Hollywood lights. Flashing cameras. Cigarette smoke. Popcorn & M&Ms at midnight.
In 1982, Michael's rise to fame feels inevitable. But somewhere between sold out stages, endless interviews and the growing noise of the world around him, the person he cherishes the most begins slipping further from his grasp.
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hey guys, my name is summer and if you don’t know i normally write on wattpad (follow me sadsurfer). i’ve decided to branch out to the lovely people on tumblr with an exciting story to tell!!
events are loosely based off of michael’s real life, though not every event and situation may align with his reality. just tryna have some fun.
p.s this is written in second person, however ‘you’ have a name. i just find it the perfect balance between first and third person.
if you’d like to be added to the taglist, please comment.
show some love! this is gonna be a hell of a ride ;)
note : holy fuck this chapter was hell to write. probably took like two weeks. so much world building, but needed.
“Ugh, I still can't decide what dress I should wear."
Emory stands by the full-length mirror in your bedroom, the soft light of the wall sconces either side reflecting the two glamorous dresses she presses against her figure, angling herself to find the right look. Between you is Violet, lying flat across the bed with her legs bent at the knees and feet gently swaying in the air. She flips through a copy of Harper's Bazaar, licking the tip of her index finger to separate the pages. You're tucked away into your plush purple corner piece, a soft blanket covering your bare legs as an abandoned copy of Vogue magazine rests beside you, traded for a steamy cup of green tea.
The air around you is warm despite the snow settling on the windowsills, carrying the scent of vanilla candles and freshly brewed tea. Music flows from the hi-fi stereo nestled in the corner of the room, cycling through some of the biggest hits of the New Year. Designer shopping bags scatter every inch of the floor from when the three of you spent the afternoon circling through Manhattan, stuffed with cashmere sweaters, silk scarves, leather handbags, bottles of perfumes, gold jewellery, new lipsticks, glossy magazines and little paper bags from cafés that still hold the scent of fresh bagels and pastries.
Somehow, New York has felt like the breath of fresh air you didn't know you were searching for.
Whilst duties and commitments have kept you preoccupied, there's a newfound freedom here which Los Angeles fails to provide. Staying in a city where the streets are constantly buzzing with tourists and life allows you to slip away unnoticed, blending in with the surroundings. It feels natural. A getaway, which only presents itself to you for a short moment of time, but classes as a safe haven. Walking the streets of New York feels liberating, whereas in Los Angeles, you're confined to the sharp routes of the car between agent offices and studio buildings.
Of course, freedom is subjective when faced with the life you lead. The days are still demanding. Filmings, fittings, meetings and interviews still consume most of your time. The press will spot you from time-to-time, shoving cameras in your face with handfuls of ludicrous questions, only then attracting fans who will try to press against you with pens and magazines, begging for autographs. Somehow, you magically manage to squeeze out of such situations with an apology and heartfelt smile at the support before being ushered away. You love the loyalty from your fans and attention from the media, but sometimes it's more like they're clinging onto the fabricated version of you rather than your authenticity.
"Juliette, what do you think?"
Your vision snaps to Emory who's already turned around waiting for your answer. Your eyes flick between a gorgeous black dress, cinched at the waist and a sparkly burgundy two-piece. Both compliment the natural tan of her skin and hair, but only one appeals more than the other. "Hm, burgundy. Definitely."
"Really?" She spins to face the mirror again, holding the two-piece to her frame. "I thought it was too much."
"Girl, no," Violet replies, finally lifting her gaze from the magazine after flipping the last page firmly shut. "I already told you in LA. I don't even know why you bothered to bring the black one."
"Yeah, Violet's right," you add, squinting to find the right words. "Black is giving... first date, fancy-restaurant-no-dessert vibes. No offence."
Emory narrows her eyes, staring at the preferred dress a moment longer before finally tossing the rejected one onto the bed behind her. "Fine. Burgundy wins."
A few moments later a sharp knock cuts through the room, followed by the faint sound of shuffling outside. Emory is frozen mid-turn with her dress still pressed against her frame, as if she's forgotten what she was doing in the first place. Violet glances towards the corridor without lifting herself from the bed, her eyes shifting first before the rest of her follows. You've paused with your cup still in your hand, the warmth of it suddenly evaporating within a split-second.
None of you move at first, but you all share a look beneath the quiet hum of music, the unspoken realisation setting in that you're not even half-ready to head out the door yet.
. . .
By the time you arrive at the studio, chaos is already waiting for you.
You're guided into a room alongside a bunch of other models, some who you recognise and exchange soft greetings with, and some who you don't. The light casting from the ceiling and the bulbs around large square mirrors are almost blinding, highlighting every angle and curve of your features.
You've taken a seat on your allocated high-chair, flipping one leg over the other as you settle in before a copy of Vogue is handed to you as if it's part of the routine. Rows of dressing tables sit in front of you, scattered with cosmetics from different brands ranging across shades, textures and finishes, along with numerous types of heated styling tools. Clips and pins, hair ties and headbands are in accompaniment as polaroids and printed photos rest against surfaces, showcasing the desired result for each model to achieve by the end of the session.
Makeup artists and hairstylists quickly begin their work, moving between stations with a sense of urgency as conversation is left to a minimum under strict time restraints. They brush colours with strokes of confidence and tap against skin with sponges, creating works of art on blank canvases. Hairstylists begin clipping in extensions or curling thick pieces of hair around hot wands, slipping pins between their teeth to adjust sections, eyes flicking between blueprint photos and the selected model every moment.
A stylist begins to work on small sections of your hair with a wand, setting each curl before twisting them into velcro rollers and pinning them to your head. You flip over a page of your magazine, angling it slightly beneath the studio lights as a familiar model presents herself spread across two pages. "What do you guys think of Brooke Shields' new campaign?"
Beside you, Violet hums in thought, squinting as a stylist works on the crown of her head, lifting sections and pinning them in place. "I think it was good. Just, maybe, a bit basic."
"Oh, really?" Emory replies from the next section beside you, her eyes shut as a makeup artist sweeps shimmer across her lids.
"Yeah." Violets shrugs, bringing a cup of coffee to her lips to take a sip. "She didn't really change... anything. Same style, same energy. We're in the eighties, it's all about curls and volume and denim. She's still playing it safe."
Your gaze doesn't lift from the magazine as you analyse her loose head of waves, a light dusting of blush across her cheeks and a floral, flared two-piece that naturally hugs her figure. "I don't know. I kinda admire her for not chasing trends like the rest of us. She's not afraid to stand out."
"I think she's scared. She's one of the biggest names in the industry, and she won't move on from the last decade. She finds it all too bold and expressive."
"Yeah, maybe it takes a certain type of person to pull this off..." Emory trails off for a moment, as though she's deliberating between her opinions. "Even if she is stuck in the past, she always looks like she belongs there... like the camera just finds her."
Violet shifts in her seat, alternating her crossed legs. "I just think it's a competitive industry. People are always looking for something new. She doesn't really represent that if she's still wearing florals that've been in her wardrobe the last ten years."
You finally lift your head from the page as the stylist pins the final roller in place. "Either that, or she's just comfortable with herself. It's not all about reinvention. She likes what she likes and only she can change that. Plus, this throwback is genius marketing. If that was the point, then it's clearly working."
"I mean, you brought her up." Violet shrugs, leaning forward to place her empty cup on the table. "I would just be embarrassed to wear that again."
"Each to their own, I guess."
Your conversation is interrupted by a sharp shriek from behind. Every head whips around to the source of the noise to find a model standing frozen, her hair pinned back to preserve a bouncy blowout as horror etches across every feature of her face. She stares down at her silk robe, the milky white splattered with dark, splotchy stains.
The culprit, who you assume is an assistant, apologises profusely, bending down to gather the two spilled coffee cups with her head bowed in dejection, as if she knows what follows.
The model peels her eyes from the stained silk, locking onto the assistant and snapping, "an apology doesn't fix anything, you careless idiot. This robe is fucking silk!"
The room falls silent for a moment as the stylists share awkward glances, models shifting uncomfortably in their seats before conversation gradually drifts in again. Work continues with reluctance as the assistant's humiliation radiates through the air just as heavily as the smell of freshly spilled coffee.
"That was so not needed," Violet mutters as Emory winces, nodding in agreement as her lips pull into a sympathetic grimace.
You lean back slightly in your chair, careful not to disturb the stylist who places the last few pins into the rollers to keep them locked in place. "Hey, are you alright?"
The assistant, who was passing closeby to exit the room, suddenly pauses at the sound of your voice. She turns around, blinking, clearly caught off guard. You scan the room to find the model settled back at her seat, head in her hands, before glancing at the nearest makeup artist. "Can you please get her another robe? I'm sure wardrobe has a spare."
The makeup artist nods before rushing off towards the wardrobe department. The assistant gives you a small smile, grateful, though hardly visible beneath her embarrassment, before disappearing after her.
Conversations continue as though no altercation ever took place, and Emory watches the assistant vanish before letting out a quiet breath of air. You suppose in an industry that's built for appearances, even uncomfortable situations rarely linger for long. "Speaking of people who never stop working..." She turns to face you. "Have you heard from Michael?"
You smooth a hand over the magazine on your lap, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I have. I got his letter yesterday. He's coming over next week."
"Oh, so we'll just miss him." She turns back around with a frown.
"How does he even... have the time to come to New York?" Violet interjects, "isn't he busy right now with all the Thriller stuff? Isn't his dad like, a crazy controlling guy?"
"Yeah, I don't know." You shrug. "Everytime we talk he tells me he has a thousand things going on at once, but he seems so eager to come here. I'm sure he worked something out."
"Honestly, the guy probably needs a break." You snort a laugh at Emory's words. "He works so hard. He's everywhere."
The room picks up in pace as time ticks on. Artists soon begin sculpting your face with neutrals before adding a pop of dark eye shadow, a sweep of winged linger, subtle blush, shimmer and a glossy brown lip. Models wander out the room only to emerge in elegant gowns of every imaginable colour. Halter necks and draped shoulders, sweetheart necklines and backless silhouettes, soft satin catching beneath lights with every step. Some dresses cling to their figures before falling into flowing skirts and others split high along the thigh, revealing flashes of long legs and pointed stilettos. Sequins glitter like scattered diamonds, beads shimmer across waists and silk gloves disappear past elbows.
When your hair and makeup is finally complete, you're led behind a changing screen where a gown awaits, tagged with your name. Dark, cherry-red silk slips through your fingertips like water. The fabric skims your figure and falls to the floor with a daring thigh-high slit that reveals one leg with every step. The neckline drapes elegantly across your collarbones to leave your shoulders bare, whilst the back plunges low enough to reveal the graceful line of your spine. Tiny crystal embellishments litter your torso like sprinklings of stardust, subtle enough to not distract from the simplicity of the dress.
Not long after, you're ushered into a limousine with your friends. Night has fallen upon the city as snow layers in thin sheets on the ground, the air significantly cooler and forcing you to bundle into a jet-black fur coat. The journey is faced with harsh traffic and pedestrians that dot the streets, oftentimes peering into the vehicle and wondering who the occupier could be. At some point, your fingers reach for the dainty gold bracelets on your wrist, a familiar yet uneasy knot forming in your stomach. Who else could be there? Who would be waiting beyond the doors? Who would you be expected to impress tonight?
