Beyoncé wearing Christian Louboutin's gold leather "Harlet" sandals for her 2002 "Work It Out" music video, directed by Matthew Rolston and styled by Tina Knowles.
Synopsis: Grammys '84. You're attending with your boyfriend (reluctantly) and unfortunately, you have to throw hands about your man.
Pairing: Thriller ear!Michael Jackson x black fem!reader
Drea's Note: I saw two posts asking for a fic where reader beats tf outta Diana and I came to deliver. PLUS, I'm in a petty mood after constantly seeing ppl leave the fandom bc of the #that documentary.
Word count: 2.2k
Award shows. Oh, how you hated them. The pretence, the press and especially being around so many coked-up celebrities never felt right to you. Of course, they’d never admit to being drug-addicted losers, but you knew better. What kind of normal person sniffles and fiddles with their nose without actually needing to blow it? Right right. You hated it. As simple as that. You hated it all, loathed it even. But your boyfriend wanted you to be there for him. It’s the Grammys after all, and his latest album is nominated in pretty much every major category. He’s going to win it all. That’s a given. He’s going to sweep up every award, and you’ll be there to kiss him in front of the cameras every single time he gets up to collect another golden gramophone.
Maybe, just maybe, you like that, but that’s a big maybe. Showing off who you are to the rising star. You don’t want to admit it, but your ego inflates every time someone reminds you that you’re dating Michael Jackson. Of course, there's no guarantee that he’ll marry you—he’s yet to bring that conversation up—but who gives a shit? Michael Jackson is yourboyfriend. Yours. And that’s all that matters.
The car ride to Shrine Auditorium and Expo Hall is tedious and silent. You’re stewing in your own self-pity. The idea of simply jumping out of the car crosses your mind. Michael notices.
“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.” He mutters, plucking at your Afro to fluff it up at the back.
“Shut up, Mike. I don’t want to do this.” There’s no venom in your words. Michael knows that. He merely scoffs and lifts your knuckles to his lips.
“You gonna be in a mood all night? The cameras are gonna catch every scowl.” He pecks each knuckle on your hand.
Instead of responding with sarcasm, you turn to him and smile obnoxiously in a silent “I’ll pretend’ manner. Michael snickers. His lips are still lazily grazing your hand as he stares at you. God, you’re so annoyingly sassy, but he loves it. He loves how blunt you are—maybe because he’s had to be sweet and gentle all his life. You’re unmoving, like a mountain withstanding a lightning storm. So sexy. So infuriating. The car drives over a speed bump, breaking the slight sexual tension that had been building between you both. When it turns the corner into the Expo hall parking lot, you swiftly remove your hand from his delicate grip.
Cameras flash in a staccato motion. It’s overwhelming. Nauseating. Michael steps out of the car first, aviators hiding his gorgeous eyes. The cameras flash faster than before, journalists asking senseless questions all at once. Michael pays them little mind, flashing his oh-so-charming smile at them, giving them little satisfaction. He rushes to your side of the car before opening the door for you. He whispers a quick “smile, woman,” into your ear and you oblige. Photographs of you both entering the Hall are taken. Every move you make, every breath and every micro expression is documented. You’re already over it.
The ceremony—to you at least—is lacklustre. A few performances here, award winners there and unnecessary speeches flow through the Hall at a painfully laggard pace. You’re nearing the brink of sleep, but you fight it off. Can you imagine what the press would say if they caught you slumped in a theatre chair at the Grammys? Not only would that embarrass you, but your loving partner. You blink a few times, and finally, finally, Michael’s name is said.
“Male Pop Vocal Performance goes to Michael Jackson!”
And then another.
“The Grammy for Record of the Year goes to…Michael Jackson!”
And another, and another, and another until your lip gloss has finally gone dry from pressing chaste kisses on Michael’s perfectly sculpted face.
Your eyes stay fixed on him, blue-black and gold military-esque jacket glistening under expensive lights. He looks ethereal. Otherworldly. You have to admit you’re enjoying yourself now. Watching your man win 8 awards in one night gives you an indescribable high, a high he seems to notice because when he wins Album of the Year, he dedicates it to you. You kiss the bottom of his chin, a light red lipstick stain glistening on his as he accepts the award onstage. His speech is short but cutting, telling the crowd—and those watching at home—how much you inspired him throughout the album’s creation.
