ִֶָ☾.݁ᛪ༙ — the midnight kind
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ otw!michael jackson x alt!reader (goth)
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ synopsis: it is the first of february, 1980, one week before studio 54 closes its doors for good. dragged along to the disco by her best friend for her twenty-first birthday, a singer for a rising post-punk band spends the evening wishing she were anywhere else. slipping out early to make her way to her favourite underground goth club, she catches a glimpse of michael jackson, sharing a wholesome conversation about the subculture she’s grown to love and be a major figure in.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ wc: 7k… its long sorry yall i got carried away
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ content: probably switches from past to present tense sorry im too lazy to fix it, infamous silk shirt mj even tho it doesnt fit the era SORRRYYY, goth reader, no mention of y/n, reader hates the bee gees, reader is a singer in a real band called the slits... oopsieee, reader is mentioned to have dark/black hair once i think??? unsure, also had curly hair in mind but i dont think it’s explicitly stated, there’s like one pov switch, nervous michael, alcohol consumption, slowburn and pure FLUFF!!!
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ first fanfic since i was like at least 12 years old which was nearly 8 years ago so i apologize if it’s a bit corny… i hope u have fun reading though >.< i loved writing this
you had always disliked disco. and you had never expressed that distaste quietly.
you disliked how there was usually glitter everywhere — your body, hands, hair, even sometimes finding its way, annoyingly, into your mouth whenever you tried to loosen up and sing along to the music. you disliked the disorienting, mirrored walls, how the room multiplied itself until you couldn’t find the edge of anything. and you especially disliked the way everyone seemed determined to look exactly like everyone else, the crowd flooding itself with satin, sequins, and enough gold to blind a small country.
but, worst of all, you hated that you were spending your friday night inside the biggest disco in new york: studio 54.
not that it would be around much longer. it was the first day of february in 1980, and the place was shutting down in a week after the geniuses running it—steve rubell and ian schrager—were convicted of tax evasion.
as far as you were concerned, it couldn’t happen soon enough. good riddance to the whole damn circus.
you stood with your arm leaning against the bar, casually sipping your drink. you were not drunk enough for this. your best friend—who seemed to be the complete opposite in terms of both style and personality—was eagerly waving her hand at the bartender for another round of shots, mindlessly swaying her hips to whatever song bled through the speakers behind her. she turned toward you when she noticed how still you’ve been, and over-exaggerates the roll of her eyes,
“this is my twenty-first birthday,” she shouted with punctuation over the music, quickly snatching the shot she had ordered from the server before it slid off the counter. “you promised me you’d have fun!”
“i promised i’d come,” you said, watching the gold, dancing swarm of sweaty people sprawl across the floor. “not that i’d have fun. i'm making a huge effort just by being here.”
it wasn’t a lie that you had made an effort—not because studio 54 deserved it, but because your best friend of years was finally of legal drinking age and had threatened bodily harm if you showed up looking like you were attending a funeral.
so, you compromised. but naturally, your dress had to be black.
well, to be fair, you’d tried purple first. you’d held the dress up to the light and decided it would clash too obviously against all the gold sequins around you—in truth, it was your best friend who’d insisted on the phone, but the reasoning had still felt valid. which left you with your only other option: black. not the purple lace dress that reached your ankles, wine-dark and dramatic. instead, a sleeveless sequined number that skimmed your body and caught every stray beam of light in the club. silver stars glittered across the fabric scattering bright reflections each time you shifted your weight, while a fringe hem swayed around your thighs with every step. it was undeniably disco in your opinion, but in the way a midnight sky would be.
you’d paired it with sheer black stockings dusted in silver shimmer and metallic heels that clicked sharply loud against the dance floor. layers and layers of your signature, thrifted silver jewelry gleamed at your throat and wrists, a couple dainty rings you’d found deep in your drawers wrapped around your fingers that were painted black at the nailbeds. the combination was just unconventional enough that you felt like you had not entirely lost yourself to the environment. like a small, private rebellion nobody around you would understand.
as you scanned the dance floor, most of the women looked as though they stepped directly out of a champagne advertisement you’d see on the subway home. you took some comfort in the contrast, that you, in comparison, looked like a celestial omen. the sequins caught the light, but the black itself caught nothing. reflected nothing. it just absorbed everything around it.
your friend nudges you out of your people-watching stupor.
