found. Maybe his mental health wasn't good? You can decide if you want a fluffy ending and the reason why he disappears. Sorry if this is a vague ask. :( love your work 💞

Author's Note: This story is so near and dear to my heart. I really hope you guys enjoy it, it was so special and healing for me to write it. Thank you so much to my bby @ttangerinexo for such an amazing request💗 also PLS listen to the song it's so good and fits the vibe of the fic so well. This was inspired by a trip Mike took to caribou ranch in the 80s before it burned down.

Word Count: 8,547

Song Inspo:

Taglist: @plan3tch1ld @delictezz @1andonlytashae @artflooo @man-in-the-mirror58 @sunshineyrosie @hiiisisteerrrr @narratedillusions @animegamerfox @mysterioussag @blameditontheboogie @vinnstarr @anonymou000000 @j5rneymercies @khxna @sayyoulovemeziya @ttangerinexo @cvntttyybumblegumprincess @loveismymessage

It was early morning when Michael woke. The room was dim, curtains drawn. His eyes slowly fluttered open, and immediately, he felt a dull, tender ache at the crown of his head. His throat was dry, and the air felt heavy and stale. He had slept for a full 8 hours, but still, his body felt exhausted.

Michael slowly sat up, the pounding in his head becoming sharper as he sat up fully. He winced, clenching his eyes shut from the dull, throbbing sensation. It was the type of ache that seemed to sit beneath his scalp rather than on top of it. Slowly, he opened his eyes to look at the digital clock on his nightstand.

6:00am. Rehearsal was in an hour.

Shakily, Michael reached for the glass of water that sat on the desk. He swished the water slowly in his mouth, alleviating the dryness. On his nightstand sat a prescription bottle, a folded towel, and a book he had started, but never finished.

He sat still for a moment, trying to figure out how bad the ache was.

Next to him, you had stirred awake. “What’s wrong, Michael?” sleepily, you rubbed your eyes as your vision came into focus.

“Nothin’ mama. Just gotta get ready for rehearsal, that’s all.” Michael’s voice was soft. His fingertips pressed into his temples, massaging gingerly in an effort to alleviate some of the ache that chronically lived there now. Your palm found his back, and he relaxed slightly under his touch.

“How bad is it today?” You knew all too well that Michael had been struggling with intense migraines and pain that was almost concussion-like since his accident. One that had changed his life drastically in a matter of seconds. The memory sent a chill over your body.

“I’m fine. Not as bad as usual.” His response was short. Michael stood up suddenly to make his way to the bathroom. Instantly, he regretted it. The throbbing in his head progressed into a pounding rhythm that made blood rush to his ears. You saw the way he tried to balance himself quickly. The way his hand rose to his belly to steady himself.

Michael’s hair was still sensitive. Healing skin pulled as he slept. The accident was months ago, but his body hadn’t forgotten.

His gaze drifted over to the prescription bottle that sat on his nightstand. He shook his head at himself, avoiding your eye contact. Without a word, he grabbed the bottle from the dresser and headed straight to the bathroom before you could question him further.

Once inside, he fidgeted with the bottle in his hands. He hated it. Hated needing it to just get a sliver of relief from the constant ache that had established itself beneath his scalp. But he was also very aware of what would happen if he skipped it.

The pain would build until he literally could not think. Dance. Or work. Until he couldn’t be the Michael Jackson everyone expected him to be.

So, grudgingly, he took the pill.

He told himself it was discipline. Just take the medication. Get dressed, go to rehearsal, and for the love of god don’t make anyone worry or treat you more fragile than you already feel.

The pills helped, but he couldn’t help but notice the way they softened him around the edges. Sometimes, Michael felt like he was a half-step behind his usual self. And honestly, he felt guilty for needing something just to make it through the day.

Michael chose his clothes carefully. Layers. Long sleeves and pants. Nothing too revealing. He dressed himself carefully, making sure to avoid looking too closely at his body in the mirror.

Once dressed, he only checked what the world would see. His hair, his face, his clothing, and his smile.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

An hour later, Michael found himself at rehearsal. The room was loud with heavy bass, counts, and the constant squeak of shoes on the floor. Mirrors lined the walls, making it impossible for one to not acknowledge their reflection. The scent of sweat and s-curl activator hung heavily in the air.

Generally, other than the stage, this is where Michael felt most at home. Where he was himself. He was usually electric in this space.

But today, he felt off.

The beginning notes of “Shake Your Body Down To The Ground” rang throughout the room, and the men immediately jumped into the choreography. Michael was a fraction late on his turn when his cue came. He recovered, continuing to give the number his best. Then, he missed a foot placement. And Marlon noticed.

“Mike, you good? You never miss that cue.” His brother’s eyebrows were furrowed with concern, and the others were watching closer now too.

Michael grew quiet, feeling heat creep up his neck. Embarrassment. The stage was the one place that Michael could always prove that he was still in control of his life.

His tone was defensive when it came out. Not cruel, but sharper than usual.

“I know the step.” Was all he said. No one argued with him, sensing his sudden mood change. He was like that these days, and his brothers knew when not to push further. “I know it.” He spoke again, finalizing the conversation.