You've become accustomed to these sorts of events. Growing up in the industry and limelight, it's normal to face countless questions on the backhand of unpleasant situations. You've taught yourself that the best thing to do is face them all with a smile. No matter how outrageous a comment may be on your appearance, or how inappropriate a director may act at a shoot, or even how a reporter may shove assumptions in your face with the objective of somehow highlighting a vulnerability — you smile. You smile and gently dismiss all the cynicism thrown your way. You twist conversations into your career and upcoming work, recent campaigns or fashion preferences. It's all expected. It's what the industry expects of you. It's what your agents and media trainers expect of you.
It's what your father expects of you.
The bustle surrounding The Plaza Hotel starts roughly five blocks away. Cars progress gradually only to halt every other second. As the building grows closer, cameras and reporters come into view, rushing around, pointing towards models and actors and ushering them to capture shots before the moment is gone. When the limousine finally rolls to the front of the building, the three of you thank the driver. Violet steps out first, soon followed by Emory, and then you.
The rush of the atmosphere hits you instantly as soon as your stiletto hits the soft red carpet. Cameras flash bright and rapidly in your face, the world around a seemingly white canvas as they capture every angle. Reporters call your name from every possible direction, urging you to take a look back, a look to the side, a gentle wave, a smile. It's only for a few moments that you stand outside The Plaza Hotel for your shots, but it almost feels like a lifetime.
Violet and Emory have disappeared by the time you step inside, most likely tugged away into interviews or conversing with models or actresses who have also attended the gala. You exchange soft greetings with those who wait for you at the door, thanking the server who carries around a metal tray with flutes of champagne as you slip one into your fingers.
"Juliette, over here!"
Turning at the sound of your name, you find a familiar reporter waving his hand before weaving through the crowd towards you. A cameraman follows closely behind, the red recording light blinking against his shoulder. A few photographers from independent agencies continue to linger by, snapping every possible shot they can get.
"Happy New Year," the reporter says with an easy grin. "Do you have a minute to spare?"
You glance down at the visual branding on the mic flag, immediately recognising it as one of the most popular celebrity news sources for the past decade. "Of course."
You angle yourself towards the camera, straightening your posture, chin up, and smile wide. Cameramen gather in as the reporter prepares the microphone, stepping into view of the shot. "Tonight we are here with Juliette Sweeney, joining us at The Plaza for the New Year Gala... one of the most recognisable faces in American fashion whose work has appeared in Vogue, Harper's Bazaar and most recently, Calvin Klein's latest campaign." He finally turns to you. "So, how are you finding New York?"
He tilts the microphone to you and the answer spills almost automatically, the grin on your face genuine. "I love it. The city never seems to stop moving, but I find something about it really inspiring."
"Who are you wearing tonight?"
Your gaze falls to the cherry-red silk gathering at your waist. "Oscar de la Renta. I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. I knew tonight would be the night to wear it."
"It looks incredible on you. Very beautiful." You give him a small token of appreciation, glancing at the camera and back again. "Your Calvin Klein campaign with Violet Navarro and Emory Williams has been seen everywhere recently. It seems you three are always together. How did that friendship start?"
"We started in the industry together years ago and just clicked. Recently we've had the opportunity to begin working together again after spending time on our own projects, and I'm very grateful for that."
The reporter nods along and you brace yourself for the next question, noting how they seem to narrow down with every answer. "When you're mentioned, you’re often described as beautiful before talented. Does this ever frustrate you?"
You shift on your feet and shrug pulls first from your shoulder. "That's just part of my job. Modelling is a very visual profession so I understand why people notice appearances first. I just hope with time people will notice more."
"Do you ever feel like you're being defined by other people rather than defining yourself?"
Another reporter just feet away calls your name, but you try keeping your focus present. "I think that comes with any public career. You just learn what to share and what to keep to yourself."
"Your father has been one of Hollywood's most respected actors and directors for years. Do you ever feel like you've had to work harder to build an identity outside of his shadow?"
You clear your throat gently. "Um, he's just very passionate about what he does. I look up to him, but I've just been focused on building my own path."
"Okay, final question. I can see that you're in high demand tonight." He's referring to the reporter that waits by closely, eager to get a set of questions in. You just laugh softly. "With so many photographers, campaigns, interviews... do you ever feel like you're being seen more as an image than a person?"
Your smile drops an inch as you pause, possibly a second too long. "I think... everyone sees something different. Some people know me through photographs, some through interviews, some don't know me at all. I'd just hope people remember there's always more to a person than what they see."
"Lovely, thank you so much for joining us tonight, Miss Sweeney."
You nod in response, picking up your smile once more before finally turning away.
After being pulled into an interview session so quickly, you hardly gathered time to take in the beauty of the hotel. The Plaza glows with golden light. Crystal chandeliers hang overhead like constellations suspended from the ceiling to splay gentle reflections across the polished marble floors. Waiters thread between crowds carrying silver trays of champagne flutes as conversations rise and fall around the room. A jazz band plays beneath a sweeping staircase, the soft notes of a trumpet harmonising with piano melodies and drifting through every corner of the ballroom. Designers, actors, musicians and models. Everywhere you look there is somebody important.
You take a slow sip of champagne, giving yourself a moment to breathe.
A familiar fellow actress that you worked with on your last film laughs beside a towering arrangement of white roses, her gaze dragging the room under a haze of alcohol and possibly other substances before landing on you. Her jaw pops open in surprise, her hand shooting up to give you an enthusiastic wave.
You laugh softly, brushing off the reporter who lingered feet away and take a few steps in her direction before your name is yet again called from the space behind.
You glance over your shoulder, half expecting a third reporter attempting to gather your attention, only to find Emory curving through the crowds at an alarming speed. Her dark curls bounce with every hurried step as Violet follows closely behind, laughing at Emory's dramatised approach. "Oh my God! You'll never believe who we've just seen!"
Emory's words intertwine with small pants as she attempts the catch her breath, Violet continuing to snicker behind her. You take another sip, slightly amused at her behaviour but assuming it's another one of her crushes. "Who? Richard Gere?"
"What? No!" She scowls at the response, rapidly shaking her head. "It's your dad!"
Champagne almost catches in your throat.
"What?"
"He literally just arrived."
"Emory." Violet finally regains her composure, sighing. "You make everything sound like a national emergency."
"It is a national emergency, Violet." Emory grabs ahold of your arm, her words low. "Jules, do you know how many people just turned around when he walked in?"
You already know the answer, and it's way too many.
You swallow, hesitant to follow Emory's gaze across the ballroom. But when you do, your stomach tightens into a thick, unyielding knot.
Your father stands near the grand staircase with a champagne flute balanced effortlessly between his fingers. Reporters loiter nearby along with cameramen simply waiting for a moment with him. Executives shake his hand with formal greetings as actors and actresses you've watched on screens your entire life stand eager to speak with him.
The years have done little to diminish his appearance. His dark tuxedo fits perfectly, personally designed as silver begins to tickle his temples without extracting from the commanding confidence he carries. You've known him to be the exact same through the years of your upbringing. Every moment you've seen an interview or been pulled alongside him to events. Quiet. Rehearsed. Professional.
"Did he follow you here?"
Violet almost scoffs. "Emory, he's more famous than the three of us combined. Of course he wouldn't follow her here. That's ridiculous. He's probably been invited."
From your knowledge he's only been here momentarily, but it's like the room has already adjusted around him. Like somehow this is all so natural for him. A magnet that continuously reels in more attraction and opportunities.
"I should probably go speak to him."
"Probably?"
"Definietly."
You sigh, pulling your lips into a tight smile as Violet and Emory give you a few supportive squeezes to your arm and a pat on your back. You then begin to make your way through the crowd, shuffling past with mutters of an apology and offering polite beams to those who greet you along the way. As the distance between you and your father closes, the thump in your chest becomes increasingly apparent.
Your father notices you before you even reach him, the corner of lips tugging faintly. "Juliette."
"Hi, Dad."
He pulls you into him instantly and as soon as he does, the space around you is glowing with rapid flashes of white light.
Pulling away with a soft kiss to your cheek, he glances down at your gown. "Oscar de la Renta was a good choice. Looks incredible."
You smile at his words, briefly taking in your own appearance before settling on his exquisitely tailored tuxedo. "Thank you. You too, Tom Ford?"
He nods in response, gaze flickering up when someone calls his name, and providing a raise of his hand in acknowledgment in their direction. "How is the apartment?"
"Oh, it's good!" You smile at some of the familiar faces entering the building, models and fellow actresses. "Had to crank up the heating all the way when I got in, but I'm happy to have my own place here."
"Good to hear." Your father takes a sip of his champagne, eyes continuing to scope out the scene around you. Even when he's here, present with you, it seems as though networking is his first priority. "Any interviews yet?"
"Um, yeah. That guy who works for Entertainment Tonight—"
"Devin Hart," he immediately answers. "How did it go?"
You suck a breath of air into your lungs. "Um, I think it went well. The questions got a little harder to answer. They asked about you, but I think I managed."
"Good." He nods and his eyes finally drop to you. "Don't hesitate, it shows vulnerability. They feed off of that. And keep smiling."
Before you can even get another word in, someone’s voice cuts through the conversation with a call of his name. A producer begins approaching with an eager smile, gaze trained on your father. Your father apologises briefly, stating that he will come and find you during the dinner, squeezing your shoulder and leaving your side.
Before you can even comprehend it, he's swallowed by a sea of reporters and executives and familiar faces. The room around you continues moving. Champagne glasses clink as laughter echoes beneath the chandeliers, everything shifting in elegant sweeps and shimmers of gold.
You find yourself drifting towards the edge of the ballroom alone, towards the large glass windows that overlook the city outside. Snow continues to pile on the streets as celebrities continue to flutter in, evidentially neverending. It almost feels like one big motionless blur of activity. When being fully present in your surroundings can sometimes lead you to feel separate amidst it all. Distant.
You glance down at your flute, taking the final sip of champagne in the form of a large gulp as the trumpet melody behind begins to change in melody. At first you hardly pay attention, the slow jazz all having seemingly blurred into a collection of foreign instruments, until a familiar sequence of notes hits your ears. Piano roles in shortly after, followed by a deep, earthy bass.
The Girl Is Mine.
The melody sounds different wrapped in brass instruments and velvety jazz chords. Softer and warmer, if possible. Even without the harmonic vocals sauntering in like a gentle ocean breeze, you're certain you could recognise this tune anywhere. You can almost hear the voices above the bellow of chatter and flashes.
A small smile tugs on your lips as your thoughts drift west. To Los Angeles. To evenings that vanished way too quickly beneath your fingertips. To bowls of buttery popcorn buried beneath handfuls of M&Ms. To movies playing long after either of you had stopped watching. To laughter that lingered until your stomach ached and tears streaked your vision. To Human Nature spilling through the speakers with neither of you saying much of anything at all.
To Michael.
You wonder what he's doing right now. Whether he's already awake or still curled beneath his blankets after another late night in the studio. Whether he's tucked away somewhere writing lyrics into one of his notebooks, humming melodies beneath his breath without even realising it. Whether he's remembering his promise to visit you in New York once everything is settled down.
Whether he misses you as much as you miss him.
Something settles in your chest at the thought of seeing him again. Something soothing yet exciting.
Only a week, and then you'll see your best friend again.
but what do we think of a socialite-detective set during ‘bad’ era? brainstorming some shit rn so won’t give tooo much away. limelight is still gonna be my priority.