“you’ve literally been here for forty minutes and you’ve barely sung a word! you haven't even swayed those hips yet!” she complains, bumping her hip drunkenly into yours, the movement sending her drink sloshing. “shit!” she mutters, slamming the glass down and miserably attempting to dab the stain of her liquid gold, bell-bottomed jumpsuit.
you watched with an amusing grin. “forty minutes in here is practically a lifetime for me.”
she rolled her eyes as she lifted her gaze back up to you, her glitter-dusted face full of irritation. you held her gaze for a small moment before looking back at the crowd. donna summer started blasting through the speakers and the people below the spinning lights looked like a living organism—a single, pulsating thing made of bodies. somewhere behind you, someone screams at a celebrity sighting.
it was, by your count, the fifth one of the evening.
you turned back to your friend. she was already staring into your dark, kohl-lined eyes with a determined expression.
“you’re staying with me for one more hour,” she announces, sassily placing a hand on her hip. “and let me up some glitter on your eyes, girl.”
you groaned.
she narrowed her eyes and pulled her lips tight in annoyance. you hated upsetting her; she was the birthday girl after all.
“thirty minutes.”
“forty-five.”
you paused. considered it for maybe three seconds, looking away across the crowd.
then you tilt your head toward her. “fine,” you sigh in defeat.
she grabs your wrist immediately and bee-lines for the restroom with the single-minded focus of someone who has won. your hair bounces as she pulls you aggressively through the mob, and you accidentally shoulder-check a young man in the process. you look back and flash an apologetic smile, though you lose him in the crowd before you can see whether it lands.
you already decided, in that embarrassing instant, that you would not be staying for the promised forty-five minutes.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
michaels pov:
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
michael wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings when the collision happened.
bill was standing beside him, maintaining a careful distance from the individual representing some label who had been trying to talk to michael all evening. on bill's other side, a photographer hovers with the casual, practiced patience of someone who does this for a living, waiting for the right candid of the man of the hour. meanwhile, Q is talking at michael about the potential of a new album and how they should start working soon, his voice steady and persistent above the music like something that cannot be turned off.
then, without warning—breaking michael out of his dissociation entirely—someone crashes into his shoulder.
he stumbles back half a step.
he whips his head toward them, and for a brief moment catches a woman looking back over her shoulder.
a small, toothy smile.
it was sweet. apologetic.
before he could say anything—do anything—she was gone—another head lost in the horde of sweat and music.
and yet, his eyes find her again without any particular effort.
at first, it was simply because she looked different. in a room built entirely from gold—gold dresses, gold jumpsuits, gold jewelry, gold light reflecting off every mirrored surface—she was, somehow, covered in black. but it wasn’t the depressing black of funerals or overcast mornings. it was the gorgeous black that comes from staring at the midnight sky and finally catching a shooting star in the distance. soft, yet entirely mysterious. the sleeveless dress shimmers wherever light finds it, silver stars scattered across the fabric like a constellation sewn directly into the colour he’d just been imagining. every movement sends the fringe around her thighs swaying like calm, ocean waves, catching flashes of light from the disco ball before disappearing back into the shadows.
michael looks away, a slight blush grazing the apple of his cheeks. a small, surprised smile follows quickly behind it.
he wipes the expression off his face when he remembers he isn’t alone.