For the remainder of rehearsal, Michael pushed himself. Hard. He didn’t need anyone noticing that he was off his square and making him feel smaller than he already did. He ran through the section again and again until his muscles ached and his throat was raw. Michael found himself blinking frequently, trying to clear the fog that he felt clouding his head.

Those damn meds. I knew I should’ve just pushed through. He thought to himself, sucking his teeth under his breath. His shirt was drenched with sweat and so was his hair, it dripped continuously into his eyes. His head was still pounding. And externally, he movements had become more forceful, but less precise.

You arrived somewhere near the end of rehearsals. Immediately, you knew something was wrong. Michael’s eyes were glazed and hazy. His patience was thinner, and he was snapping at his brothers a lot. And when he thought no one was looking, he kept rubbing the back of his head and neck.

Once rehearsals ended and goodbyes began, you made your way over to Michael from where you had been standing watching. His eyes softened as soon as they landed on you. His shoulders dropped slightly from their tense position. You wrapped your arms around his waist without speaking. Ignoring the sweat, you pressed your face flush to his chest as your thumbs stroked his back. He sighed a tired sigh heavily and relaxed into your embrace. He wrapped his arms around your shoulders and rested his chin on the top of your head, swaying you both back and forth gently. The tender moment lasted for a while, you both needed it.

You bit down on your lip nervously as you debated how to ask your question. Michael was extremely sensitive these days, and his appetite was one of those things that could be a trigger.

“Have you eaten today?” the question came out soft, and you braced yourself for his response. Michael’s arms dropped from your shoulders, but you kept holding him. “I’m just askin’.”

“I’m fine.” He mumbled. He felt like he was using those words excessively these days. And he hated it.

You refused to let up this time. “That’s not what I asked you, Michael Jackson.”

At that, he gave you a look. Not angry, but overwhelmingly defensive. Then, without a word, he gently removed himself from your grasp, and walked over to a speaker where his water was.

You had only turned your back for a moment to talk to Jackie, and when you turned back Michael was gone. Unbeknownst to you, he was humiliated.

It was all too much. The pain, the criticism from his brothers, and now you lecturing him about eating. He knew you meant well, but he couldn’t help but feel like a fragile fledgling that everyone was walking on eggshells around.

So, he left.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Steam fogged the bathroom mirror as the water from the shower beat down on Michael. Hot enough that it was turning his skin pink in some places. His head ached and his muscles were screaming from overexertion. Still, Michael stood under the water and allowed it to beat down on his fatigued body. It was one of the few places no one could ask him questions.

He was moving on autopilot, his mind was somewhere else. He ran the wash cloth gingerly over his body, moving with no urgency. Just trying not to think, really. He began rinsing the suds off of his body, rotating to allow the water to caress his skin.

Then he looked down. At first, he thought it was the light playing a trick on his eyes. An optical illusion. Then he looked closer. And that’s when he saw it. The marbling had spread across his thighs, much more than he remembered. There were pale patches of skin and uneven pinkish tones where his skin used to be smooth and familiar. His eyes drifted up, finally noticing that the marbling had spread to his abdomen too. Michael swallowed, and suddenly his saliva felt thick.

It wasn’t just one spot anymore, and it wasn’t something that he could just continue to ignore. And the thought stopped him cold. The water was still running, and he could still hear the sounds of the outside world. But internally, everything had stopped. His breathing changed.

Suddenly he was back in his doctor’s office.

The lights in the office were fluorescent and a man dressed in stark white crinkled papers, flipping through them casually.

The man’s voice was clinical, but too soft. Too calm. That’s when Michael knew.

“Vitiligo can be unpredictable, Mr. Jackson. It may spread gradually. It could flare,” the man spoke about the possibilities of Michael’s condition as if he was discussing the weather. “Stress, trauma, illness, and physical strain will aggravate the condition. I can’t promise you that it will stay contained to one area. Stress management will be very important.”

Michael’s mind lingered on the doctor’s warning back in the present. And he felt an awful twist in his stomach.

It was happening.

He had hoped that he could outrun this. He hoped the doctors were wrong.

He thought if he worked hard enough, controlled his life as much as he could, prayed enough, and covered enough, things would be manageable. But now, it had spread. In places that only he could see. And you.

At the realization, Michael shut off the water and got out of the shower quickly. Too quickly, almost slipping. Frantically he wiped the mirror with his hand. He looked down at his body, doing a triple take.

The world had already decided his face belonged to them. His voice. His body. And now, he felt like his complexion was leaving without asking him. Michael went totally still as he stared at his reflection. After a long while, a shaky hand grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next day was hot and busy.

The Jackson family was having a family gathering at the Hayvenhurst estate, and honestly, Michael was dreading it. The absolute last thing that he wanted to do was put on swim trunks.

The smell of freshly lit charcoal and chlorine drifted through the upstairs rooms of the home. Michael gazed at his reflection, fluffing his curls and pushing some pieces behind his ear. He was wearing a long sleeve red button up and a pair of blue jeans. A safe outfit. One where no one could see how he was changing.