And soon after, the show ends, and the cameras stop broadcasting. You just have to suffer the post-award show interviews, and then you’ll be free from this glitz and glam-covered purgatory. Right?
Wrong.
“We’re going to the after-party,” Michael bounces. he hops smoothly, as if his bones are made of springs.
You want to melt there and then. Michael practically skips to your shared limousine, holding the door open for you to enter. He jumps in after you.
“I’m not going. No way.” You murmur. Michael shakes his head, holding your hand as he did on the way here.
“It’ll be fun! Drinks, food, music and dancing,” he practically sings, words dancing in the air like magic dust, “Please?”
“You’re way too jolly for my liking,” You scoff. He’s used to this, you getting all irritated by his famous lifestyle. He understands. He really does, but tonight is different. He won 8 Grammys for god’s sake; first person to do that, ever. Let alone being a black man to set that record. He’s elated, buzzing with justified pride. You can literally feel him vibrating beside you. “But fine. We’ll go to the damn after-party.”
Celebrities dance and sing alone to their own song in the warmly lit club. Alcohol flows through the room in waves and bodies sway in their elegant outfits. Some stars have changed into completely different attire. Show-offs.
You mingle as much as you can. Michael stays beside you for the most part until he’s swept away by David Bowie. He says something about “wanting to introduce Michael” to a few friends. Your arm reluctantly unhooks itself from Michael as you dolefully watch him vanish into the crowd. With a frustrated smile, you find an empty seat near the back booth in the club. A few stars greet you. Some stable nearby chairs and make small talk with you while others remain standing. You notice a few snorting coke by the bar, sipping on something strong right after.
“Good lord, get me outta here.” You mumble inwardly, pinching the bridge of your nose, disconsolation evident in your mannerism. You can hear your boyfriend's heavenly laugh in the distance. Too heavenly for your liking. A piercing pang drops in your gut and, without further thinking, you get up and stride confidently towards the sound of Michael laughing again. When you make it to him, you see her.
Diana fucking Ross.
“Oh hi!” She gleams mockingly at you, waving her hand in your direction while her other hand caresses Michael’s shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d be here, y/n.”
“Hi,” you mimic her tone, although less enthusiastically. Michael stiffens when he glances in your direction. Your jaw is clenched, and your hands are balled up in tight fists. “Didn’t think you’d be up at this hour either.” You smile wickedly.
Diana laughs it off, her lanky fingers still raking sensually over Michael’s shoulder. Michael doesn’t even move. He remains still, an awkward grin plastered on his even more awkward face. You’re not surprised he’s not moving. Michael has never been good with situations like this, and you’re well aware of the history between him and Diana. Fucking weird either way. There isn’t any situation where a woman should be all ‘touchy feely’ with a man 14 years older than him.
“What’s got you laughing so much, babe?” You question his loud chuckles from a minute earlier. Diana responds for him.
“A little inside joke between us from years ago!” She keeps up the pretence, You wouldn’t understand, sweethearts!”
Sweetheart? Who is she calling sweetheart?
“I have time.” You pry.
“Ah, it's nothing serious.” She grins.
“Seems serious enough to have you eye-fucking my boyfriend.” You quip.
Michael’s eyes widen behind his aviators. The three of you stand in thick, unbreaking pressure unnoticed by the rest of the party. Rage envelopes you in a fuzzy hug. Diana’s hand continues its journey around your man’s shoulder. Her thumb and index finger circle his chin, and without warning, she puckers her lips and kisses Michael right above his chin, leaving a purple lipstick stain on his lower's lip in its wake.
The damn within you cracks. Anger as thick and hot as molten lava seeps from every orifice and pore.
“You fucking bitch! I’m gonna fuck you up—” You lunge forward, your hands grabbing Diana’s hair as you drag her to the ground. The music keeps playing, muffling Diana’s pained and shocked screams. She’s completely taken off guard. Never in her life has anyone of Michael’s dates or girlfriends stood up to her like this. In fact, none of them stuck around long enough to have to deal with bullshit like this.
You straddle her on the floor, fists bashing at every inch of her face and chest. Each blow to her face is met with a curse and wince from her. Diana’s eyes water in agony. She cries for help, but her wails are nullified by the beating rhythm of music. Ironically, Michael’s ‘Beat It’ bounces out of large speakers, loud and deafening. Michael freezes completely. The only thing he manages to move is his hand as he disgustedly wipes Diana’s lipstick stain off his lip. He watches the scene unfold before him, eyes glistening—not with sorrow but with endearment too shameful to admit. You’re going batshit crazy on Diana right now, and he…likes it?