Q is still talking. michael nods and says something probably completely unrelated to whatever Q was conversing over.
as the night wears on, michael finds himself noticing her again and again.
she should blend in, but she doesn’t—not even a little bit. his eyes start to locate her naturally, without any real decision behind it. across the dance floor with her friend, who is clearly her complete opposite in every visible way. near the bar, attempting to get drunk enough to make the evening tolerable. then catching her standing off to the side when that strategy fails, watching her friend dance with a stranger, shifting her weight slowly from hip to hip as she waits for a song she actually recognizes to come on.
every time he spots her, she looks completely unimpressed. unfazed by the spectacle surrounding her, lacking the awe that most people carry into this room—the same room that is creating history for new york; the history people will talk about for decades.
and somehow, that only makes her more interesting.
he starts catching himself searching for her without meaning to. scanning for the glimpse of black sequins, the flash of silver jewelry among all the gold bangles. he hopes to make short eye contact with those dark eyes lined in black or capture that rare smile that, whenever it finally appears, never once looks forced.
it was completely ridiculous.
the room was filled to the brim with celebrities, models, musicians, and socialites. the kind of network any other person would be falling over themselves to access. and yet, michael’s attention keeps drifting back to the same mysterious woman who looks like she would rather be somewhere else entirely.
sometime later, michael could feel both himself and bill beginning to choke beneath the constant, sustained attention of the room. but as the night deepens, the crowd grows drunker, and the frenzy around michael’s presence finally starts to burn itself out—most people returning to grinding against one another, more interested in the blaring music than in him. when enough of that tension dissolved, he manages to convince bill to wait while he crossed the room to grab them both a drink.
while he leaned patiently at the bar, he naturally glanced toward the different exits out of long-held habit. through the shifting crowd, he watches her quietly slip through the side entrance.
no announcement. no dramatics.
just gone, like the wind had taken her.
michael watched the door swing shut behind her. for reasons he can’t quite explain, the rest of studio 54 instantly shifted into an empty feeling, a little too loud for all the wrong reasons. after a very short moment of consideration, he circles his head around to make sure nobody is watching, and then crosses the room toward that same heavy door like a teenager trying to sneak past curfew.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
your pov:
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
you break your promise at twenty-seven minutes.
you tell yourself that’s close enough.
the cold manhattan air hits your face the second the door swings shut behind you, and something in your chest immediately loosens. you close your eyes and breathe it in—the diesel and winter cold, the distant sound of a cab horn somewhere down the block, the blissful, merciful silence where the bee gees used to cling onto. your ears still ring, but you would rather have that than barry gibb’s voice for a single second longer.
when you open your eyes, you are already thinking about where you want to go.
the club you actually want to be at sits several blocks away. a smaller, darker venue—the underground and hidden kind where nobody cares if you dressed like you woke up at eight in the evening and reached for attire similar to a vampire with a deep personal attachment to edgar allan poe.
in all, your kind of people.
you start walking with a pep in your step.
by the time you arrive, you can already hear your band’s music booming through the walls. i heard it through the grapevine has become something of a fan favourite within the scene, and the familiar bassline pulls the natural frown you’ve been wearing for hours into something warmer.
“escaped studio 54 again?” the bouncer says, cutting through your euphoria.
“you say that like i was there voluntarily.”
he laughs and waves you inside.
the room glows red and violet beneath the low lights. smoke curls lazily through the air without any particular scent—just atmosphere. the dancefloor pulses with the classic darker sounds you’ve grown familiar with.
you practically exhale in relief, letting your shoulders drop from the tension you hadn’t noticed you were carrying.
the bass travels up through your heels. it vibrates into your knees, your hips, your sternum. you let it possess you, clicking across the floor and stepping into the crowd, and within minutes the rhythm has taken over and you stop having to think about where your body is going. despite being dressed for the disco, you don’t feel picked apart here. everyone welcomes you with open arms and the rhythmic pulse of their feet and the room feels like coming home the longer you stay on that floor.
you have spent years in places like this. years packed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers dressed entirely in black, passing cigarettes around out back, arguing passionately about which cure album is definitively the best one.
for the first time all evening, you weren’t counting down the minutes until you could leave. if anything, it was the opposite—you’re aware of every minute as it passes, wishing to stop time and stay here vibrating in the bass of the synths and the sharp cracks of different drumming sequences. it all merges together in your ears and keeps a constant movement through your hips and your head, and you mouth along to the lyrics without even realizing.