Michael would argue that his favourite part of the day is the stretch of time between dusk and dawn, when the city around him is fast asleep but his thoughts and ideas refuse to settle, keeping him awake until the quiet hours of the morning.
His second favourite part of the day is waking up.
Most people complain about mornings, but he never really understood why. There's something simply magical about those first few moments when the world remembers itself. When sunlight pours through the windows in warm golden ribbons, spilling across the bed and crawling over his skin. When everything is still quiet. Still peaceful. He enjoys the feeling that follows. The warmth that gathers at his shoulders, drifting up the back of his neck and resting at the crown of his head. The slow return to consciousness. The gentle awareness that another day is waiting for him.
The window only stays open for a short while before schedules and phone calls and expectations rush in to slam it shut again. But in those brief fleeting moments, the world belongs to him.
This morning, however, before he opens his eyes, he's aware that he isn't alone.
Quiet breaths fan across his face, warm and steady against his skin. A comforting presence rests beside him, close enough that he can feel the lingering heat beneath the sheets. It takes him a moment to gather himself as the haze of sleep stubbornly clings to his mind before he finally opens his eyes.
You're curled beside him beneath the sheets, one arm tucked to your chest, the other loosely stretched between you as if you'd fallen asleep mid-thought. Your hair is slightly tousled against the pillow, strands curled out in soft disarray, catching faint strips of morning light that slips through the curtains. There's a faint crease in your cheek where you've been lying on it too long, and your lips are parted with each stable breath.
He doesn't move at first. Not because he's still half-asleep, but because there's something strangely disorientating that settles in his chest. Quiet and grounding. The kind that makes the world feel temporarily suspended, like it hasn't fully caught up with itself yet.
As though you've sensed his lingering gaze somewhere between clouds and sunlight, you begin to stir. Your eyes flutter open slowly, blinking away sleep as they settle on his curled frame inches away, before drifting up to meet his own.
"Oh, hey."
"Hey."
You roll onto your back, stretching your arms high above your head with a quiet yawn that pulls through the stillness in the room, awakening everything in your surroundings. The sheets shift around you, warm and tangled from sleep. "Sleep alright?"
"Mhm." He tries to stifle his own yawn behind a closed fist, then reaches up to rub his eyes with the back of his knuckles. "Like a baby drenched in silk."
"That's good." You begin to push yourself up, hair falling around your shoulder as your palms press against your eyes, adjusting to the bright sunlight. "I barely let boys in my bed, though. Don't get used to it."
He only chuckles, side-stepping the comment of other men being in your sheets. "I won't, I won't."
He pulls the sheets away from his body and sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. His feet meet the carpet with a soft thud as he leans forward slightly, easing himself into wakefulness. A moment later you shift behind him. The mattress dips as you push yourself to swing your legs out of the bed and rise to your feet. He glances back when you pad across the carpet to the curtains and draw them open, letting more of the morning light spill in. It pours across the floor in pale gold to soften the edges of the room, warming everything in its touch.
"Wow, it's so nice outside. I almost wanna go to the beach."
Michael lets out a pathetic puff of air at your statement, pulling his feet onto the bed again and settling back against the pillows. "The beach? In December?"
You spin around to face him, silky nighties clinging to your skin. "Well, duh. When is it ever cold in LA?"
He shrugs in response, a lazy smile tugging at his lips as he throws his arms to rest above his head, legs stretched. "True."
Your gaze drops to Cleo as she freshly enters the room, sauntering towards you before you bend to pick her up from the carpet. You gently rub the spot between her ears only for her to curl into your frame with a soft purr, melting instantly. Michael smile shifts into a grin at the sight and he stretches his arms towards her in a silent invitation. You comply, carefully easing her into his hold as he draws her to his chest. His knees bend slightly as he settles her in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead and nuzzling his face into her silvery fur. "'m gonna kidnap her someday. Warning you now."
"Michael, you have like four-hundred pets," you quip, playfully rolling your eyes. "Your dogs will eat her alive."
"No they won't." His sight lowers to the ball of fluff gently curled in his lap. "They're sweet. She'll fit right in."
"There's no way in hell she'll fit in. She's too sophisticated for your snakes. She won't get a second of peace over there."
"They'll be best friends." He scoops her from beneath her arms, holding her up to his face like a baby. Bright blue orbs pierce straight through his honeyed gaze. "Won't you, Cleo?"
Cleo emits a strangled mewl and you laugh as she wrestles in his hands, as if that could bring an answer to his question. Another few minutes pass over arguing which of Michael's pets would inevitably terrify her first, before it eventually settles on 'all of them'. Michael eventually climbs from the bed with a defeated huff, relishing in a dramatic stretch of his limbs before disappearing into the hallway.
Not long after, the house settles into a familiar morning rhythm. The distant hiss of running water echoes through the walls whilst Cleo pads downstairs, tail held high as she begins her daily mission of convincing someone she's never been fed before in her life. Cupboard doors open and close somewhere in the kitchen followed by the muted clink of ceramic and glass. Outside, sunlight continues to pour through large windows and spill across hardwood floors to warm every quiet corner of the house, despite mild temperatures outside.
By the time Michael has finished getting ready, he's traded his loose flannel pyjamas for a pair of dark fitted trousers that sit neatly above his ankles. A crisp white button-up disappears beneath the waistband, the collar peeking through the neckline of a fuzzy red sweater embroidered with a cheerful Mickey Mouse across the front. His curls are still slightly damp from the shower, falling carelessly over his forehead as he makes his way downstairs, looking far more put together than someone who had only crawled out of bed less than an hour ago.
When he enters the kitchen, you're already there. Your hair is clipped away from you with a few loose strands that escape to feather your jaw. Your skin still carries a dewy glow from the shower, every feature softened by the golden haze of sunlight. There isn't a trace of makeup on you, and somehow he thinks this is the version of you he likes best. Not the one on magazine covers or film posters, just this one.
You roll up the sleeves of your cream knit sweater as you glance over at him, a soft smile pulling at your lips. You gather the two items waiting by the stove, a mug of tea and a glass of orange juice, and carefully juggle them before setting them down and sliding the glass across the countertop.
"Thank you."
And even after months without a sleepover, you've still remembered that he likes orange juice in the morning.
"You want anything for breakfast?" you offer, and the question catches him slightly off-guard, as if he forgot such a meal even existed in the first place. He lifts his glass, shaking his head. "You sure? I have Cherrios, Lucky Charms... toast, eggs, avocado, blueberries. Really? Nothing?"
He sets his glass down after taking a few gulps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm fine, thanks."
"Not even popcorn? M&Ms?"
A laugh slips past, but he only shakes his head again. "Not hungry."
"Alright, suit yourself." You shrug, avoiding the potential for a back-and-forth about his skimpy appetite and carry the mug around the counter, taking a seat beside him. He catches a waft of your habitual morning peppermint tea as you take a sip. "So, what's on the agenda today?"
Michael's fingertips drum against the glass, humming in thought before he takes another swig. "Depends on what Joseph wants to do. Last time he mentioned another album."
Your elbows lean on the counter as you peer over at him with the mug in your hands. "Oh, with your brothers?"
"Yeah." He lifts a shoulder, lips pursed. "I'll have to start writing again. I have some ideas swimmin' around, but the more I think about them... the more I wanna save them."
"For what? Your next solo album?" He nods, and you only stare at him for a moment over the rim of your mug. "You released one like five minutes ago."
He chuckles at your quip, grin failing to hide over how ridiculous you've made him sound. "I know."
"You're already thinking about another one?"
He shrugs again, brows raised. "Maybe. Possibly. Ideas never stop comin'. I'll see." You snort in jest at his lunacy, setting the mug down. "What about you?"
You suck in a breathful of air, as if the energy of the day is only set to dwindle once he leaves. "Gotta start packing, then meeting Dad for a late lunch. He called my shoot last night after he had already called my agency that morning. He's booked us at The Palm."
"Oh, man." Michael glances down at his glass to lift it up again. "What could he want?"
"It's probably just another lecture about how I'm wasting my potential and not pushing myself enough. Nothing new."
His expression softens upon seeing how you brush the topic off like it's nothing of concern. But he knows how difficult it is for you to correspond to the high standards and pressure your father continuously drills into your head. He knows because he can relate. "Do you tell him that you're happy?"
"Yeah, I do. Then he tells me I could be happier."
You set your mug down in the silence, now half-empty. The weight of your father's words seem relentless, as though he's never pleased with any of your efforts. "Will you tell him that I'm coming to New York?"
You pause for a second, as if briefly forgetting the conversation last night between the sun and moon. "Uhm... no. I won't. He doesn't need to know everything."
Michael nods, finishing the rest of his juice before sliding the cup away. "You're right."
As if a sudden thought has shot into your mind, you narrow your eyes and tilt your head towards him in silent question. "Isn't Joseph gonna go mad that you've stayed here instead of rehearsing?"
His reply only comes faster. "Isn't Julian gonna go mad that you've let me stay over instead of being at the agency?"
Your brows pull together, and you open your mouth only to snap it shut again when you're left without a retort. He smirks, speaking with a sense of finality, "exactly."
. . .
Most people would think the most difficult part of Michael's day is the endless rehearsing. The hours spent in repetition of the same spins and footwork, practicing each move with such passion until it lands exactly the way he wants it. Aching muscles, sweat-soaked shirts and the frustration that inevitably follows from knowing that something is almost perfect but never quite there yet.
Or maybe they would assume it's the meetings. The conference rooms filled with managers, executives, promoters and people who never let him simply bathe in his success because they continuously need a piece of him. The endless discussions about schedules, contracts, appearances and plans stretching into months or even years into the future.
Then there's the performances. The bright lights and cameras that follow him on stage. The pressure of standing in front of thousands and gathering enough energy to give them everything they came for.
Photoshoots aren't much easier, and neither are the interviews. Reporters pull the same few questions from their buckets, circling through the same ideas with expectations of a different answer. The press always seem to be up his ass with a handful of nonscensical remarks that make his smile stiffen and patience wear thinner than he'd ever like to admit.
Most people would assume it's one of those things, but it isn't.
It's coming home.
Fans. Hundreds of them, sometimes more, gathered outside the only place that still feels remotely private: Hayvenhurst. They line the streets waiting for a glimpse of him, albums tucked beneath their arms, handmade posters and signs expressing their love and gratitude. Some sit beneath blankets on the sidewalk against the mild winter air, conversing with strangers who have also made the same pilgrimage. The more eager ones press themselves on the gates, fingers curled tightly around the railings as they crane their necks to admire the sprawling estate beyond. The endless brick driveway that curves around a large, elegantly sculpted fountain. Birds that cross high above perfectly manicured lawns and a building that stretches further than the eye can see.
There's an immediate uproar the moment they spot him. Usually it begins with recognition of his familiar baby-blue Rolls Royce, then Bill behind the wheel, then Michael himself. He's normally hidden beneath a pair of dark sunglasses and a cap that covers his curls, only managing a shy smile and small wave through the chaos of screams and cries. He knows for the sake of his schedule and safety that it's easier to remain hidden rather than to stop and acknowledge every person waiting outside. Though, he wishes he could, because he appreciates them more than they'll ever know. Every record sold. Every letter. Every poster. Every voice screaming his name from the crowd. Since the release of Thriller, the affection has only multiplied beyond something he could have imagined.