“Heavenly Father…” He mutters in absolute awe for you, “What a woman.”
One loud piteous cry from Diana eventually draws people’s attention, specifically David—who had been the one to take Mike away from your hold hours again. He hooks his arms under yours and drags you off of Diana. You don’t go out without a fight, kicking at her mindlessly as David drags you away. One kick in particular hits her ribs, drawing out a sharp cry from her.
All eyes are on you now. The music has stopped, and murmurs about the debacle travel to and fro. Michael eventually snaps out of his daze. His body shakes off the last remnants of sudden paralysis as he crouches down in front of Diana—not to check on her but to inspect your violent artistry. His large sunglasses hide the glint in his eyes. Diana shields her face in both hands, embarrassment evident in how she curls into herself on the floor.
Behind Michael, David still holds you back. He repeats “calm down” in your ear whenever you try to pounce. Your chest heaves energetically, hands grabbing at David’s arms when you finally try to get yourself together. He doesn’t mind. He’s seen shit like this before. If he was honest, what you did is nothing compared to what he’s witnessed on past occasions.
Soon enough, Michael is at your side, replacing David’s hold on you in a subtle manner. Instead of holding you in an undertook like Bowie had, he lovingly places his warm hands on your waist and hugs you from behind.
“Woman, you’ve done it this time,” Michael whispers. Someone rushes to Diana’s aid while another calls for medical attention. He rubs gentle circles over your hip bone with his thumbs and sighs, looking around the room. Cops could be on their way, though the chance of that is unlikely. Having police in a drug-ridden club would look bad for the Academy and the club itself.
“Who’s she feeling like? Kissing on my man? In front of me!” You lunge forward, but Michael holds you back.
“Enough, pretty thing.” Mike’s tone is stern now. As much as he’d like to entertain this further, he’s aware of how damaging this could be for you both. “Let’s go. She’s not going to press charges.”
“And you know this how?” You scoff and reluctantly ease up in his hold.
“Trust me.” He doesn’t explain further. You know what he means, and you hate it. As much as their…relationship irks you, you know Diana’s got a soft spot for him. If need be, he’ll toy with her heartstrings to get you off the hook.
The limousine ride to your hotel room is quiet. Michael massages your bruised knuckles and chuckles to himself.
“Ain’t shit funny,” you mutter, a faint smile splayed across your makeup-shone face, “I could go to jail.”
“Shoulda thought of that before you went all ‘Muhammad Ali’ on her.” He huffs, spreading his legs and shifting in his seat. He clears his throat when you notice it.
“Really, Mike? You’re sick.” You giggle.
“Might need you to beat up on me too.” Michael jokes bashfully, leaning in to kiss you.
“Boy, wash your face first…and scrub them lips extra hard.” You push him away. He pouts in mock offence but understandably nods and snickers, leaning back in his seat as the car rolls forward through the late night.
I like smut as much as the next person but yall aren't even trying to write anymore. All fanfic on here is just 300 words of sex and then just tagging any character you think fits.
SUMMARY: Michael realizes he has feelings for his best friend.
CONTENT: inspired by the twister and pool scenes in ‘Michael’. Friends with feelings for each other. Fluff. This will probably be a small series! lmk what you guys think.
There was one thing Michael Jackson still hated admitting.
He got lonely easily.
Especially in that weird in-between stage of his life where everything felt like it was changing too fast.
Off the Wall had exploded.
People looked at him differently now.
The pressure was bigger.
The expectations louder.
And somehow the house in Encino felt emptier because of it.
Tonight was supposed to help.
Michael had spent an embarrassingly long time setting up Twister in the living room because he’d convinced himself his brothers would actually play with him for once.
“C’mon,” he tried again, holding up the box dramatically while his brothers grabbed jackets near the front door. “Just one game.”
“We already got plans, Mike.”
“We’re late.”
“We’ll play another time.”
Michael’s shoulders slumped slightly.
“But you said—”
“Another night, man.”
The front door shut behind them.
Silence.
Michael stared at the bright Twister mat spread across the carpet for a second too long before quietly sitting down beside it.