You were seated by the pool already, lazily twirling your straw in your lemonade. Michael had gotten a late start today, so you got up early to help Ms. Katherine with appetizers before the pool party. You trailed your fingers over your condensation covered glass as you watched Michael’s nieces and nephews splash each other in the pool. Somewhere nearby, his brothers were jonesing each other and talking loudly.

Michael’s footsteps drew you out of your daze. Your eyebrows knitted in confusion as you realized he was covered. Fully. From head to toe. Before you could question his decision to wear this outfit on an 85 degree day in Los Angeles, Jermaine’s voice rang out across the water.

“Mike, why you dressed like it’s December?”

“Man, you got on more clothes than mama usually wears.” The men quipped back and forth, commenting on Michael’s choice of clothing. He laughed it off at first, despite the quiet ache that built in his chest. He knew they were only kidding with him. But still, in Michael’s vulnerable state, it hurt.

“I just don’t feel like swimmin’ today. Just gonna watch y’all.” Michael tried to orient the flow of everyone’s focus away from him. But his brother’s quips continued, all of them completely unaware of Michael’s last 24 hours.

But you noticed. You noticed the way his smile became more rehearsed. The way his shoulders drew in, and the way he pulled at his sleeves uncomfortably. Your protective instincts kicked in quickly.

“Leave him alone. He just washed his hair, he probably doesn’t wanna get chlorine in it.”

“He got an excuse for everything” Tito joked.

“And y’all got a comment for everything.”

Michael laughed quietly, trying and succeeding to hide how raw he felt inside. He loved how you protected him, but he also hated that you felt like you had to. He settled into the lounge chair with you, pulling you into his chest, other hand caressing your bare thigh.

Later that day, Michael was quiet. Quieter than usual.

“You feeling okay?” Michael had been tapping a pencil against his notepad, staring out of the open window and waiting for inspiration to strike.

Something cracked.

It wasn’t you. It was your question. He was so tired of everyone asking him if he was okay. Michael huffed under his breath as he rose to his feet, snatching his notebook from the desk.

“I said I’m fine. Can you just let me breathe?” He grumbled, walking out of the room without another word. A painful weight settled in your chest. You wanted to help him, but you didn’t know how. And he wouldn’t let you. Now, he was shutting you out. You gave him his space, but you knew that something was deeply wrong.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next morning. Michael was gone.

There was no note. No phone call. No explanation. Just, gone.

He had left your shared room neat. Too neat, in an unsettling way. The closet was slightly disturbed; a few things were missing. But other important things had been left behind. You were sick.

The air still faintly smelled like him, and it made his absence feel worse.

Panic had incited within the Hayvenhurst estate. The brothers were irritated that Michael had missed rehearsal at first. But once they realized this was serious, they were driving out to visit all of Michael’s favorite places, hoping he had just wandered off.

His older sisters were calling anyone they could think of that could know something. His staff were confused, especially Bill, who he usually told everything. Katherine was distraught. She was quiet in a way that terrified you. Joseph of course, was worried about schedules and obligations.

And you, well you didn’t know what to think. You kept replaying your last encounter with him, wondering if you had missed something. And you were kicking yourself. You were chewing you bottom lip nearly raw when Marlon interrupted your train of thought.

“How you holdin’ up, mama? You need to eat something.” You shook your head immediately, stomach turning at the thought of food. His hand settled on your back, rubbing comforting circles. “He does this sometimes. We’ll find him. Just needs a little space, that’s all.”

But you weren’t convinced. Michael had been pulling away from you constantly over the last two weeks. He had completely shut you out. And honestly, you didn’t know what to think. Usually, Michael always told you what was on his mind. Whatever strange thought or concept that was preoccupying his mind had always been privy to you, until now. Your mind went to places you didn’t want it to go, assuming the worst.

Did he leave because of me?

Was there someone else he’d rather be with or talk to?

Did I mistake his intimacy for trust?

You felt ashamed that you were even having such selfish thoughts. But you couldn’t help it.

Sometime between La Toya deciding to call Quincy and Tito deciding to go check Michael’s favorite dance studio, you had wandered off into your shared bedroom with Michael. Your stomach twisted with a heavy sense of dread.

Scanning carefully for any sort of clue, your eyes wandered the room. One of his favorite button down shirts was folded over a chair. A book he’d been reading was facedown. Sheet music notes with his handwriting littered surfaces.

And his prescription bottle was gone.

Which made the knot in your stomach twist further. Wherever he’d gone, this meant he was planning to be gone a while.

Your fingers were grazing the top of Michael’s desk when they bumped into a pamphlet. It had been shoved under a stack of papers containing Michael’s lyrics. You stared down in confusion as you pulled the brochure out of the stack.

Caribou Ranch.

Michael had circled the studio name, and in the margin was a note written by him that read, “Someday, when it gets quiet”.

The memory came back to you instantly. Michael was bathed in golden light from the evening sun, smiling brightly.

The accident hadn’t happened yet. He was chattering away happily about a remote recording studio he had heard about. It was up in the Colorado mountains. A place where artists could disappear and make music. On the cover of the brochure were horses, pine trees, snow, and an old barn studio.