you’d almost forgotten that studio 54 even existed.
keyword: almost.
a strange feeling rises at the back of your neck. the particular kind that lifts your baby hairs due to the unmistakable sensation of someone’s eyes on you for longer than feels incidental.
you try to shake it off. people stare—you are part of the slits, a rising band in a scene you’ve been attached to since you were a teenager, and you still come to small venues like this one like you were just another face in the crowd. it’s nothing.
yet, the feeling doesn't leave. it sits there and refuses to dissolve, persistent and almost suffocating in its specificity. the stare was not the casual, drifting kind you get when slightly recognized in a public space. it was deliberate, focused, and it killed your euphoric vibe entirely. curiosity replaces it before you can stop it.
your hands limply drop to your hips. you go still.
you look over your shoulder.
and it is as if you have looked directly into medusa’s eyes and turned into cold stone where you stand.
michael jackson is standing near one of the support pillars, looking entirely out of place among the sea of leather jackets and ripped fishnets. the silk shirt he wore caught the red lights in a way it was never designed to—ivory and unbuttoned just enough at the collar, the kind of thing that belonged under disco lights; not dark, gothic ones. dark, high-waisted trousers and shoes polished to a mirror sheen completed the picture: studio 54, head to toe, dropped without warning into entirely the wrong club. and yet, somehow, he still managed to look like he belonged—though, maybe that was just his undeniable charisma, because if you didn’t know who he was, he would look like someone had plucked a celebrity from the wrong movie and dropped him into this one.
you blink.
he is still there.
you blink twice more, slowly, like a person testing the reliability of their own eyes.
he hasn’t moved.
when he lifts his head and catches you staring at him like he was an invasive species, his eyes immediately dart back down to his boots.
your mouth falls open at the reality of it all.
you are trying to compose yourself, but the effort is not going particularly well, because the absurdity of what you are looking at doesn’t get less absurd the longer you contemplate it. it is completely ridiculous; not because there is anything wrong with him, but for the very opposite reason. michael jackson is one of your favourite artists, full stop, outside your usual genres and existing in a separate category altogether.
back in 1977, you’d stumbled across the jacksons on the carol burnett show while your mother sat in front of the television with a glass of wine and a plate of crackers balanced on her knee. dancing machine had blared through the small tv set, and he’d become a simple admiration ever since. his voice, his dancing, his stage presence—impossible to ignore in that way where you can't even try.
then off the wall came out.
the album practically lived on your turntable for the better part of three months now. you consider it one of the greatest vocal performances you have ever heard. the synthesizers, keyboards, strings, guitars, drums, percussion—every element fit together so effortlessly that it left you completely speechless on first listen, and continued to do so on every subsequent one. more evenings than you’d care to admit were spent sitting in your apartment, watching the record spin as you worked up lyrics for your own band, convincing yourself that your preoccupation with the album was purely musical.
which, admittedly, had been true.
at least until a random december night, when the rock with you music video popped up on tv for a re-run.
you’d watched it once and spent an embarrassingly long time afterward staring at the television with a completely glazed expression. you taped it immediately after, so you could watch it again whenever you wanted—which was, it turned out, more frequently than you had anticipated. since then, what had been a clean, honest respect for his craft evolved into something significantly less professional and considerably more humiliating.
a crush.
a ridiculous, inconvenient, deeply unfortunate crush on a man who exists so far outside your orbit that the very concept earns a hearty laugh when it has the audacity to cross your mind.
he was one of the biggest musicians in the world, and you were playing clubs and scribbling lyrics in a small apartment you can barely afford rent for.
musically, professionally, and in just about every other measurable way, he belongs to an entirely different universe from yours.
and yet,
that same man is standing twenty feet away from you in a goth club.
his dark curls shift with every small movement, bouncing gently under the coloured lights. the silk shirt and bell-bottoms belong very firmly in a place that isn’t this, but his posture has a quality of ease in it that makes the discrepancy seem beside the point.