From the kitchen, Katherine Jackson looked over sympathetically.
“Oh baby…”
“I’m fine,” Michael muttered immediately.
Which meant he absolutely wasn’t.
Meanwhile, from his armchair, Joe Jackson barely glanced up from the television.
“You too old to be sulking over games.”
Katherine shot him a sharp look immediately.
Michael just looked down at the mat.
And then the doorbell rang.
Katherine moved to answer it, and seconds later a familiar voice drifted through the hallway.
“Mrs. Jackson, my mom said you forgot your baking dish again—”
Then Y/N L/N appeared in the living room doorway and stopped mid-sentence.
Because spread across the floor was Twister.
Her entire face lit up instantly.
“Oh my God.”
Michael looked up slowly.
Y/N pointed aggressively at the mat.
“Are we playing Twister?”
Michael blinked once.
“…You wanna play?”
“Michael.” She looked genuinely offended. “I love Twister.”
And just like that, something heavy in his chest loosened instantly.
Because Y/N always did this somehow.
She was the Jacksons’ neighbor in Encino. Loud, funny, dramatic Y/N who showed up unexpectedly and filled rooms without even trying.
Katherine adored her.
Joe absolutely did not.
“She distracts him,” he always grumbled whenever she came around.
Which honestly? Only became more true with time.
Because Michael looked at Y/N differently than he looked at everybody else.
Like he could breathe easier around her.
Even if neither of them fully realized why yet.
Y/N dropped onto the floor beside the mat dramatically.
“Set it up.”
Michael laughed softly for the first time all evening.
“It’s already set up.”
“Oh.” Y/N crossed her legs. “So this is serious.”
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Twister turned out to be a horrible idea immediately.
Mostly because Y/N cheated constantly.
“You moved your foot!”
“I adjusted it.”
“That’s cheating.”
“It’s called strategy.”
Michael laughed so hard he nearly collapsed onto the mat.
God, He needed this.
Needed someone who didn’t treat him like a celebrity or a machine or the future of music.
Just Michael.
At one point Y/N got completely tangled beneath his arm and burst into helpless laughter.
“We’re stuck.”
“Move your hand.”
“I literally can’t.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“Yeah, well, you like that about me.”
Michael opened his mouth automatically.
Paused.
Then smiled shyly instead. “I actually do.”
Y/N blinked at him for half a second too long before immediately looking away.
Because sometimes Michael smiled at her and her brain genuinely stopped functioning for a moment.
Not that she’d ever admit that out loud.
Meanwhile Katherine watched the entire thing from the kitchen trying not to smile too obviously.
Joe, unfortunately, noticed too. And he didn’t like it one bit.
Because Michael had spent all week locked in the studio obsessing over demos and rehearsals and choreography. Focused. Disciplined.
Then Y/N showed up and suddenly he was sprawled across the floor laughing over Twister like the weight of the world wasn’t sitting on his shoulders anymore.
Joe frowned.
“Boy’s distracted.”
Katherine looked at him flatly.
“Boy’s happy.”
Joe didn’t answer.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
Eventually the game dissolved into complete chaos because Y/N stopped following the rules entirely.
Then somehow they ended up on the couch with multiple cartons of ice cream spread across the coffee table while an old black-and-white movie played softly in the background.
Y/N sat curled into the corner beneath a fuzzy blanket she’d stolen from Michael’s room earlier.
“This,” she declared seriously around a spoonful of strawberry ice cream, “is the peak human existence.”
Michael laughed softly beside her.
“You say that about everything.”
“Only because I appreciate the beauty in life.”
“You said mozzarella sticks changed your life last week.”
“But they did, Mikey!”
Michael shook his head fondly.
She was absolutely ridiculous.
But tonight something warm settled quietly in his chest every time she made him laugh. Because earlier she’d noticed he was upset immediately.
And instead of brushing it off or teasing him, she stayed. Like his feelings mattered.
Like he mattered.
And Michael didn’t realize how badly he needed that until now.
The movie played softly.
The lights stayed low.
Y/N’s voice slowly got quieter and quieter while she rambled about how old movies needed ‘better kissing scenes.’
Then, eventually, silence.
Michael glanced sideways and froze slightly.
Because Y/N had fallen asleep against his shoulder.
Still holding the spoon.
Michael smiled instantly.