You remembered Michael’s words,

One day I’m gonna go here. Just work and make some magic. No cameras, no one needing anything from me.

You had laughed at the thought back then. Michael? Taking a break? Comical.

Still, Michael had smiled to himself, shrugging at the thought. “I said one day”

The realization slammed into you.

“What is it baby?” Katherine had been standing in the doorway, watching you stare down at the brochure.

“I think I know where he is.” You said softly.

Katherine entered the room fully now, closing the door behind her. Quietly, you spoke to her about the information you’d stumbled upon. She was the only one you trusted to understand that if Michael left, he went because he needed to not be found.

Katherine nodded, listening quietly. Then, she reached out and closed her hand over yours.

“Go on, sweetheart. Bring our baby home.”

And with his mother’s blessing, you began coordinating your flight. Packing nothing but what was absolutely necessary.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The transition from Los Angeles to the Colorado mountains was stark. In the best and worst ways. The air in Colorado was thinner. The air was cold against your cheeks. There were snowcapped pine trees and winding roads everywhere you turned and the sky felt too open and wide. Most importantly, mountains rose dark and huge around you. It was a drastic difference from the constant heat, bustling streets, and intense pressure of Los Angeles.

Instantly, you understood the appeal of the landscape to Michael. This was everything he’d been asking for. Space to breathe.

Your heart thumped against your ribcage the whole ride to Caribou Ranch. The road continuously curved and your ears popped involuntarily. You kept looking at the pamphlet then out the window. It was exactly as pictured. Breathtaking, like something out of a movie.

Your thoughts ranged from anger to fear. And internally, you kept rehearsing what you’d say.

How could you just leave like that?

Do you know how worried your family was?

Do you know what you did to me?

But ultimately, your fear interrupted those thoughts.

Please just be there. Please be alive. Please be alone and not with someone else. Please let me be wrong about the worst things I imagined.

By the time you had arrived at the ranch, you were still knee deep in these thoughts. There were wood cabins and an old studio barn that seemed to be the centerpiece of the landscape.

It was quiet. Eerily quiet, except for the soft chirp of birds in the distance. The air was so cold and thin it made your lungs ache, but the smell of earth and pine floated through the air soothing it.

It was the music that told you where he was. Wherever Michael was, music followed.

A soft piano riff drifted through the air, paired with a rough vocal. A drum loop thrummed, vibrating the ground gently. The piece was unfinished and aching. Like a sailor lured by a siren, you wandered toward the sound of his voice.

The studio was warm against the cold air outside. It was dimly lit and wood paneled. Michael’s cologne drifted towards you and immediately you felt the tension in your muscles relax. He was here. You were right.

There he was. At the piano, shoulders slumped. Adorning his lanky frame was an oversized sweater, loose sweats, and a blanket around his shoulders. Somehow, he looked smaller under the dim studio lights. Tired, but still beautiful. Human.

At the sound of the door creaking opened, Michael turned to look over his shoulder. No one was supposed to be here.

When his gaze landed on you he froze. His breath hitched. Neither of you spoke.

At first, Michael felt fear wash over him.

Not relief.

She found me, he thought to himself.

Then,

I just left; she was probably terrified.

Michael’s gaze held yours with something tender and aching. A look that said, “please don’t hate me”.

Initially you just stood there. Relieved that he was okay. Angry that he was okay and hadn’t called.

So, you said the only thing that made sense in the moment. “You disappeared”.

Slowly, Michael rose to his feet. As if he was approaching a frightened and unpredictable animal.

“I know” he said softly.

“No letter. No call. Nothing?”

“I know.” Michael’s eyes fell to his feet now. Suddenly he was very interested in the pattern of the rug under his feet. He was ashamed.

“Do you know what everybody’s thinking, Michael?” You stepped closer now.

His doe eyes rose, vulnerable and scared. “I’m sorry, I know”

You didn’t know where it came from, but suddenly everything you’d been holding spilled out. Crushing the tension in the room.

“Is there someone else?” Your hands were clenched at your sides, fidgeting as you tried to hold on to what little remaining patience you had.

Michael looked like you had slapped him. He was genuinely wounded by the fact that you would even consider such a thing.

“What? No, baby —” He immediately crossed the room, approaching you without hesitation now. You stepped backwards, heart still thumping against your ribcage.

“I don’t know what to think Michael. You just up and leave like this, you don’t tell me anything. What am I supposed to think?” You were hugging yourself now. Providing the only comfort you’d accept in the moment.

Michael reached out for you, but his hand froze in the air when he saw how you were looking at him. He had frightened you. His voice cracked as he ran a hand through his disheveled curls.

“No.” He shook his head fervently. “Baby I swear. I would never step out on you.” He stepped closer now, hands gingerly finding your waist. He pressed soft kisses to your temples and your forehead. His arms circled you fully now, pouring his reassurance into the gesture. “I would never do that to you. I haven’t touched anyone but you. I love you.” He whispered.

The tenderness in his tone told you he was being truthful. You allowed your body to relax into him.

“Then why?” Your voice was wounded. Tired.