And he wants to give something back, but that's the difficult part. Because no matter how grateful he is, sometimes he misses being able to come home without an audience waiting for him.
"You're late."
Michael pauses as the door softly clicks shut, his hand pushing at the door knob for just a second before he removes it, slowly turning towards the source of the voice, even when every bone in his body screams not to.
He finds his father standing only feet away, dressed head-to-toe in his usual dark attire, face void of any emotion.
His heart immediately drops, swallowing the knot forming in his throat. "I know."
"You know?" Joseph's reply is instant as he takes a step forward. Michael flinches. "You know, and you still arrived late? We've been waiting the past twenty minutes."
"There was traffic," he blurts out. His eyes wander to any quick routes of escape, wanting the interaction to end as soon as possible.
"Traffic." His tone is deadpan, and another step forward has Michael's eyes dropping to the floor, trying to ignore his father's towering frame only inches away. "Where were you?"
He works on keeping his voice steady. "Juliette's."
"You spent the night there."
It's not a question, but Michael can't bear to look up and see his expression. "Yes."
"You couldn't leave ten minutes earlier?"
"I didn't think–"
"That's the problem, boy." The words land before Michael can even process his own, shifting his weight. "Your brothers were here on time. The musicians are here. The rest of the crew is here." He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself composed. "But somehow, the star of the show couldn't manage it."
An uncomfortable, brooding silence looms between them as Joseph's words settle into the space. He registers them clearly; keeping others waiting is unfair, selfish even, but with the weight of the world on his shoulders, it's near impossible to please everyone.
"Five minutes." Joseph finally turns away. "Don't keep them waiting any longer."
The moment his father's steps distantly echo against the marble floors, he releases a shaky breath before making a beeline for the staircase. He takes two at a time as his duffel bag swings at his hip, ignoring the thumping in his ribcase as he speeds down the hallway and into the room to slam the door shut behind him.
The bag falls to the floor beside him and his hands shoot up to shield his face, desperately in an attempt to calm his nerves. He sniffles softly before taking a few deep breaths, steady and full. Calming affirmations repeat in his mind before he speaks them outloud, the weight of each one melting into his shoulders and down his spine till he feels ready enough to remove his hands, vision adjusting to the brightness of the room.
The first thing he registers is the state of his room. The clothes strewn all over the floor, the vinyl sleeves and CDs littering the minimal space in between, the magazines, hair products and skin creams crowded in every gap and surface. Everything is everywhere, clearly. But he hasn't found the time to organise his personal life amidst everything else going on.
The only presentable thing in his room is his bed, the navy cotton sheets creaseless and matching pillows fluffed perfectly. You drilled into his mind years ago that a freshly made bed subconsciously sets you up for success, making you feel neater and ready to conquer the rest of the day. Since then he took your advice, opening the curtains first thing just as you do, then making the bed straight after. He would admit, it does make him feel more coordinated. And maybe that's why your bed is always made. Why your room is always pristine. Why your house is always spotless.
After a quiet breath, he begins to gather some of his belongings from the floor and places them in a pile on his bed to deal with after rehearsals. He picks up a few vinyl sleeves, chucking them behind, before his gaze settles on a familiar magazine. He pauses, bending down to pick it up.
Vogue sits in a heavy bold on top, and just below it is you. You're turned away from the camera, head tilted back with an effortless grin as if someone caught you in the midst of laughter. Your hair cascades down your back, appearing as soft and shiny as it does in real life.
He braces the magazine in one hand to allow one of his fingers to trail down the glossy page, over the curve of your jaw and towards your hair, just as if he were touching it in real life. You look carefree, at ease. Relaxed in comparison to the other shoots and magazine covers he's seen you on. Maybe that's why it's his favourite.
Lifting his head, his gaze fixes on a shelf in the corner of the room that holds all his collectibles. Stacks of magazines, movie posters rolled tightly and tied in place with elastics, VHS tapes of the few movies you've featured in. Gifted keychains from trips and stuffed animals as birthday presents, and a small wooden box tucked into the very corner, tied off with a soft red ribbon. The box where he keeps all your letters.
Michael wouldn't call himself a hoarder, but he just can't seem to find the strength to throw away such sentimental belongings, especially when you're on the face of them.
He drifts towards the shelf, hand reaching to absentmindedly shuffle through the items. His fingers brush over a small snowglobe you brought back from him as a gift for the first time you visited New York, a small Statue of Liberty that's become worn with the years passing. A small teddy bear rests beside it and he gently tugs at the collar, the silver metal engravings spelling out Happy Birthday Michael in a whimsy cursive. Then trailing on, a few rogue post-it notes with your lazy penmanship sprawling messages for him to remember his lines or to make everyone proud, to prove haters wrong and to become the biggest star in the world.
The most sentimental of them all, though, is the box quietly sat in the corner, the lid slightly ajar from the amount of letters he's tried to stuff inside.
Michael's not particularly sure why he's so drawn to you. Why he misses you already after spending an entire night and morning together. Why he feels the need to contact you anywhere and everywhere he goes. Why he always show up at your doorstep with your favourite snacks and sweets in exchange for a Cheshire-like grin and a warm hug. The sun in the sky amidst the whispy, cotton-candy clouds. You're someone who he can act freely around, without the pressure of his family or his crew or the cameras. A safe haven. An escape.
A smile slowly stretches across his face, and suddenly he can't wait to come to New York.
By the time the final M&M had been rescued from beneath the coffee table, the weight of the evening finally began to settle.
What started as cleaning quickly dissolved into distractions. The second Michael got his hands on the broom, he began twirling it around like a microphone stand, showing off some of his exaggerated dance moves and sharp vocals. You only stared at first, hands crossed over your chest and foot tapping with impatience as you waited for him to finish his antics. Until he suddenly spun on his heels, straightened his posture and emerged as an alarmingly accurate impression of an acting coach you'd worked with years ago.
You burst into laughter, abandoning any intention of cleaning to sit back on the couch and watch the impromptu comedy show. Between your fits of encouragement, he slipped from one impression into the next, shifting between agents, directors, family friends, your fathers — anyone unfortunate enough to exist within your shared orbit.
Eventually, the impressions faded into quiet yawns and heavy eyes as the two of you finally agreed to call it a night.
You split off in different directions. You headed to the kitchen to make your habitual night-time tea whilst Michael disappeared into the guest bathroom. By the time you made your way upstairs, mug warming your hands, the soft spray of the shower drifted through the hallway along with the sound of his quiet singing. Smiling to yourself, you stepped into your room and lowered yourself in front of your vanity with a contented sigh.
And now, he stands in your doorway.
A white cotton shirt hangs loosely from his frame, the fabric softened with wear and slightly oversized across his narrow shoulders. Flannel pyjama bottoms sit low on his hips, the dark pattern bunching slightly around his ankles. His curls remain damp from the shower, falling messily across his forehead in loose ringlets that haven't had time to dry. Droplets of water still cling to his skin, occasionally slipping from the angle of his jaw and landing soundlessly on the carpet between his bare feet. A shoulder rests against the doorframe as he tilts his head, watching you in comfortable silence.
You don't acknowledge him at first. Your attention remains fixed on the mirror ahead, fingers moving through the familiar routine of removing jewellery and wiping away the last traces of makeup from the day. The soft glow from the vanity lights catches against your skin, replacing the polished version of you with someone more familiar.
"Wanna stay up a bit longer?"
Your head turns slightly at the sound of his voice, catching him still lingering in the doorway, arms crossed as he waits for an answer. Your gaze flicks briefly towards the clock, noting that it's well past midnight, though with the way your schedules are impossible to align, time hardly feels as strict as it should.
"Only if you promise to sing me sweet lullabies till I fall asleep."
Chuckling, Michael pads across your bedroom carpet towards the bed. You let out a gasp when he starts tugging at the cushions and stuffed animals, tossing them carelessly behind him before he flops down onto your bed with an audible sigh, arms stretching across silky white sheets. Then, as if an abrupt thought comes to mind, he pushes himself up again and reaches down to grab your favourite teddy bear from the floor, nestling in and hugging it to his chest.
"Exactly." You try to sound stern, but fail completely. "Don't you be throwing Cuddles onto the floor. I was just about to kick your ass."
"Remember when I bought you Cuddles ten years ago?"
A smile begins to spread across your face at the memory, your hand reaching for the half-finished mug of chamomile tea. Your twelfth birthday. Michael had only recently moved to Los Angeles with his family and your fathers had introduced you to each other with the hopeful insistence that you'd get along. It made sense with your similar ages and how you suddenly began orbiting the same world, however at the time, you complained to your father constantly about him. Crying about how he wouldn't stop calling, how he'd show up outside places he definitely shouldn't have been, how he acted like you were already friends when you very much weren't.
Until your birthday, when he showed up with a teddy bear and a box of chocolate. A heartfelt token of appreciation towards your presence.
You set the empty mug down, glancing back at him. "Cute, but don't guilt trip me."
Michael throws his hands up into the air dramatically as if surrendering at your statement just as Cleo pads into the room, tail held high as though she's personally decided it's time for bed. She lets out a soft purr when you lean over to stroke her, scooping her up from the carpet and setting her onto the bed beside Michael's legs. She inches closer to him with his soft words of encouragement, curling into a small contented ball beside him as he begins to brush his fingers slowly through her fur.
You gather your belongings and slip into the en-suite, hopping into the shower whilst being mindful not to keep Michael waiting for too long. Soft steam trails behind you when you return, carrying the scent of vanilla and lavender that clings faintly to your skin. Michael flips off your main light in exchange for the two glowing lamps on either of your bedside tables, casting a gentle warm hue. The room settles into a soothing state of peace, warmth of water lingering in your movements as you settle back at your vanity. You smooth shea butter over your legs and arms beneath your silky sleep set, working it into your skin in familiar motions.
Your eyes flick up to meet Michael's through the mirror. His head is tilted back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded as the corner of his mouth lifts faintly.
"What's up?"
He shifts, rolling onto his side and propping his head up on his palm to face you properly. "What's your favourite song on my album?"
Your gaze shifts to the vinyl sleeve resting nearby, its edges already beginning to wear from how often you've alternated between it over the past few weeks. An album that has easily climbed its way to the top of your all-time favourites.
There's something simply surreal about sharing moments like this. The person who currently dominates radio stations, television screens, and magazine covers is sprawled across your bed like it's his own, asking you what song you prefer.
He's a worldwide phenomenon. A heartthrob to the public eye. A star.
Yet to you, he's still Michael.
The same boy you've shared bowls of popcorn with and kicked beneath blankets whenever he started taking up too much space. The same boy you once complained about relentlessly to your father because he would follow you everywhere, acting as though friendship had already been decided for the both of you. The same boy who would call almost every day for the sole purpose of company. Because beneath all the flashing cameras, screaming crowds and impossible expectations, there were moments when he felt trapped inside a cycle and needed someone to pull him back to earth.
You've seen the version of Michael that most people never will. The one who stays up too late talking about ridiculous ideas. The one who laughs so hard he nearly chokes on his own M&Ms. The one who forgets where he leaves things, loses track of time, and occasionally becomes so excited about a new song he's creating that he can barely sit still long enough to explain.
Sometimes you forget that the rest of the world sees someone entirely different. Because right now, he's not the biggest star on the planet.
He's just Michael, lying across your bed and waiting for your answer.
"Human Nature."