a laugh escapes you before you can rein it in. soft at first, then louder, because the absurdity of the entire situation catches you all at once, and the magical drinks in your bloodstream gives it permission to become audible. your feet carry you toward him before your brain has the opportunity to stage an intervention.
with every step you close between you, the nervous energy underneath his sudden surface confidence becomes more visible. his gaze flickers across the room before returning to you, pulled back like it has no real choice. he shifts his weight and straightens his shoulders, his hands searching for something to hold onto but they come up empty, leaving his fingers to toy absentmindedly with the fabric of his pant leg—lightly rubbing the crease, a small, repetitive motion, something to anchor himself.
when you finally stop in front of him, neither of you seem particularly eager to speak first. his eyes meet yours for a moment before awkwardly sliding away, returning a beat later like they’d only left out of obligation.
you break the stare-down with a quick shake of your head, realizing you’ve been standing there like a monument. you lift both hands and spread them apart in simple disbelief, shaking them.
“okay,” you begin slowly, voice carrying a studied calmness. “i know i’m not drunk enough for this now that i've come to my senses and know that you’re real.”
the laugh that escapes him is immediate and completely natural, catching him off guard as though he’d been holding himself very carefully in place and the sound surprised even him. his eyes slightly widen and he covers his mouth out of habit.
“that’s exactly what i thought when i got here.”
your mouth still hasn’t closed from the shock. your eyes haven’t either.
you gesture broadly toward the room—the leather jackets worn soft with age, the ladders of fishnets disappearing beneath heavy boots, the smoke curling lazily through the low lights until it swallows people’s ankles and makes them look like they’re floating.
“michael,” you say slowly, his name slipping from your mouth so casually catches him off guard. then you turn your head toward him. “look around.”
his gaze wanders across the room with genuine, unguarded curiosity. he takes in the dark clothes, the dramatic makeup, the battered, large shoes paired with chunky jewelry in every muted colour. nobody around him seems particularly concerned with his presence. nobody is screaming, nobody is shoving a napkin to sign in his face—a few people glance his way and offer a polite nod of acknowledgement, a greeting, before returning to their conversations, their drinks, each other.
you watch intently as he registers these small moments, one after another. you catch the exact second his shoulders loosen.
you tilt your head and look at him with something playful and quiet in your expression. “you belong to studio 54.”
a smile appears on his face at the acknowledgement. he glances down at his silk shirt and bell-bottoms in wry agreement, and when his eyes meet yours again without fully lifting his head, he lets out a short, easy chuckle.
but then something crosses his face—a flash of recollection—and his eyes widen with it. the smile that follows is wider than the last one.
“you were at studio 54.”
“yeah, against my will,” you say, raising your eyebrows. you meant to make it sound obvious.
“against your will? really?” he repeats.
you scoff with a reluctant smile. you point vaguely toward the ceiling in reference to the music still carrying faintly above you. “three consecutive bee gees songs. why would i want to be there on purpose?”
his face immediately scrunches. “okay, that’s fair.”
you smile despite yourself, genuinely grateful he agreed. a comfortable beat of silence settles between you then, filled only by the music pulsing through the floorboards beneath your feet and the distant clinks of glasses from the bar. the crowd moves in shifting shadows around you, unbothered.
then you become very aware of how long you’ve been looking at him, and you glance away quickly. the decision is entirely self-preservation, because every time your eyes meet his, you are reminded all over again that the michael jackson in front of you is very real. not trapped behind a television screen or spinning under the blue and green lights of your favourite music video.
he was real. unfortunately, inconveniently, stubbornly real.
so, you redirect your attention to the crowd and watch a woman with teased, dyed-black hair twirl dramatically beneath the crimson lights. somewhere nearby, someone is attempting to light a cigarette while dancing, which earns a quiet laugh from you.
anything is better than looking at those stupidly pretty doe eyes.
“you looked miserable.”
your head snaps back toward him so fast that your dangling earrings brush against your neck, catching a violet beam before swinging wildly into place.