Michael continued holding you as he tried to find the words to an answer that sounded reasonable. And he struggled. So, he just decided to be honest.

“I just couldn’t breathe.” Then his voice broke. “It was too much. I needed a minute.”

Whatever anger you were holding on to melted when he finished his sentence.

“Why didn’t you call?” You asked, searching his face with concerned eyes.

“Because I knew if I heard your voice, I was gonna come back.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The fireplace crackled and filled the silence as you and Michael sat across from each other. It was dark outside now, and a cold breeze drifted through the cabin. Michael’s tea was untouched and he had a blanket strewn across his lap.

You sighed deeply, breaking the silence. Michael was still looking down, fingers fidgeting in his lap.

“Talk to me, Michael. What is all this?” Your voice wasn’t accusatory. It was patient. Grounding.

Michael opened his mouth to speak but you interrupted him,

“And don’t tell me you’re fine. I don’t wanna hear it at all.” Before he could get started, you warned him not to lie to you. Michael’s mouth closed, and he looked away. A hand drifted up to the back of his head, and he winced.

“I’m still hurting” he whispered gently. Almost like he was afraid to admit it. “Sometimes… the pain is sharp. Other days, it just sits there and wears me down.” He trailed off, still not meeting your gaze. “The medication helps, a little. But it makes me feel like everything is moving in slow motion. Like I’m standing half a step behind myself.” The hand he was holding to his head fell into his lap and his shoulders slumped. “My body knows the music before I do sometimes. But lately… I don’t trust it. I keep messing up.” Guilt settled somewhere deep in Michael’s stomach. The very thing he’d been trying to escape.

You stayed quiet and listened intently. You understood that he needed time just to process things himself.

“I feel guilty. For needing the pills. For being tired. Not bouncing back fast enough after the accident. People keep telling me I’m strong, but I don’t feel like it.” His voice was so soft that you almost didn’t hear the last part of his sentence.

Then, he hesitated. He held your gaze with a look that told you he wanted to say something, but he was biting his tongue. He sighed shakily.

“What else, baby?” Fear grew in your chest as Michael’s eyes held yours. Scared and vulnerable. He said nothing for a moment. Then he looked towards the fire.

“It’s spreading.” After a long moment, he looked toward you. You gravitated toward him immediately, not needing him to say more. You kneeled in front of him, hands on either one of his knees. His breathing trembled as he closed his eyes.

“I looked down and it was just… everywhere. My legs. My stomach. Places I hadn’t even checked, because I didn’t want to know…” he opened his eyes, and they were filled with tears. “I barely recognized myself.”

Your voice was quiet and thick with empathy when it came out. “Oh, baby” your hands came up to cradle his face.

He tried to laugh but it was a humorless sound.

“I told you” His tone was small and devastated. “It’s bad. I’m scared, baby” his hands came up, covering his face as tears started to spill. You just held him as he cried, the sobs slowly growing more racked. “I’m scared of what they’ll say. They already treat me like an animal.”

Not knowing what to say, you climbed into his lap, pulling his head into your chest. “And then I’m dealing with this thing with the pills. I don’t wanna be another child star that goes down the wrong path. That’s not who I am.” He was devastated, and it was clear in his voice. “I don’t wanna end up being one of those people everybody watches fall apart.”

You didn’t rush him. You let him say the ugly thing. The thing that haunted him as he slept and that was making his waking life miserable.

“Oh Michael,” Tears fell down your cheeks too now. It was even worse than you had imagined. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know how” he answered, voice just above a whisper. Then after a long moment he looked up at you. “Can I show you?”

Michael wasn’t only looking for reassurance. He was asking because hiding from you had become unbearable.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You and Michael had gone back to his cabin after a while. Now, he stood in front of you, hands trembling at his sides. A lamp bathed the room in warm lighting.

You waited patiently as he got up the nerve to remove his clothing.

“You don’t have to show me anything you’re not ready to.”

“I want to.” He said quickly, doe eyes holding yours tenderly. “I’m just scared.” His head dropped and he closed his eyes. A few more moments went by, and then he decided to rip the band aid off. Gingerly, he lowered his sweats to right above his groin and raised his sweater to expose his tummy.

He was right. It had spread, drastically. His skin was marbled, and there was more pale skin than his deep honeyed complexion. Michael bit down on his bottom lip nervously, watching your every expression carefully.

You softened immediately, moving closer slowly, giving him time to stop you. “Can I touch you?” He nodded wordlessly.

Your fingers caressed his skin gently. Fingertips tracing the edges of the pale patches of skin. You weren’t inspecting him. Just learning him again.

“Mikey, this is still you.” He looked away at your statement, eyes welling with tears again. There was no pity in your tone, only love.

“Look at me” You spoke softly, gently turning his face so that he had to look at you.

“It doesn’t feel like me.” The expression in his eyes made your heart swell, wishing you could carry the pain for him.

“Then I’ll remind you until it does.” You answered. You pressed your lips to his softly, allowing the kiss to linger. Michael melted under your touch. Then, you trailed down his body. You pressed a kiss to his chest, and one to his tummy. Another at his hip.