"Really?" He moves to sit up, legs tucked beneath him as his brows arch in question. "Why?"
"I feel like it’s..." You spin to face him, searching for the right words. "Peaceful. It's serene and sweet. Like, driving through the city at night and watching everyone live their lives. Or like sitting at a window when you can't sleep. Everything almost feels a little slower. Softer, even." You shrug lightly, gaze drifting towards the darkness outside the window. "Most songs make people think about the person singing them, but Human Nature makes me think about everyone else. Like how many people are out there... how everyone has somewhere they're going, someone that they're missing, something they're hoping for." You meet his gaze again. "It's lonely, but not in a sad way. More like... comforting."
Michael nods along, as though absorbing every syllable of your explanation into the crevices of his brain. "Comforting?"
"Yeah." Your mouth tugs into a smile. "That's why it's my favourite song."
He remains silent for a moment, sitting in the solitude of your words. "That... means a lot to me. Thank you."
"You're very welcome." You gather yourself to join him on the bed, resting back against the pillows with your knees pulled to your chest. A yawn stretches from your mouth as Cleo shifts to settle at your side. "What's your favourite?"
His gaze stays trained ahead. "Baby Be Mine."
Your legs sway slightly from side to side as you scratch Cleo's head. "Why?"
"I don't really know..." Michael sighs as he leans back to mirror your position, arms relaxed above his head. "It jus' makes me happy. Makes me wanna dance. It's fun."
"What was your favourite song to record?"
He hums in thought, trailing off for a moment before snapping back. "Billie Jean, definitely. It drove everyone insane."
Air puffs from his nose at the memory, curiosity pulling you to question him again. "Why?"
"I really wanted it to be perfect. It had to be. I spent hours and hours in the studio working. Early mornings and late nights. And everyone kept telling me it was finished when it wasn't." His eyes fall shut for a second as he recalls. "Quincy and I kept arguing about the intro being too long, the different mixes. It took multiple takes for just one line. He went crazy and threatened to quit the album if I didn't make up my mind. I think he was joking. But I just wanted it to be perfect. Magic."
"It is magic, Michael. The whole album is."
In the many years that you've known Michael, you've become familiarised with the idea that he is a perfectionist. From a very young age, he'd rehearse dance moves and practise lines relentlessly until they satisfied his expectations, never quite content with leaving things unfinished in his mind. As the two of you grew older and the weight of adulthood rested on your shoulders, that tendency only seemed to deepen.
You're not entirely sure whether it began with the pressure of his father's control or if it was something that already existed within him, quietly nurtured by the environment surrounding him. But at some point it became inseparable from who he was. Once he becomes attached to an idea, there is no convincing him to let go until it matches the version living in his head. You've watched him spend hours obsessing over details that seemed invisible to everyone else, only then realising those exact details were what made the finished product so effortless. It's exhausting at times, both for him and everyone around him, but it's part of what makes him unique. Extraordinary. Nothing is ever good enough. Not when perfection dangles like a carrot on a stick a foot away.
If anything, such devotion to his craft has only worked in his favour. The desire to create something magical, something that lingers in people's hearts long after the music ends, has carried him further than anyone ever expected. Michael has always reached for the stars with a burning ambition in his chest, and somehow manifests ways to soar beyond them. The world has noticed and of course, it can't help but notice.
Yet, you don't think he'll remain situated. Not when there's always another dream waiting just out of reach.
"When are you going to New York?"
In the soothing silence, you hadn't even acknowledged the darkness shrouding your vision, lulling you to sleep. You roll over to your side, facing him. "Next week."
"For how long?"
He follows suit, a palm tucked between his ear and the pillow, sleepy eyes staring back at you beneath warm lights. "A month."
"For modelling?"
"Mhm."
"Can I come see you?"
Your eyes crack open at his request. "You wanna come to New York?"
He shrugs lightly, the knuckle of his thumb reaching up to scratch at his temple. "Yeah, I don't know. Maybe for a few days or somethin'."
"Of course you can, I'd really like that." You smile softly before a wave of exhaustion washes over you, another yawn bursting from your chest. "My pull-out is in the cupboard in the hallway if you wanna sleep here."
He remains quiet for a few moments and you drag your sight to him again in the silence. He simply stares at the space below the pillow where his pointer finger traces absent-minded patterns against the sheets. "Can I sleep here?"
"In my bed?"
"Yeah... it's cosier than the pullout."
A relaxed breath pushes from your lungs, twisting around to face away from him as you pull the blanket over your body. "Okay, don't fart."
He chuckles, turning around to face the opposite direction. "Okay, I won't."
The second he hears your voice, his head lifts. The tension that had begun coiling tightly in his stomach at your potentially forgotten promise loosens almost instantly, and a smile breaks across his lips at the sound of your boots echoing through the courtyard. He pushes himself from the steps, slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder to meet you half way.
His arms spread open instinctively, and you slide into them without hesitation, settling as though the distance was never there in the first place. He finds the pressure in shoulders softening, cheek softly brushing the side of your hair.
Months of rushed phone calls, letters exchanged, assistants relaying schedules, missed timings and promises of soon all fade somewhere into the distance. He never found himself losing hope once, knowing that some day when the tides turn he’ll be able to reach for you once again. He hadn’t even processed how long it had truly been until now. Until you’re standing here again, warm beneath his hands and smelling faintly of perfume and champagne.
You both pull back and he finally takes a proper look at you. Your makeup is seemingly untouched as dark liner sweeps across your eyes and glossy lips catch beneath the courtyard light, possibly from a shoot. Your curls have softened throughout the evening, falling around your shoulders in a way that looks much better than whatever the stylists had intended. Denim clings to your figure as though it was tailored specifically for you.
“I’m so sorry, I thought you were coming later.” The words tumble out slightly too fast, and you shake your head lightly to regain your rhythm. “I had promised Violet and Emory to go out for drinks after our shoot, but I might’ve had one too many. But honestly? The shoot was awful and the director was relentless, so kinda needed it. I’m fine now, though.” You glance towards him again. “Anyway, have you been waiting long?”
The two of you begin heading towards the house, shoulders brushing every so often.
Michael would check his watch every couple of minutes into his conference, repeatedly readjusting his thin-framed aviators and pursing his lips to one side in feigned thought whilst listening to the endless pitches being thrown around the table. When the time was right, his plan was to slip out the meeting as stealthily and unnoticed as possible. However, the right time never came. Quincy could sense his restlessness, nudging him with an elbow to force him back to reality, and so he was forced to stay composed. Before he realised, the minutes had stretched into hours and the day melted into the night.
The second the meeting finally came to a close, he practically launched himself from his chair with a rushed apology and hurried through the building. He swerved people with such urgency as if the world was ending rather than him simply going to a sleepover. He almost tripped over his own feet upon approaching the car, tugging a faded cap over his curls as he urged Bill to drive home as soon as possible. The car then weaved through the streets as the city buzzed with bright coloured lights and typical weekend night chaos.
His mother was faced with a simple nod of acknowledgment upon arriving back at Hayvenhurst, her incessant questioning about where he could possibly be rushing off to at this time of night unanswered. He grabbed a bag, stuffing it with all the essentials scattered around his room, making a mental note to maybe clean it once he gets back, and hurried down the stairs again, only to find himself swerving back around with a groan in realisation that he forgot his toothbrush in such a frenzy.
Michael reminded Bill to stop at a nearby store so he could pick up some snacks, uncertain whether you had actually remembered to purchase M&Ms after mentioning them during your phone call. Regardless of that, you can never have too many snacks, and by the time he reached the register his arms were filled with packs of them alongside Reese’s Pieces, Twizzlers, and more bags of popcorn that neither of you realistically needed.
Upon arrival at your familiar estate, security informed him that you weren’t home yet. He thought about turning around entirely for a brief moment, a drop in his stomach at the thought of your loosely made plans slipping from your mind beneath the chaos of the evening. Though, the thought disappeared just as quickly when he insisted on waiting, brushing off the apprehension. The guards hesitated, but after simply lowering his sunglasses from the bridge of his nose and holding their gaze, they eventually relented with an understanding nod.
And after a brief argument about leaving him there alone, Bill was eventually told to come back in the morning. He then settled upon the steps without a complaint, simply taking in the magic of dancing stars in the night sky and gentle rush of water from the fountain.
That was over an hour ago.
"No, not long."
A lie, technically.
"Amazing!"
You begin fiddling around in your handbag before pulling out a set of keys. They jingle in your hands as you shuffle through for the correct one, pausing and pulling air through your nose when you’ve gone through the entire ring to no avail. “I think I’m still a little tipsy.”
Michael chuckles at your quiet frustration, collecting the keys from your warm fingertips and quickly identifying the one he’s memorised to be yours from the countless times he’s seen you unlock the front door. He smiles down at your murmur of appreciation as you step in first, and he’s not far behind to be engulfed with the familiar environment of your home.
Warm vanilla lingers in the air, clinging to the walls and furniture as though the entire place has absorbed you over time. Delicate light spills from a nearby lamp onto the white marble floors in the hallway that stretch long ahead. There's a pair of heels abandoned beside the spiral staircase, lazily kicked off one evening and forgotten there ever since. Golden-framed photographs line the walls on either side, frames catching the light and complementing the lavender painted in smooth, muted strokes behind them.
His loafers click against the floor behind you until he pauses by one photograph in particular.
It’s the two of you from a few years back and the memory becomes crystal clear in his mind. Your arms are looped loosely around his neck, his hands resting gently at your waist as you both grin into the camera like children who still perceived the world as rainbows and sunshine. Michael still believes the world is just as magical, however things were simpler back then. A time when adulthood still felt far away when in reality it was just hidden around the corner, in the leadup to his first independent album Off the Wall and when you had only recently moved out of your family home.
“You gotta replace this frame,” he suddenly calls out, lingering in front of the photograph a moment longer. It’s strange because it feels so long ago and now he can’t even recognise himself, a faint crease forming between his brows as he takes in his former tuft of thick curly hair and a flattened nose. “I don’t even look like that anymore.”
Your reply comes from somewhere deeper in the house, slightly distant. “Still the same person, Michael—oh, hey baby!”
Michael moves away from the photograph to follow the sound of your voice into the open-plan kitchen and lounge area. The ceiling casts warm-hued light across creamy basket woven sofas and glass coffee tables. Large windows are shielded by ivory flowing curtains, stretching from floor to ceiling and overlooking the sprawling gardens behind. Moonlight pools faintly against glass and stars shimmer beyond.
You’re half disappeared into the fridge and rummaging through its contents when he arrives. A small ball of fluffy silver fur peeks out from behind the fridge door, comfortably tucked in your arm before her bright eyes settle on him instead, a soft purr rumbling from her chest.
"Aw, Cleo!" He coos at her when you turn around, carefully taking the cat from your arms whilst you pull a few things from the fridge. He begins to stroke her silky fur as she nudges her head into his palm, her little mewls instantly warming his heart. “Wow, she’s gotten so big since the last time I saw her.”
“I know, right?” You set a couple bottles of water onto the countertop alongside everything else, using an arm to nudge the door shut. “I hired someone to look after her whenever I’m away, but honestly, she just acts like she owns the place now.”