Carefully, trying not to wake her, he adjusted the blanket higher around her shoulders.
And for a second he just sat there looking at her.
At the way her hair spilled against his arm.
The faint remains of eyeliner beneath her eyes.
The tiny pout she always got when she slept.
Something in Michael’s chest ached suddenly, warm in a way he didn’t fully understand yet.
A few minutes later Katherine walked into the living room and immediately stopped.
Because there they were.
Michael sitting perfectly still so Y/N could sleep comfortably against him.
The empty ice cream cartons abandoned everywhere.
The old movie flickering softly across both their faces.
Katherine’s expression melted instantly.
“Oh,” she whispered softly.
Then Joe appeared behind her.
And immediately frowned.
“There she goes again,” he muttered. “Distracting him.”
Katherine looked ready to argue until Michael glanced up briefly.
And the look on his face stopped her. Because her son looked peaceful.
Not exhausted. Not pressured. Not overwhelmed.
Just happy. Safe, even.
Like for one evening he got to simply be a young man sitting on the couch with his best friend instead of carrying the weight of becoming Michael Jackson.
Katherine smiled quietly to herself.
Meanwhile Michael looked back down at Y/N sleeping against him and smiled too.
Small.
Private.
Completely gone for her.
Even if he didn’t know it yet.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
A few days after the Twister episode, the California heat had turned the Jackson backyard into something straight out of a magazine ad.
The pool shimmered bright blue beneath the sun.
Music drifted softly from outdoor speakers.
And floating lazily in the middle of the water was Michael Jackson with a notebook balanced against his bare chest, completely lost inside his own head.
One arm dangled into the water while he scribbled lyrics messily across the page, humming little melodies beneath his breath every few seconds.
His dark curls were slightly damp from the heat already, and his aviator sunglasses rested low on his nose while he concentrated so hard he barely noticed anything else around him.
Michael always got like this while writing.
Tunnel vision.
Obsessive.
Like the song became the only thing existing in the world.
Which was exactly why his brothers chose that moment to interrupt him.
“What are you doing?” Jermaine asked while stepping outside with Marlon and Tito trailing behind him.
Michael barely glanced up from the notebook.
“Working.”
Jermaine stared flatly at the inflatable raft.
“You’re writing music in a pool.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You look ridiculous.”
Michael ignored him completely, scribbling something down quickly before muttering the melody beneath his breath again.
Tito leaned closer.
“What’s got you acting possessed now?”
Michael finally sat up slightly, curls falling into his face while he pointed the pencil toward them dramatically.
“I gotta finish this.”
“You’re at the pool, Mike.”
Michael sighed heavily.
“If I don’t finish it, God’s gonna give it to Prince.”
His brothers exploded laughing immediately.
“That is not how music works!”
“Yes it is.”
“You are insane.”
Michael pointed accusingly at them.
“You laugh now but when Prince releases this six months later don’t come crying to me.”
Jermaine cried-laughed.
And then the back door slid open.
Michael looked up automatically. Big mistake.
Because Y/N L/N stepped outside.
And every coherent thought immediately left his body.
She looked like actual summer personified, wearing a tiny red-and-white checkered bikini tied at her hips with little bows, her hair piled messily on top of her head while oversized aviator sunglasses sat on her nose.
Michael’s aviator sunglasses.
The realization hit him instantly.
“Oh my God,” Jermaine whispered-yelled beside him immediately. “She stole your glasses.”
Michael barely heard anything.
Because Y/N was already walking barefoot toward the pool, sunlight glowing against her skin while the sunglasses practically swallowed half her face.
And somehow the fact she was casually wearing his things made the situation ten times worse for him.
“Oh!” Y/N smiled brightly when she spotted everyone. “Hi boys.”
And somehow her brain had never fully processed that possibility before.
Which now actually felt medically concerning.
The sunlight reflected against the water onto his skin while he sat stretched across the float in black swim trunks, curls messy from the heat, lean chest lightly glistening beneath the afternoon sun.
Y/N actually forgot what she was doing for a second.
“Oh my God,” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “You’re shirtless.”
One of his brothers made a strangled noise immediately, trying to suppress a laugh.
Michael blinked once.
“…Yeah?”
“I’ve literally never seen that before.”
Michael sat up straighter automatically. Which somehow only made everything worse.
Because now Y/N got an even better look at him.