“i did not!” the offense in your exclaim comes out far stronger than intended.
michael immediately bites down on a smile, “but you did.”
“michael,”
he looks entirely too pleased with himself, the expression deliberately subtle—just enough of a curve at the corner of his mouth, just enough light remaining in his eyes to tell you that he knows he’s struck a nerve and is enjoying it thoroughly.
you hold his gaze and try to look unconvinced. you try harder not to think about how obvious your feelings about studio 54 had apparently been. harder still not to think about your best friend—whether she’d noticed too, the guilt settling faintly at the edges.
despite having very little faith in your own defense, you insist, “i absolutely did not look miserable.” unfortunately, the confidence evaporates from your mouth somewhere in the middle of the sentence.
michael catches the wobble immediately. his smile widens delightfully. you have clearly never been much of an actress.
“you know,” he starts, something amused threading beneath the words, “you crossed your arms during three different songs.”
you stare at him in bewilderment. behind his shoulder, a burst of laughter erupts from somewhere in the crowd. a person brushes past carrying two drinks sloshing dangerously close to the rim. none of it feels particularly noticeable against the fact that michael jackson apparently has catalogued your body language from two hours ago with the kind of attention most people reserve for things that actually matter to them.
“that proves nothing.” the words come out too quickly. judging by how his smile deepens, he clocks it.
“i think it proves you weren’t having a good time.” he says it with quiet, settled confidence, leaning in slightly as he continues teasing.
you open your mouth with the full intention of delivering a witty comeback that will make him regret sounding so certain of himself. nothing comes. you close your mouth into a straight line because, in reality, he was right. you had spent most of your evening counting ceiling lights and wondering how long it would take for your best friend to get drunk enough to pay no mind to your absence.
you settle for a weak but immediate defense. “or maybe i was just cold.”
his gaze drops briefly to your bare shoulders—at fault from the sleeveless construction of your silver-starred dress—before travelling unhurriedly back upward, taking in your relaxed posture. your hand rests comfortably against your hip. everything about you communicates ease, comfort, and most importantly, warmth.
this club was significantly smaller than studio 54 in every sense. there was no humidity. no suffocating press of body heat from every direction. if you’re trying to convince him that you were cold, the evidence is thoroughly not on your side.
his eyes eventually find yours again. he says nothing, because the look itself says everything.
a soft and brief laugh slips from him, accompanied by the slightest shake of his head, and the expression is so gently, unambiguously victorious that you immediately regret giving him the opening.
“don’t.” you stifle, but despite the warning, a reluctant smile is already tugging at the corner of your mouth.
he keeps prying anyway, visibly encouraged by the warmth steadily climbing your cheeks. “you rolled your eyes as well,”
a groan escapes you before you can stop it. you drag both hands over your face, partly to hide the embarrassment and partly because you already know whatever observation comes next is going to be annoyingly accurate. “when did i do that?” the question comes out muffled through your palms.
“at least twice,” michael says. his smile is bright now—wide enough that he looks far less like one of the biggest musicians in the world and far more like someone having the time of his life teasing a woman he finds genuinely interesting.
and quite pretty up close.
your hands drop. “yeah, okay,” you point accusingly at him, refusing to surrender just yet. “allegedly.”
his grin only grows, “once during the bee gees, duh.”
you roll your eyes instinctively. “okay sure but it’s the bee gees–” the defense dies in your mouth as the realization arrives all at once. your mouth snaps shut.
he stares back at you.
the crowd continues moving around you, completely indifferent to the epiphany washing over you in slow, mortifying waves. a familiar bassline rolls through the speakers and barely registers.
your hand flies to your mouth and you mutter, “oh my god.”
the reaction is immediate—michael’s expression shifts entirely. “what?” he says quickly, his eyes darting briefly toward the crowd, then behind him toward the entrance. genuine concern settles over his face and his body tenses, as though bracing for someone crazy to have recognized him. “what happened?
the words come out before you can catch them in your throat.