Michael laughs in response, crouching down to set Cleo onto the tiled floor when she begins to wriggle impatiently in his arms. She lands gracefully before padding off somewhere deeper into the house with her tail flicking by behind her. There’s a smile on your face as you watch her vanish into a corner before you begin to pop open the lid of one of the glass containers on the countertop, sliding it towards him. He peers over to see a few slices of fruit neatly arranged beside some crackers and small cubes of cheese.
"Oh, thank you."
Yet instead of reaching for the food, he finds his gaze lowering as his fingers drift towards the sleeve of his military-style jacket, absentmindedly pulling at a loose thread near the cuff. He can feel your gaze questioning his antics. “You don’t have to eat anything, y’know. I’m not gonna force you.”
“No, no. I will.” He swallows the mental battle and reaches down to pick up a cracker, taking a small bite, his expression unreadable.
You watch him carefully, perching your hip against the counter. "Have you eaten anything today?"
“Yeah.” He glances up and nods when you still don’t seem fully convinced. “They had stuff at my meeting earlier, but I was just kinda wanting popcorn all day.”
Your eyes remain fixed on him a moment longer, notably analysing his frail frame that has narrowed even more since the last time you saw each other. Discomfort crawls beneath his skin as he forces his sight elsewhere.
“Okay.” You spin away from the counter and Michael exhales a shaky breath. “I’ll choose to believe you, idiot.”
Minutes later you’ve both settled onto the couch, jackets strewn on armchairs and shoes kicked off somewhere in the dimly lit room. The familiar opening of The Wizard of Oz plays on the television as you toss over a pair of cozy, pink sheets. Michael’s tucked into the corner beside you, his hand automatically reaching for the bowl of popcorn. You quickly wipe it from his reach and gesture towards the packs of M&Ms instead. He huffs in response, playfully rolling his eyes and reaching towards the coffee table where the rest of your sweet feast lays in wait. He tears it open as your eyes remain glued to the screen, adding a sprinkle of chocolate-coated colour. “Hm, yum.”
Alcohol has softened the edges of your energy as you rest beside him. One leg is tucked beneath you, your knee brushing against his thigh. Buttery popcorn begins to waft your senses before he steals the bowl into his lap and begins shovelling handfuls into his mouth. "Hey! What the hell?"
He speaks with a mouthful, “told ya I was craving popcorn.”
You scoff at his behaviour, elbowing him beneath the blanket only for a laugh to rumble from his chest. “Ew. Please shut your mouth and save some for me.”
"Can't you just get me more?"
"How the hell could you command me to do something in my own home?"
Michael chuckles once more as he finds himself sinking further into the couch beside you. The silence between you feels comforting as the film is brought back to your attention. You both alternate between snacks, sharing them with each other and tossing occasional remarks about the characters on screen.
“So, my meetings. I had a bunch of them today about the album,” he starts, and you hum in interest whilst chewing on a piece of a Twizzler. “We were looking at sales and publicity, and it’s doing well. Like, really well.”
You readjust your position, swallowing before responding. "Mhm, that's good. That's what you wanted."
"Yeah, no it is." He trails off for a moment, picking at the fluffy edge of the blanket as though he’s trying to find the correct words. "I’m happy with it. I worked real hard on it. It’s just… Ron wants me to do interviews and Quincy already wants me to start my next album. It’s like… everyone had something they wanted from me.”
"Is that a bad thing?"
He puffs air from his nose, still fiddling. “I don’t know. It just feels like a lot sometimes.”
You twist your neck to face him, finding him already angled towards you. “Michael, you are pretty much everywhere right now. I can’t even leave the house without a mention of your name somewhere. They’re just… keeping it going. That’s all.”
He nods slowly, but your words don’t quite settle with him. “Yeah. I just… I don’t know. I want Thriller to sit for a while. To let it breathe. I don’t want the interviews, I want privacy.”
You can tell this has been sitting with him for a while. The way his thoughts only seem to settle properly as he says them out loud to you, like he's still figuring them out as they leave his mouth.
“Y’know, people don’t really bother you the way they bother me. I feel like that’s a good thing.” He shifts in his spot as your eyes narrow, processing his words. “The press are always up my ass now. It’s not like they’re asking you about how many pairs of underwear you own. Like… how does someone even answer that?”
Something between a laugh and a scoff escapes past your lips. You pull the blanket higher around your shoulders, as if a cool breeze had burst through the windows. “It’s not like that. It’s not that they don’t bother me. They just… focus on specifics.”
His head tilts in question. "What do you mean?"
“Like…” You glance towards the television for a second before looking back at him. “What I look like. What I’m wearing. Where I’ve been seen. Who I’m with. That kind of stuff.”
Your shoulders lift in a small shrug and Michael blinks, eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “That’s still you… it’s the same thing.”
You shake your head. “It's not. It's fine–you don't get it."
He opens his mouth to press further, but open seeing your gaze shift back to the television, quietly establishing an end to the conversation, he stops. There’s a shift between you as he leans back into the couch, waiting a moment longer than necessary for you to say something. “I’m sorry, Juliette. You can explain–”
"It's fine, Michael. Please, just forget it."
The words land quickly, firmer than before. You draw your knees to your chest beneath the blanket as your gaze fixes ahead onto the movie. He watches you for a little too long, your quiet discomfort radiating and pulling at something in his chest. He swallows, scratching the back of his neck before reaching for the bowl of popcorn on the table. He picks up a kernel, rolling it between his thumb and pointer finger, but his attention won’t settle back onto the movie.
“Well, unfortunately for me, the world would collapse if Michael Jackson stopped doing interviews.”
The sentence catches you slightly off-guard but a smile begins to slowly tug at your lips. You reach for a handful of popcorn. “Oh, absolutely. Society would crumble.”
"Buildings would collapse."
"Women would faint on the streets."
"They already do that."
You almost choke on your popcorn. “Oh my God."
Michael grins as your reaction, his hand searching around the bowl for any remaining M&Ms. “It’s true. Saw it happen with my own eyes.”
Your laughter begins to settle as you shake your head. “Yeah, sure. Your ego is insane lately."
“Ego?” He nudges your leg beneath the blanket, as if genuinely affronted. “What ego? Julie, I’m being serious.”
"Mhm."
You don't even bother to look at him properly, too busy hiding a smile behind another mouthful of popcorn as you tug the bowl away from him.
“Alright then,” he says slowly, pausing before turning to you. “Explain the jacket I had ruined by some woman who ripped the sleeve clean off.”
Your head snaps towards him, eyes wide with disbelief. "Seriously?"
"Yup.” He pops the end of the word, brows raising with a dramatic nod. "Security had to peel her off of me. It was my favourite jacket too."
"Aw.” You pout at him mockingly. “What a tragedy."
"I know."
You stare at each other for a moment afterwards, the television flickering across both your faces beneath the dim lights. Laughter still lingers in your expression and he narrows his eyes in suspicion before glancing down at the bowl in your hands. It’s for no more than a split second and you notice it instantly, but it’s too late because he’s already lunging for it.
Your jerk back with a laugh, clutching the bowl to your chest, except you throw yourself too far into the cushions. Michael follows without thinking, reaching across you just as the bowl slips from your grip entirely for popcorn and M&MS to scatter across the carpet.
Michael ends up half-fallen on top of you, an arm trapped beside your waist as the two of you stare at the disaster on the floor in stunned silence.
Your morning and afternoon ended up smoothing into a flurry of commitments that swept you from one side of Los Angeles to the other.
Your eyes peeled open to the early winter light as it began to flood the stillness of your room, but the moment your gaze landed on the gold-dusted clock ticking mercilessly on the wall, the realisation hit like a ton of bricks; you had overslept by 45 minutes.
Scrambling from the bed, you headed into the shower. The water barely had time to turn warm before you were stepping out again, which felt mildly criminal considering how early it was. Clothes were pulled on without much thought and makeup was applied just carefully enough to look effortless. Pretty ironic, considering that looking effortless usually required the most effort of all.
By the time you finally made it downstairs, your bag half-zipped and sunglasses perched carelessly on your head, your driver was knocking on the door and reminding you that traffic was beginning to build within the city. You managed to grab whatever pieces of fruit you had lying around the kitchen, slipped into a pair of soft ballet flats and rushed out the door.
"Closer, girls! Amazing!"
Polaroids and portfolios littered the tables at your agency, catching small strips of sunlight between thin panelled windows. Assistants hurried between offices with clipboards tucked to their chests, their heels clicking against the marbled floor with every trot. Garments racks squeaked through the corridors as they faintly clung onto the smell of perfume and cigarette smoke. Telephones rang relentlessly to the point where you could still hear them scream after they had long stopped.
Somewhere in between discussing upcoming bookings with your agent and sorting through a fresh set of headshots that all looked vaguely identical to the last, your name was called from across the room. An assistant gestured towards the telephone pressed against her ear.
You weren’t surprised to hear your father’s voice on the other end, knowing that it’s in his nature to call your agency directly to gauge your whereabouts. As though he doesn’t trust you despite the fact that you listen to every word he says. Every piece of advice. Every instruction. Rarely questioning any of it.
You greeted him softly, trying to make casual conversation by explaining your day, asking about his own, before he curtly interrupted to shower you with questions about your upcoming New York trip. You decided to remain vague — experience had taught you that specifics only invited further questions. Questions that, with time would be answered but because of his meddling traits would only lead to why’s and where’s and who’s and when’s. You apologised for a lack of clarity, sounding far more sincere than it actually felt, and hung up soon after.
"Beautiful!"
Soon after, you left the building and headed to the car. Your driver eased through the crowded city streets as a cool breeze drifted in through the windows. The last traces of sunlight began to vanish behind the horizon and traded for another building drowning in pale artificial light. Lately, most of your days seemed to end that way, but it’s nothing you could complain about.
Violet spotted you first and Emory soon after, rushing over with armfuls of hugs and kisses pressed to your cheeks as they dramatically lamented about how a week without contact was far too long. You laughed at their warmth, but amidst all the chatter you were ushered into the dressing room without another thought.
Stylists soon fluttered in like a flock of birds, already in motion before they fully entered the room. They tugged at your hair with heated tools and brushed colours across your skin with practiced precision, evidently shaping you into a version of yourself you only recognise beneath studio lights.
"So sexy! I wish I could take you all home right now!"
The statement immediately catches the three of you off guard, and your composure breaks as laughter begins to spill across the set. You exchange a brief glance with Emory and Violet, silently judging the nature of the director’s words through wide eyes, before a smile settles on your face again. Professional and rehearsed.
Though hours later, the novelty has worn off.
Denim clings to your skin with growing discomfort, the waist of your jeans cinched tightly enough for faint indentations of metal buttons to scatter across your lower stomach. A thin sheen gathers across your temples and exposed skin to draw the makeup crew back in with hurried dabs of a sponge, preserving the illusion of perfection. The muscles in your face begin to ache from holding controlled expressions for so long and your back threatens to give beneath all the arching and repositioning.
It’s all part of the process.
You’ve alternated in front of the backdrop individually. Seated on stools or lowered onto the floor, twisted into different poses beneath relentless direction. Suggestions. Adjustments. Recommendations. Every instruction is absorbed carefully in hopes of producing an outcome that satisfies everyone in the room, including the nit-picky director and stylists who glance at their watches every few minutes with bouncing legs, all while Violet and Emory fill the silence behind the camera with high-pitched whistles and exaggerated praise.
"And, cut!"