And Michael got a very clear look at Y/N staring.
“Oh this is bad,” Marlon whispered gleefully.
Michael tried looking back down at the notebook again pretending very hard to focus.
Unfortunately his body had already betrayed him.
Because Y/N kept walking closer to the edge of the pool adjusting his sunglasses and smiling at him in that absentmindedly sweet way she always did.
Michael shifted awkwardly against the float.
Immediately realizing the problem.
Oh.
Oh, no, He thought.
Actual panic flashed across his face for half a second. Because now Y/N was kneeling beside the pool and Michael suddenly became very aware that his swim trunks were doing absolutely nothing to hide the situation developing in real time.
Jermaine noticed instantly.
And the grin spreading across his face became genuinely evil.
“Oh my GOD.”
Michael snapped his head toward him immediately.
“Shut up.”
“You are fighting for your life right now, aren’t you?”
“I hate you.”
Y/N looked between them suspiciously.
“What’s happening?”
“Nothing!” Michael answered way too fast and his brothers nearly collapsed laughing.
Meanwhile Y/N narrowed her eyes briefly before shrugging.
“Anyway…”
And before anyone could react, she jumped directly into the deep end of the pool.
Then immediately regretted it.
“Oh my God WAIT—”
Y/N resurfaced flailing dramatically because she was way too short to comfortably touch the bottom.
“Y/N—" Michael started, but she launched herself at him without hesitation.
Michael barely steadied the float in time before Y/N practically climbed onto him in panic, arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders while she tried to keep herself above water.
The float tipped dangerously sideways beneath them.
And suddenly Y/N was pressed directly against him.
Chest to chest.
Legs tangled beneath the water.
Her thighs brushing his waist while she clung to him breathlessly.
Michael stopped breathing entirely.
Because this was already catastrophic before Y/N accidentally shifted against his lap trying to stabilize herself.
Michael sucked in a sharp breath.
His brothers turned away screaming laughing.
“Mikey is done.”
Michael wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
Because now he was painfully aware of everything.
The water dripping slowly down Y/N’s skin.
The coconut sunscreen smell surrounding her.
The fact she was wearing his sunglasses.
And most importantly: the very obvious problem he was desperately trying to hide while Y/N clung to him in the middle of the pool.
Michael grabbed her waist quickly to keep both of them from tipping over.
“You okay?” he asked, voice noticeably strained.
Y/N nodded breathlessly.
“I hate this stupid deep pool.”
Michael laughed weakly.
Except now Y/N noticed something too.
Not the full situation.
But definitely the tension.
The way his hands tightened carefully at her waist.
The way he kept avoiding eye contact.
The fact his entire face was pink now.
And honestly? Y/N wasn’t doing much better herself.
Because Michael this close felt genuinely unfair.
His chest warm beneath her hands.
His curls damp and falling into his eyes.
His arms flexing slightly every time he steadied her in the water.
And the way he looked at her completely flustered and overwhelmed and trying so hard to stay respectful despite very obviously malfunctioning.
Y/N suddenly became very aware of how close their faces were.
“Huh,” she said softly before she could stop herself.
Michael blinked.
“…What?”
“You look really pretty like this.”
Michael nearly short-circuited on the spot.
Jermaine collapsed into one of the lounge chairs laughing while Tito slapped the table dramatically.
Michael groaned quietly, dropping his forehead briefly against Y/N’s shoulder in complete defeat while she laughed helplessly against him.
And somehow neither of them made any effort to move apart.
⋆⭒˚.⋆
The sun was beginning to soften by the time they left the pool.
Everything felt warm and lazy in that golden late afternoon way California summers always did.
Music still drifted faintly from somewhere inside the house while the grass stayed hot beneath bare feet and the air smelled like sunscreen and chlorine.
And somewhere across the backyard, Y/N L/N was currently losing her mind over a llama. Specifically Louie.
Michael sat on the back steps with a towel around his shoulders and watched in helpless amusement while his best friend ran dramatically across the grass trying to feed Louie strawberries.
“Louie!” she gasped. “Save the drama for you llama!”
Louie stared blankly at her.
Michael laughed softly under his breath.
She really did talk to animals like they were people.
Y/N held another strawberry out toward the llama carefully.
“You just get me emotionally, don’t you?”
Louie sneezed directly in her face. Y/N did not move an inch.