“you were actually watching me.”
the words settle between you like glass just shattered.
or at least, that’s what it felt like to michael.
michael’s gaze abandons yours completely, finding the bar instead, fixing itself on the rows of bottles glowing amber in the low light and the bartender polishing glasses with far more precision than the task requires. he stares at these things like they are the most interesting things in the room.
and, just like that, the tables turn entirely.
warmth blooms in your chest. a smile creeps across your mouth, slow and irresistible. all evening you have been the one fighting not to embarrass yourself, keeping everything carefully managed. and now michael looks like he would genuinely rather be standing anywhere else in new york than beneath your knowing, unhurried stare.
“you were, huh?”
his shoulders lift slightly—not quite a shrug, but something closer to a surrender.
one hand disappears behind his neck, rubbing it sheepishly. a quiet laugh escapes him, accompanied by a small shake of his head, and the gesture is so unguarded and self-aware that something in your heart softens unexpectedly. “maybe a little,” he admits, still not quite meeting your eyes.
“a little?”
michael winces. “okay… maybe more than a little.”
a genuine laugh flees from your mouth. you shake your head, lifting a hand to your mouth as it softens into something quieter. but the smile refuses to leave. it sits stubbornly across your face and warms your cheeks the same colour as the crimson lights that occasionally hits your faces.
whatever nervousness had been sitting in his expression seems to dissolve at the sight of it. when he finally looks at you again, what replaces it is pure, open, curiosity.
“i just…” he began, his voice trailing off. he glances away for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek as he searches for the right words. he clicks his tongue, “you just looked different.”
one of your eyebrows lifts, “good different?”
“good different.” the answer stumbles out with a trace of urgency, expeditious in the way of someone who cannot bear the possibility of being misunderstood on this particular point.
your smile widens at the reaction.
his gaze moves over you once more; slower this time. not the kind of look that feels intrusive at all, but the king that belongs to someone trying to piece together a puzzle they have been quietly turning over all night.
he takes in the silver jewelry layered at your throat and wrists once more, before drifting upward to the heavy earrings swaying beneath your dark, bouncy hair. they catch the red light each time you shift, flashing briefly before disappearing back into the shadows that frame your face.
then his attention shifts onto your dress.
after an entire evening surrounded by gold sequins and mirrored walls, the black of your dress must have felt like a full stop at the end of a very long, overcrowded sentence. and even here, where he was the one who stuck out and you fit in with the crowd, his eyes would have still found you first.
finally, his eyes find your face.
the sharp lines of makeup framing your eyes, shaping every small expression into something striking. even the slightest lift your brow seems capable of conveying an entire conversation without a word.
“i kept wondering about your style.”
when he looks at you again, there is an openness in his expression that catches you slightly off guard. it is not judgement or confusion. it is the genuine kind of curiosity that forgets to be cautious.
you catch onto it immediately. “you mean the goth thing?”
his eyes brighten. “thats what it’s called?”
you blink.
“wait—you followed me into a goth club and you don’t even know what goth is?”
he blushes immediately, a sheepish yet entirely charming smile crossing his face. “when you say it like that, it sounds crazy…” he anticipates mockery, but you stay quiet instead, watching him with patience, waiting for the next question to leave his lips.
“so… what is it then, exactly?” he broadly gestures toward the environment around him.
you follow his movement and take in the room. the towering silhouettes of teased hair drifting through the haze beneath the violet and blood red lights. smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling, blurring the edges of the crowd until everyone seems to melt into ghosts of each other, despite the mass of dark leather and lace fabric filling the space. you cannot tell, at this point, whether that haze is coming from the smoke machines hidden around the room or from the endless stream of cigarettes passing from hand to hand.
you draw in a slow breath and look back at him.
“well,” you begin, “it started with music.”
michael’s head tilts slightly. he had assumed, without really thinking about it, that goth was something visual first. a fashion trend that sprung up in small underground circles before spreading into something larger. he hadn’t expected music to be the foundation of it all. something that is like a first language to him.
you catch the surprise.