Michael cried quietly, finally unable to continue hiding from you. You allowed him to cry and wrapped your arms around his waist. Your head rested against his tummy, just holding him and letting him cry.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next morning in Colorado came softly, slipping through the curtains in pale blue strips of light instead of bursting into the room the way it did back home in California. There was no harsh sun, no distant traffic, no voices carrying through the halls, no phones ringing in some other room with somebody needing something from Michael before he had even opened his eyes.

Just the cold press of mountain air against the windows, the dark shape of pine trees swaying gently outside, and the faint sounds of the ranch slowly waking up around you. Somewhere in the distance, a horse gave a low sound from the stables, followed by the creak of wood and the faint shuffle of footsteps on gravel. Even the quiet felt different here. It did not feel empty. It felt like the world had finally decided to leave him alone for a few hours.

For a while, you stayed exactly where you were, lying on your side and watching Michael sleep. He had moved closer to you sometime in the night, curling toward your warmth with one hand tucked beneath his cheek and the other resting loosely at your waist.

His curls were flattened on one side, wild on the other, and the softness of his face in sleep made your chest ache in a way you did not know how to name.

Last night, he had let you see parts of him he had been hiding with long sleeves, dim lights, closed doors, and carefully placed distance. He had stood in front of you with all that fear in his eyes, showing you the marbling spreading across his skin like he was waiting for your face to change, waiting for you to flinch, waiting for you to prove every cruel thought he had been carrying about himself. Instead, you had touched him gently. You had kissed him softly. You had stayed.

Now he slept like his body had finally grown too tired to keep bracing for rejection.

You leaned down and pressed a careful kiss to his shoulder, light enough not to wake him. “Rest,” you whispered, letting your lips linger there for just a moment before easing yourself out from under the blanket.

The wood floor was cold enough to make you pull in a sharp breath through your teeth, and you grabbed one of the blankets from the end of the bed before padding into the small kitchen. It was not much, just a little cabin kitchen tucked inside the ranch house, but it had enough.

A few cabinets, a stove, a small table near the window, a coffee pot that looked older than it had any right to be, and a bowl of fruit sitting on the counter like somebody had known you would need something to do with your hands. You moved quietly at first, opening drawers and cabinets until you found eggs, bacon, bread, oats, butter, coffee, and a couple of chipped mugs that made the place feel more lived in than luxurious.

It was not a fancy breakfast. That was the point. Michael had spent too much of his life surrounded by people who knew how to serve him but not always how to care for him. Silver trays, hotel plates, catered meals, staff moving around him with quiet efficiency.

This was you standing barefoot on the cold kitchen floor, wrapped in a blanket, cracking eggs into a bowl because the man in the next room had scared you half to death and still needed to eat.

The coffee started first, filling the kitchen with a warm, familiar, bitter smell that seemed to soften the cold edges of the room. Butter melted in the pan. Bread waited beside the toaster. You sliced fruit, rinsing berries under water so cold it made your fingertips ache.

Outside, the sky was slowly brightening over the mountains, and somewhere nearby a rooster made a loud, offended sound like it had personally taken responsibility for waking the entire state of Colorado.

You shook your head, glancing back toward the bedroom.

Michael still had not stirred. Good.

You were stirring the eggs when you heard the soft drag of footsteps behind you. Not enough to startle you, but enough to make you pause with the spatula in your hand and look over your shoulder.

He stood at the edge of the kitchen wrapped in a thick robe that looked too big on him, one hand holding it closed near his chest. His hair was a mess, sleep still heavy in his eyes, and there was something painfully tender about the way he looked around the kitchen before looking at you. Like he had woken up expecting the room to be empty. Like some part of him still had not trusted that you would be there when morning came.

“Morning,” you said softly.

Michael blinked at you, then looked toward the stove, the coffee, the toast, the fruit on the counter, taking in the evidence of your care with an expression that made your throat tighten.

“You’re cooking?”

“No, Michael. I’m standing at the stove stirring nothing.”

For a second, he only stared at you. Then his mouth twitched, small and sleepy, but real enough to make something loosen in your chest.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said, stepping farther into the kitchen.

“I know.”

He stopped near the table, still watching you like he did not know what to do with the sight of you moving around the kitchen for him. “Then why’d you do it?”

You turned back to the eggs, partly because they needed attention and partly because his voice, all rough from sleep and softened by surprise, was making it hard to keep your own expression steady. “Because you need to eat,” you said. “And you snore too loud. So I'm up now.”

There was a pause behind you, and then he laughed.

Not one of those polite little laughs he gave when someone said something mildly amusing in a room full of people. Not the shy giggle he used to make others comfortable. One that was quiet and rusty from sleep, but real. It came from somewhere in his chest and filled the kitchen so gently that you had to stare down at the pan for a moment just to keep your eyes from burning.

“There he is,” you murmured.

His smile softened when you glanced back at him, like he knew exactly what you meant. You pointed the spatula toward the small table near the window. “Sit down.”

His eyebrows lifted. “You’re bossy this morning, baby”

“I’m very bossy all the time. I’m just gentle with you because you’re dramatic.”