Michael laughed really hard at that.
“Oh my God!”
Y/N wiped her cheek dramatically while glaring at the llama in betrayal.
“I thought we had something special going on, Louie.”
Her laughter echoed across the yard a second later anyway.
Bright. Contagious.
Real enough that Michael found himself smiling before he even realized it.
Because Y/N laughed with her whole body. Throwing her head back. Clutching her stomach. Nearly stumbling over herself every single time.
And Michael loved making her laugh more than almost anything.
Which was maybe a problem. A very big problem.
“You got it bad, don’t you?”
Michael startled slightly.
Bill stood beside the porch railing holding a soda, watching Y/N chase Louie around the yard with open amusement.
Michael immediately looked back toward the grass.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bill snorted.
“Michael.”
Across the lawn Y/N was now attempting to braid flowers into the llama’s fur.
Louie looked deeply exhausted by her existence already.
Michael smiled again without meaning to.
Bill noticed immediately.
“Mm-hm.”
Michael realized too late he’d done it again.
Done the stupid soft smile.
The one everybody kept noticing lately whenever Y/N was around.
Michael cleared his throat awkwardly.
“She’s just funny.”
Bill looked at him flatly.
“Boy.”
Michael groaned quietly, dragging one hand down his face.
“Please don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“The talk.”
Bill burst out laughing.
“The talk?”
“Yes.”
“You twenty something old scared of a conversation?”
Michael looked genuinely distressed. “Yes.”
Meanwhile Y/N finally succeeded in placing one flower crookedly behind Louie’s ear.
“Oh my God,” she whispered to the llama. “You’re gorgeous.”
Michael chuckled at her, feeling helpless again.
Bill crossed his arms.
“You look happier around her.”
Michael’s smile faded slightly at that. Not entirely, just enough to become softer. Because the annoying part was that Bill was right.
Michael looked back toward the yard quietly while Y/N rammed dramatically into Louie’s side trying to hug him.
“She’s different,” Michael admitted softly.
Bill hummed knowingly.
“How?”
Michael took a second to answer. Because truth be told? He didn’t even fully know himself.
“She doesn’t…” He paused. “She doesn’t look at me like everybody else does.”
Bill stayed quiet.
So Michael kept going.
“She just comes over and steals my food and makes fun of my clothes and talks during movies.” He smiled to himself faintly. “And when I’m around her I don’t gotta think so hard.”
Bill’s expression softened at that and he clicked his tongue.
Because Michael spent most of his life thinking too hard.
Overworking.
Overanalyzing.
Overperforming.
But around Y/N? He looked light. Young again.
Like the fame disappeared for a little while.
Bill glanced toward the backyard where Y/N was now laying in the grass beside Louie dramatically.
“She likes you too, you know.”
Michael nearly choked.
“What?” He blurted out desperately and ridiculously fast.
Bill looked amused now.
“Michael,”
“No no no.” Michael sat up straighter immediately. “We’re friends.”
“Mhm.”
“We are.”
Bill took one sip of his soda.
“She wears your sunglasses.”
Michael froze. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“She nearly drowned looking at you shirtless.”
Michael turned bright red instantly, feeling his cheeks warming up. “Well, that was an accident!”
Bill snorted. “And you almost passed out when she climbed on top of you in the pool.”
Michael buried his face into the towel he held immediately.
“Oh my God.” He let out, his voice muffled.
“Son, everybody sees this except you two.”
Michael groaned dramatically into the towel.
Because unfortunately he knew Bill was right.
He did feel different around Y/N.
Too aware of her all the time.
Too happy whenever she showed up unexpectedly.
Too nervous whenever she looked pretty.
And today? It had been particularly catastrophic for him.
Especially the pool.
Especially Y/N wearing his glasses and clinging to him in the water with her legs wrapped around his waist while he fought for his actual life.
Michael groaned, face still in the towel. “Bill, I think I’m dying.”
Bill burst out laughing.
“No, son. I think you just got feelings.” He added between laughs.
Michael looked genuinely horrified by the concept.
Before he could answer though—
“MICHAEL!”
Both of them looked up.
Y/N stood halfway across the lawn waving excitedly while Louie wandered behind her aimlessly.
“Your llama likes me more than you now!”
Michael smiled automatically.
Completely helpless.
Bill watched him for exactly one second before laughing quietly to himself and walking away.
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