A breath escapes your lips before you had even realised you were holding it. Your shoulders drop as your posture softens, fingers threading loosely through your hair. Beside you, Emory sighs and Violet’s head falls into your shoulder, clearly exhausted with the hours of back-to-back posing.
You wait in silence as the photographers flick through the final shots, the soft click of the camera fading into low murmurs. The open space around you almost feels tense, like a weight has been dropped and dragged you all towards it. The director hums in approval, occasionally pointing out a frame he likes, and nodding to himself as if confirming something only he can see.
Then finally, he claps his hands together.
“Alright everyone, that’s a wrap!”
A round of applause ripples throughout the studio followed by a few relieved cheers. Chatter quickly grows through the studio between crew members, attention peeling away from the three of you as Violet and Emory pull you into a hug. You’re sharing comments about the director, and how much longer he had dragged on the session than it needed to be. But you’ve started to find that almost normal — everyone toys with perfection and the notion of creating something that molds to that idea as close as possible, as if it’s something that can be gained through hours and hours of hard work rather than just taking a step back and reevaluating the circumstances.
You spot the director when his attention shifts to you from the camera crew, making his way over. His eyes drag across the three of you with an identifiable hunger that makes your smile inch down and your limbs stiffen. “Beautiful girls, you did absolutely incredible. Gorgeous.”
He hugs each of you separately, hands lingering at the waist too long, the scent of cologne and cigarette smoke clinging to him unpleasantly. He then steps back, admiring the three of you as a collective as though you’re still standing beneath camera lights. “I knew you girls would give me something good. Please, help yourself to the refreshments. God knows you’ve earned it after being looked at all day.”
And the second he turns away, relief trickles down your spine.
You all end up drifting towards the foldout table arranged near the edge of the studio where an assortment of refreshments has been laid out for the models and crew to pick at throughout the evening. Fruit platters have begun to dry at the edges, bowls of crackers and cheese, untouched bottles of water, cartons of orange and apple juice and several bottles of champagne resting in melting ice buckets beneath the heat of the lights.
Violet’s eyes brighten immediately in sight of the champagne. She reaches for a bottle with exaggerated excitement, already beginning to peel back the foil. “Well, I guess we’re starting early tonight. Am I right?”
Emory reaches for an empty flute, holding it out towards Violet. “Oh, hell yeah. God knows we’ve earned it after being looked at all day.”
You all laugh together, though yours fades quicker as the anticipation of your diverted plans rises. The weight suddenly rests heavy on your shoulders and you almost don’t want to break their bubble of contentment. But it has to be done. “I, um…” You pick up a glass, twirling the stem loosely between your fingers. “I forgot to mention, but Michael’s coming over.” Both their heads snap towards you so quickly it feels like you’re being placed under a spotlight. “I can stay out for a little. He said he’d be late, so.”
“Oh, wow.” Violet pops the cork from the bottle, flinching slightly when champagne dribbles down the sides before she begins pouring into Emory’s glass. “I can’t believe you’re leaving us for Michael Jackson.”
A small smile spreads across your lips once you sense Violet’s sarcastic tone and from there, you know that they both will be comfortable with you ditching them halfway through the night. Of course, it’s unfair to cancel on pre-made plans at the last minute, but they both know how you haven’t seen Michael in months and would jump at the first opportunity to change that.
“Oh, I know.” You sigh dramatically, feigning annoyance with a tilt of your head and pursing your lips. “It’s a real shame we’re friends.”
“I actually don’t understand how you’re not in love with him, Juliette,” Emory cuts in, taking a sip from her flute. “He can sing, he can dance. Like, what can’t he do?”
“Be normal, for starters.” Violet snorts quietly as she begins to pour into your glass. “He snores when he sleeps and spits popcorn whenever he laughs too hard.”
“Aww,” Violet coos, clutching the bottle to her chest. “See, that’s so cute!”
Your lips pull together as your head shakes in clear dissatisfaction. “It really isn’t. Trust me, it’s not something you wanna see.”
Violet points a finger as you take a sip, feeling a familiar tingle singe at your throat. “See, you say that now, but one day you’ll realise you’re secretly in love and we’ll all have to suffer through it.”
Emory smiles into her glass as you laugh, brushing off her ridiculous notion with a wave of your hand. "Yeah, if this was love I'd rather launch myself into a gutter. Please, shut up."
. . .
“Heading home, Juliette?”
Outside, night had completely fallen over Los Angeles. The winter coolness is now apparent with a chillier breeze that drifted through the streets, carrying the distant sounds of traffic and music from somewhere beyond the buildings. The skyline shimmers like scattered diamonds and jewels beside a large floating pearl, the last ever traces of sunlight swallowed by vibrant blues and pinks of neon signs.
Your head spins slightly just as you take a seat in the back of the car, the world softening at the edges as though you’re slipping through a half-dreamed fantasy. “Hm, yeah.” Your head falls back against the leather seat with a soft sigh. “Thank you, Frank.”
The car pulls away from the curb and streetlights pass until they begin to blur into one motion. You notice that the city never really seems to sleep, it just exchanges sunlight for electricity. “Had a little too much to drink tonight?”
Your eyes narrow as you try to recall the abundance of liquor in your system. “I had… a few glasses of champagne. Then a couple of cocktails. And maybe a shot.” You twist your head towards him as if searching for his approval. “That’s not a lot, right?”
Frank glances at you through the rear-view mirror, amused. "Certainly not an amount I'd recommend driving after."
“Oh, what? I’d be totally fine to drive.” However, the second the car comes to a halt at a traffic light, your head knocks lightly against the seat behind you, forcing you to reconsider your statement. “Hm, maybe not yet.”
One drink became two, and two became three before you had fully processed it.
Violet and Emory had already planned to head to an industry party afterwards, so it didn’t help to see them knocking back numerous shots of tequila with such confidence and puffing cigarettes as though the night had only just begun. You had tried to resist at first, content with simply just watching them spiral into the kind of energy you knew you wouldn’t match tonight. You tried. You really did. But all it took was a glance at the bar menu for your resolve to loosen, blinking twice upon seeing rows of cocktails listed in delicate script, each one sounding dangerously more appetising than the last.
Given it was any other night and you would have found yourself ordering through the entire list without hesitation. Tonight, you sat with your glass in hand and pretended restraint was easier than it actually was. A thought had crossed your mind, hazy and half-formed beneath the weight of the evening and seeing the thrill of your friends finally letting loose on a long awaited night out. Cancel on Michael. Though it dissolved as quickly as it came. You couldn’t. The loose memory of how unpredictable his life has become these past few months disposed of the thought immediately.
Despite everything pulling at him, he's still choosing to see you.
You’re not entirely sure if it’s out of habit. If it’s him staying faithful to some promise made years and years ago about staying in each other’s lives no matter what obstacles are thrown your way. It was something along those lines, you’re sure, and you refrain from overthinking it in case it ever changes. In case Michael’s growing fame finally takes a firm grasp on his ego to separate him from the ones who were by his side from the beginning. A star shrouded with clouds to forget the ground below. Although, you don’t think it ever will. He’s proven himself to be there for you this entire time, and you wouldn’t want to be the reason he isn’t anymore by assuming such unlikely scenarios.
Over the course of your ten-year friendship, communication was a constant. Even when you were pulled away to New York for modelling work or flown abroad for filming, and even when Michael was swept into tours across the country and commitments with his family, letters and phone calls became a staple. Although, it wasn't always frequent. Sometimes it was rushed between stage entrances or late at night when the rest of the world was asleep. Sometimes it was nothing more than a few mere minutes of catching up before one of you was pulled away again. But it was always there. Prioritised.
A thread that never fully broke.
The car rolls forward at the next light and outside passes in slow-motion as if it's happening beneath layers of water. Slightly distant. Muted. Softened. The air inside the car is warm and still and leather from the seat clings faintly to your skin. The remnants of champagne are still lightly sitting in your system and for a while, there is nothing but the low hum of the radio and gentle rhythm of the city outside.
Until the music shifts. Static crackles through the silence and Frank reaches forward almost absentmindedly, turning the dial a few notches higher as though he’s suddenly recognised the opening beats of the song. Billie Jean floods the car in an instant. Smooth, precise and impossible to mistake. It settles into the space around you as though it belongs there, like it always has belonged there, like his voice was meant to be heard by the world.
Frank begins humming softly in tune with Michael's voice, and a smile finds its way onto your lips at the thought of finally seeing him again.
Not completely, but enough for the tension in his shoulders to loosen beneath the weight of sequins and fabric. Enough for his eyes to flutter shut briefly, just before he cracks them open in awareness of his surroundings.
Chaos surrounds him, but it's the kind of chaos he’s learned to move through with normality.
The dressing room feels suffocating. Hairspray hangs thick and potent in the air beneath the warmth of milky ceiling lights, bright enough for his eyes to ache. Production weaves in and out around him with clipboards tucked tightly to their chests, their voices overlapping in sharp bursts of disagreement that for some reason never seem to resolve into anything useful or tangible. Costume and makeup tug at him every few moments as they pass, adjusting his collar or pressing sponges to his skin, combing through his curls or straightening the creases of his undershirt. Effectively correcting all the imperfections that he doesn’t have the time to notice.
A voice across the room calls his name, another taps his shoulder. His coordinator gestures to the watch on his wrist as though time is the only thing he should be acknowledging right now. He ignores it all, sucking air into his lungs and facing the wall as if it’s the only thing that could anchor him in the midst of everything pulling him apart.
"Hey.” His voice falters on the way out, like even that small word has to push through everything else first. “Did you just get in?”
"Yeah. I was at the agency all day sorting through bookings." You sound slightly distant, voice softened by background movement. "Then I had a casting call that Dad signed me up for."
"That's good.” His eyes flick to the mirror to catch himself in the reflection. All sequins and lights and glamour and someone he can’t fully focus on right now. “How do you feel?”
"I think they went well." There's a pause on the other end as you shuffle around and finally settle down. "He's pushing for me to take more acting jobs again since I've kinda taken the back seat. We'll just see, I guess."
"Yeah.” He nods slightly as though you could see him. "It'll be fine. I have faith in you."
"Thank you, Michael—Forget about me, though. The album?" Your laugh filters through the receiver and cuts through the room like the first stream of morning sunlight. “It’s incredible, like actually. I love it so much. I can’t believe you hid it all from me!”
A grin crawls onto his face before he can stop it, head ducking with a familiar feeling of timidity. "Thank you, Juliette."
"Don't even get me started. Thriller? The fact that you chose that to be the album name is hilarious. It’s amazing. It's been on repeat for weeks now."
Somewhere across the room someone else calls his name, and it’s louder this time, more impatient. He simply shrugs it off as though nothing else really matters at this moment.
"You really need to give me a debrief on every song. I'm serious. Every single one."
"I know, I know." Michael laughs beneath his breath, fingertips scratching at his temple before dropping to his side again. The last few weeks have blurred together in a way he finds impossible to separate. Time has slipped from his grasp like the beads of a broken bracelet, falling to scatter at his feet before he even realises it. All between the constant cameras and performances and the people who always seem to be needing a piece of him. “I’ve just been so busy with the release. And on top of everything, Joseph is still making me rehearse with my brothers. I’m exhausted.”
Movement is second nature, energy is precious.
"You sound it. It's not easy being watched all the time like that." Your voice is gentle and something in his chest loosens with the concern, at being understood without needing to expand. "At least everybody loves you. Including me."
"I love you too." He reaches up again to twirl the wire around his finger. "I miss you a lot, actually."