His mouth fell open slightly, offended in that soft, theatrical way of his. “Dramatic?”

“Yes, dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic.”

“Michael, you disappeared into the woods like Robbin Hood.”

For a second, he looked like he wanted to argue. Then his face cracked again, and he lifted a hand to cover his mouth as a laugh slipped out of him. It mattered more than he probably knew. After everything you had seen the night before, after all those tears he had tried so hard to hold back, hearing him laugh felt like the first sign that something in him had survived the night.

“Sit down before your eggs get cold,” you said, turning back toward the stove.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered softly, and even though the words carried a little teasing, he obeyed without fighting you.

He didn’t need to hover or insist that he was fine. He simply sat at the table with his robe wrapped around him and his shoulders still slightly hunched against the morning cold, watching you move around the kitchen like he was not used to letting somebody love him in practical ways.

You fixed his plate first. Bacon, eggs, toast with butter, fruit on the side, and a small bowl of oatmeal because you did not trust him not to take two bites and call himself full. You made his coffee light, the way you knew he liked it, and when you placed everything in front of him, his eyes lowered to the plate and stayed there for a moment.

Then he looked up at you.

“You remembered.”

You shrugged as you sat across from him. “You’re not that hard to remember.”

His fingers curled around the mug, but he did not drink right away. The two of you sat there in the kind of silence that did not need to be filled quickly. It was full enough already, carrying everything from the night before. His skin beneath your hands. His voice breaking when he told you he was scared. The way he had looked at you like he was waiting for you to decide whether he was still beautiful. Your anger was still there too, not as sharp as it had been when you first found him, but present. You were not ready to pretend he had not terrified you just because he looked soft and sweet in the morning light.

“Eat,” you said.

He looked at you over the rim of the mug. “You gonna watch me the whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t trust you.”

His eyes dropped immediately, guilt moving across his face before you could stop it.

You reached across the table and touched his wrist. “Not like that,” you said gently. “I mean I don’t trust you not to take three bites and call that breakfast.”

He looked at your hand on him for a moment, then turned his wrist beneath your touch until his fingers could lace loosely with yours. The gesture was small, almost absent, but the intimacy of it made your chest ache. He did not say anything at first. He just held your hand there beside his plate, thumb brushing slowly over your knuckles as if he needed the contact to stay steady.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

You squeezed his hand. “Eat first. Apologize after.”

He did as he was told, though at first he picked at the food more than he ate it. Tiny bites. Slow chewing. A careful sip of coffee. His body was still tired, still guarded, still not fully convinced that rest was allowed. You pretended not to notice because you knew if you praised him for eating, he would become self-conscious and stop.

Instead, you tore your toast in half and talked about nothing important. Michael listened, smiling faintly into his plate. Every so often, his foot brushed yours beneath the table. The first time, you thought it was an accident. The second time, you knew better.

You nudged him back. “Stop flirting with me under the table and finish your breakfast.”

His eyes widened with that innocent look he used when he was absolutely guilty. “I wasn’t!”

“You are always doing something.”

He laughed under his breath, taking another bite like he was trying to hide the smile behind his fork.

You reached over and brushed the crumb away with your thumb. He went still under touch. Your thumb lingered a second longer than necessary at the corner of his mouth, and when his eyes lifted to yours, there was something sleepy and tender and familiar in them that made you forget for half a second that you were supposed to be mad.

“Messy,” you whispered.

His voice came out softer. “Am I?” That got another smile out of him, but when you tried to pull your hand back, he caught it. He brought your knuckles to his mouth and kissed them once, then again, then held your hand there against his lips with his eyes closed like he needed a moment to absorb the fact that you were really there.

All your teasing went quiet.

“Michael.”

He kissed your fingers once more before lowering your hand, though he still did not let go. “I woke up and you weren’t there,” he admitted.

Your heart twisted.

“I was ten feet away making breakfast.”

“I know,” he said, thumb moving over your knuckles. “I just…”

He didn’t finish but you understood the rest of it. After everything he had shown you, after spending so long convinced that being seen would make him lose you, waking up alone for even a few seconds must have felt like proof of every fear he had.

You stepped between his knees and placed both hands on his face, your thumbs brushing gently along his cheeks. You moved before he could apologize for needing reassurance. He leaned into you with a quiet surrender immediately, like his body recognized where you belonged before his mind could talk him out of it.

You bent and kissed his forehead, then his lips.

“You scared me, angel face” you whispered against his skin.

His eyes closed. “I know.”

“You scared everybody.”

“I know.”

“You scared your mother.”

His hands tightened at your waist.

“And you scared me the worst,” you continued, voice softer now, “because I had to sit there wondering if you left because of me.”

His eyes opened quickly. “No. No, baby, I told you it wasn’t—”

“I know,” you said, stroking his cheek. “I know that now.”

“I’d never do that to you.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t touched anybody else. I don’t want anybody else.”

“I know, Michael.”

His throat moved. “I just didn’t know where to go.”

Your anger softened, not disappearing, but changing shape in your chest. “You could have come to me.”

His gaze fell.

“I didn’t know how to let you see me like that.”

You held his face a little firmer, making him look at you. “You let me see you last night.”

His lips trembled faintly.

“And I’m still here.”

For a moment, he looked like those words hurt more than comforted him, like relief itself was painful because he had spent so long preparing for rejection.

Then he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around your midsection. You stood between his knees, one hand going carefully to the back of his head, mindful of the tender places, while the other smoothed over his shoulder.

His body curved into yours like he had finally stopped trying to hold himself upright alone.

You kissed his hair. “I’m still mad at you.”

His voice came muffled against you. “I know.”

“You can’t vanish like that.”

“I know.”

“You cannot disappear from me and make me chase you across the country like I’m in some sad ass detective movie.”

A faint laugh breathed against your sweater.

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” he said again, then pulled back just enough to look up at you. His eyes were wet, but there was a little smile there too. “I’m sorry. For real.”

You studied him for a moment before brushing his curls back from his face. “Okay.”

His brows lifted. “Okay?”

“For now.” You tapped his chin gently. “Finish eating.”

He groaned softly, head falling back with theatrical suffering. “You see? Bossy.”

“Somebody has to be. You ran away to a ranch like a dramatic little woodland creature.”

“I thought I was a prince.”

“Don’t push it.”

His robe was soft beneath your hand, and he smelled like sleep, coffee, and the faintest trace of cologne still clinging to his skin. You kissed his temple before resting your cheek against his curls. You reached for his fork and offered him a bite. He gave you a shy look, but opened his mouth anyway.

“There you go,” you said.

He rolled his eyes, embarrassed. “Don’t talk to me like I’m five.”

“Then don’t make me come all the way to Colorado to make sure you’re eating.”

He chewed, looking properly chastised, and you smiled despite yourself.

For a while, that was all the morning asked of you both. Breakfast. Coffee. Cold window glass. Your body warm in his lap. His arm tight around your waist. Your fingers occasionally feeding him bites when he got too quiet. His mouth pressing absent little kisses to your shoulder between sips of coffee. The mountains outside stayed still and quiet like they knew better than to interrupt.

Eventually, his plate was mostly empty.

You did not comment on it. You only rubbed your hand slowly up and down his back, feeling the tension there, the way it had not left completely but had loosened beneath your touch.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” you said quietly.

He stiffened under you.

You kissed the side of his head. “Not like that.”

His fingers curled into your sweater. “What?”

“Home.”

The word changed the room.

Michael looked past your shoulder toward the window, out at the pale morning and the dark trees beyond the glass. “I can’t go back today,” he whispered.

“I’m not asking you to.”

He looked at you then, searching your face like he did not quite trust what he had heard.

You brushed your thumb along his cheek. “I’m not calling everybody and telling them to come drag you back.”

His eyes shone again.

“I do need to let your mother know you’re safe,” you said. “That part is not optional.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“But I won’t bring the circus to you. Not managers. Not brothers. Not cameras. Not anybody you’re not ready for.”

His mouth pressed together, and you could see the relief come over him before the guilt had a chance to bury it.

“I scared her,” he said.

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes.

“But she loves you,” you said. “And I think she’ll understand needing quiet better than most people.”

He looked down at where his hand rested against your hip. “I don’t know when I’ll be ready.”

You slipped your fingers beneath his chin and lifted his face. “You come home when you’re ready.”

His brows drew together. “And if I’m not ready?”

“Then we stay until you are.”

He stared at you for a long moment, and the room went still again, not empty, but full. Then he lowered his forehead to your chest and breathed out like something inside him had finally loosened.

You wrapped both arms around him. “I’m not saying you get to hide forever,” you murmured into his hair. “I’m saying you get to heal before everybody starts pulling on you again.”

His voice was small. “You’ll stay with me?”

There it was. The question beneath everything. Not whether you would fix it. Not whether you would tell him what to do. Whether you would stay.

You kissed the top of his head and held him tighter. “I flew to the mountains, didn’t I? Yes, Michael,” you said softly. “I’ll stay.”

He turned his face into your neck, and for a while he did not say anything at all. He just held onto you, breathing warm against your skin while the coffee cooled on the table and the ranch woke slowly outside.

Then, very softly, he said, “I’m still hungry.”

You pulled back and looked at him.

His eyes were shy, but there was a spark there now. A little life. A little mischief. A little of the Michael who had been hiding underneath all that pain.

“Oh, now you’re hungry?”

He gave you the smallest smile. “Maybe.”

You climbed off his lap and picked up his plate. “Good. Because I made oatmeal too.”

His face fell.

You laughed. “Don’t look like that.”

“I don’t want oatmeal.”

“You’re eating oatmeal.”

“Baby…”

“No. You need something warm in your stomach.”

“I had eggs.”

“And now you’re having oatmeal.”

He sighed, dramatically, pulling the robe tighter around himself. “Am I?”

You raised your eyebrows, cocking your head to the side.

The laugh he let out filled the kitchen. There he was again. Still hurting, still scared, still not ready, but there. And for that morning, in that little kitchen tucked away in the Colorado mountains, he had finally gotten a minute to breathe.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

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