"I miss you. Remind me, when did we schedule our next sleepover?"
"We didn't." He cranes his neck back to let his eyes sweep across the room, finding all gazes burning into his side. "I could come over tomorrow night? If you're free."
"Yeah, of course." You pause for a moment on the other end, your words cautious. "But aren't you busy?"
The offer had slipped from his mouth without properly thinking, as if his mind was set on what it wanted and his body had no overlying judgement. A complete shot in the dark.
"I might be kinda late, but I'll be there. Promise."
Because somehow, the growing distance between you seems more important to amend than anything else in his life right now.
"Okay, that's good because you better. It's been way too long. I've got popcorn in the kitchen that's been crying your name for months now."
A hand attends to his curls as he laughs. "Good, because I've been craving popcorn and M&Ms since the last time we saw each other."
"Oh, I'll have to head to the store for M&Ms."
"You better, or..."
"Or what, huh?"
Silence shifts between you before it's interrupted by your laugh. "Yeah, just get the M&Ms."
"Alright, you piece of shit."
Someone then begins to tap on his shoulder persistently, and he brushes it off before realising it's his coordinator who gestures towards the stage with a look of urgency. His breath hitches in his throat, smile falling. "Oh man, I'm so sorry but I need to go. See you tomorrow."
"See you."
And when you hang up, a smile lingers on your face as though he’s left a moment of him behind in the silence. As though the sound of his voice after weeks of misaligned timings finally settles into reality. As if the realisation of finally seeing him manifests quietly and bubbles beneath your ribs.
With a gentle sigh, you release the wire that had tangled between your fingers during the call and prop the phone back on your bedside table. You rest your head against silk pillows for a moment, simply bathing in the aftermath of the call. It was briefer than you expected, but what did you expect? Knowing how hectic his schedule is, it’s almost selfish of you to think you should’ve gotten him for an extra five minutes. However, his certainty to see you tomorrow pushes away any other thought. And that’s all that matters.
The glossy, polished vinyl of Michael’s new album peeks from the sleeve as it rests at the corner of your vanity, his older albums half-hidden on the other end and the edges softly worn through years of handling. You find yourself drifting towards it, padding across the soft carpet of your room and taking a seat on the plush purple velvet of your vanity stool. A large glass mirror casts back the reflection of your eyes that are trained on Michael’s leaning frame in black and white, his name sprawled over the top left of the sleeve in lazy cursive. It’s so incredibly unique and different. An album with an approach so drastic and peculiar that the world deems it as a blessing rather than anything else.
You’ve noticed how the world has begun to revolve around him like he’s the only source of light. His name litters the streets on signs and billboards, in shop windows and passing conversations. His records spin in local boutiques as customers hum along or overcrowded clubs till early sunrise. Michael’s voice belongs to the world, in a good way, and his fame has skyrocketed so high that it would take years for you to pass the thick, dense clouds to meet him.
And despite that, none of it seems underserved.
Beside the vinyls sits a thick stack of folded paper barely held together by a worn elastic band, the creased edges and rushed cursive from years of writing pulling them from the refined glamour of your vanity. Flashy album covers clash with the softness of satin ribbons, glass perfumes and scattered gold jewellery. They look oddly displaced, but it was a personal choice to keep them there, because dedicating support to your best-friend over keeping the cohesive aesthetic of your room was a non-negotiable.
Your fingers drift absentmindedly towards the stack before you pause and begin slipping off your jewellery instead. Bracelets and rings peel from your wrists and fingers one by one before landing with a soft clink on your pink heart-shaped dish, soft lighting catching against diamonds and gold. Beside it rests a thick white ceramic mug painted with lilac and yellow flowers, the steam long since dissipated as your camomile and honey tea sits lukewarm.
Instead of reaching for it, you begin to remove the pins from your hair, counting somewhere between five and ten in total and dropping them somewhere into the corner. You reach for a bottle of cleanser and cotton pads and slowly begin to wipe the day away. All the heavy makeup. The carefully arranged version of you built for waiting areas. For casting rooms. A form of you that's more polished and sharper around the edges. You find it exhausting sometimes yet strangely insightful — to slip into lives that don’t belong to you for long enough that pieces of them begin to linger afterwards. Different desires. Different strengths. Different flaws.
Sometimes it can feel less like pretending, and more like uncovering parts of people they never notice in themselves.
A small pile of unopened letters sits at the far end of your vanity, opposite Michael’s dedicated corner. Glancing over, you see your father’s name sitting at the very top and you’re unsure how long it’s been there waiting. Watching you. Taunting you with its potential contents.
You take a lungful of air and take a hold of it in one swift motion. Your thumbnail digs into the seal to tear it open and the letter slips out almost immediately, as if your father’s subconscious somehow ended up trapped inside and ready to confront you. You straighten the paper against the flat surface and your eyes begin to skim the lines, enough to understand the notion of his message but not absorb them.
Acting jobs. Television. Modelling. New York. Red carpets. Fame. Turn up. Continue my legacy. For your own good. Distance with Michael–
You toss the letter somewhere behind you as soon as you reach the comment addressing your friendship with Michael. Your frustration releases itself through a groan, your head flopping into your palms.
He never misses it. That part. The part where he has to explain to you over and over again that Michael’s rise in fame is only detrimental to your own. As if your lives can only exist separately because in the public eye everything is overanalysed to the point where the truth seems fabricated or unreachable.
And part of you agrees with him, but you'd rather not think about that right now.
Your friendship with Michael over the years has evolved to meet the inevitable demands of your schedules. Five years ago, spending time together was part of your routine. Whether that be opening the front door for him during dinner to seeing a bag of snacks in hand, or calling up late at night with the chivalrous decision to head to the nearest diner for shakes and fries. But now it just feels sacred. Phone calls rarely last past midnight and sleepovers are cut in the early hours of the morning before the weight of them has even had time to settle. Time outside of your homes are interrupted by fans squealing in recognition or scrambling over for autographs. Neither of you mind the attention; it’s just that your careers have drifted in different directions, placing you in a quiet bubble of your own priorities.
You reach for one of your drawers to pull out your planner and flip it open to the current week of the year. Your finger slides down the page, trailing past lists of duties and meetings scheduled for tomorrow before pausing at the evening slot. Something vague is written in for the rest of your night, and your lips tighten together upon remembering the plan you had already made days in advance: drinks with some of your modelling friends following a shoot.
And now Michael wants to come over.
The deliberation sits quietly in your brain yet looming with the pressure of a solution. The weight of disappointing someone with cancelled plans is inevitable but you’ve often found that priorities need to be adjusted with a clashing schedule.
You slide out the pen from its allocated slot on the planner and quickly scribble in an amendment to your day, staring at the page for a moment as the decision concludes.
Regardless of a busy schedule, you will make time for your best-friend.
Michael is already sprawled on the floor in front of the television with an abundance of colourful cushions surrounding him, legs crossed in a restless knot of excitement as if he can't sit still in his own skin. His eyes are suctioned to the screen with immense focus, waiting for those endless advertisements to finally give way, including that one Pepsi commercial that slithers beneath his skin every time it plays. He groans beneath his breath, staring harder as if it would somehow vanish them all away and allow the opening title of the movie to appear.
And finally, it does.
"It's on!"
"I'm here! I'm here!"
You scramble into the room, a large bowl of popcorn in one hand and a few crinkling packets of M&Ms in the other. He smiles as you settle in, taking the bowl whilst you tear open a pack and scatter some of the hard-shelled chocolate on top for a pop of colour. The television glow flickers across both your faces, the room engulfing in the smell of warm buttery popcorn.
You scoot closer, knees brushing, and grab the bowl from his hands. "Hey, leave some for me, doofus."
Michael's glance is brief enough to be unacknowledged, chewing softly with his eyes locked on the opening scene of the movie. "I still can't believe you haven't watched this."
"I wanted to watch it with you."
His gaze breaks from the screen to land on you, the corners of his lips tilting at your words. Your vision flickers between him and the television as if they're unsure of where to rest, and a strange tightness forms in your stomach. Something that's impossible to name. Like bees that scatter in many different directions, never settling on one flower.
His stare lingers when you turn back around, intent and unmoving. "What?"
"Nothing."
Silence falls between you as you settle into the rhythm of the movie. That unfamiliar motion in your gut remains steady as the warmth of the room around you deepens. The cushions around you sit displaced, and somewhere in the passing moments where the sun has lowered from the horizon, you've shifted closer to Michael. Your legs touch, fully, and he notices, glancing down. "Are you cold?"
"Uh, no?"
Without hesitation, he adjusts anyway, making space by propping his legs up and folding his arms across them. Your shoulders brush together, his scent more identifiable. Buttered popcorn and a hint of fresh cologne. Lingering as an attempt to mask the chaos of his rehearsals beneath. The physical excursions. Yet, it's familiar. It's as if he carries around a piece of being presentable with him everywhere he goes. Even around you.
He'll spend hours upon hours in studios or on stages, his throat slightly strained or legs slightly sore, only to find his way back to your home. Oftentimes he's tumbling in with a bag of snacks — M&Ms, Reese's, Twizzlers — and a handful of stories to share about his day. You trample up the stairs and almost trip over them every time, door slamming shut behind you, eyes wide with excitement and hands eager to dig into the sweets. The sheets sprawled on your bed end up in a pile on the floor in one swift motion, Michael complaining about the inconvenience of having a bundle of "bed accessories". Though, it's soon forgotten as chatter and laughter continue until the sun emerges, or snores persist till you give up and kick him into the spare bedroom.
Despite it all: despite Michael's exhaustion from an overworked routine, despite your fatigue from shoots and castings, you still find time to spend together.
The room around you blurs into motions of light and sound, just until Michael's gentle voice cuts through your thoughts. "Is this your first scene?"
Your eyes snap to the screen. A familiar set appears and you remember it like the back of your hand. The moments pass quietly in anticipation before the camera pans in your direction.
The sound of your voice fills the room, causing your chest to tighten. Michael's chuckle breaks through when you scoot away and bury your head in your hands, amused at your embarrassment rather than teasing it. An alternate version of you pops up on screen, seemingly polished to perfection. You look like the most fascinating thing in the world. Your hair is styled with purpose, earrings blinging beneath artificial light and a pristine black skirt with the shirt tucked into the waist.
You're effortless in the scene, blending in as if your only purpose was to be there. A foreign demeanour and a head held high with confidence. Each line spills from your mouth like sweet honey. Soft. Controlled. Effortless.
He can't quite comprehend that it's you, it feels like trying to fit together two pieces of a puzzle that won't fit. It can't be you. It's not you.
Not you until your smile flashes the screen.
Michael's gaze shifts to you. You're slouched, knees brought to your chest and head buried between them. Your cardigan slips from one shoulder, revealing a thin spaghetti strap underneath. Jewellery hangs loose on your wrists and your hair falls naturally to shield your face from the world. His expression changes slightly, softening, and something in him shifts without permission.
He's silent for a moment before reaching over and tapping your knee. You jolt upright. "Hey—you said you wanted to watch it with me. You're not even watching it."
You mumble something under your breath, shifting to sit upright and regain focus on the screen.
"Hey, Julie.” He’s quieter this time, and your eyes meet his. "You did really well, and you look amazing."
That same smile that popped on the television returns, as if it was simmering beneath all the tension. "Thank you, Michael."