“it came out of the post-punk genre,” you continue. “bands wanted to experiment with darker sounds. wanted to create more atmosphere, delve deeper into your emotions with less concern for what was fitting on the radio.”
your hands begin moving naturally with your words. you point vaguely toward the speakers overhead. “bauhaus is a big one. so is siouxsie and the banshees. joy division, the cure, cocteau twins—i’m sure you've heard of at least one of these, right?” you cock your head and michael nods slowly, listening with a quality of attention that is more focused than you had anticipated.
the subtle acknowledgement earns a grin from you before you keep going.
“most people think goth is all doom and gloom.” the music swells briefly around you while you think up your next works, before fading back beneath your voice. “it’s more about sharing an overlapping set of beliefs—ones that are considered ‘dark’.” you gesture air quotes around the word. “taking things people usually avoid—loneliness, melancholy, isolation, mortality—and exploring them. sitting with them instead of pretending they don’t exist.”
your fingers traced absent patterns through the air as you search for the right words.
“a lot of people end up here because they feel different. or misunderstood. or like they don’t quite fit wherever they’re supposed to fit.” the smile on your face softens then, into something quieter and more personal than you’d intended to share. “so they built something of their own instead.”
you lift your arms and present the venue around you like you were unveiling something.
“and that's this.”
the last words settle profoundly in michael differently than you could know.
he understands that feeling. more than he has ever wanted to admit—more than he has ever said aloud to anyone, ever.
his entire life has been spent surrounded by people. and still, loneliness has been one of the most familiar things he’s ever known. it doesn’t go away with the sold-out arenas, or the television appearances, or the magazine covers, or the screaming fans he truly loves so deploy. his brothers don’t always understand it, nor do his managers, reporters, or executives. most people look at his fame and assume it erases loneliness.
but if anything, it has only made the particular kind he carries more complicated, more specific. most people see michael jackson, but never michael. and the distance between those two names keeps growing with every passing year, month, even minute.
his gaze drifts toward the dance floor again. nobody here seems particularly concerned with appearances. nobody is watching him. for the first time since walking through the door, he is simply another person standing in a crowded room.
and for the first time all night, he understands exactly why you left studio 54 without looking back.
his eyes return to yours with a new softness.
“that actually sounds…” he hesitates.
you wait.
a small, genuine smile appears. “...really nice.”
your expression brightens before he could finish his sentence.
“it is.”
the certainty in your voice pulls another laugh from him, “you sound like you’re recruiting me.”
“maybe i am,” you say, and you nudge his arm with your shoulder in a light and teasing manner, almost carefully, like you’re testing the waters of physical contact with your new friend. the contact is barely anything, a moment’s worth of warmth. yet it travels up his spine before it’s even fully registered.
for a beat, neither of you speak. the silence settles comfortably between you as the music pulses through the floor and the crowd moves around you in shifting, half-lit shadows. neither of you are particularly eager to break it.
the absurdity of the situation hangs there—acknowledged but unspoken—and somehow doesn’t feel strange one bit.
michael isn’t entirely sure when he started noticing that you are absolutely breathtaking.
somewhere during the conversation, attraction had slipped in quietly beside his original admiration for you, so natural in its arrival that he almost missed it until this very moment. he is absolutely drawn to the way your mind works. the way your hands move whenever music comes up, like the words alone aren’t sufficient. the way every opinion seems deeply considered before being delivered with complete, unhurried confidence. there is something entirely refreshing about the way you exist in yourself—like you haven’t once thought about whether it is the right or wrong way to exist.
and when you talk about something you love, your face does something extraordinary. your eyes brighten into an entirely different register. your smile blooms slowly, taking its time, and it changes every other feature when it arrives. even your voice seems lighter on those words, as though they weigh less than the others.
he finds himself wanting to hear more—not because he cares about goth culture as deeply as you do, but because he wants to watch you care about it.
you, on the other hand, are starting to arrive at something equally inconvenient.
for years, michael jackson had existed as an untouchable figure. a photographed face that belonged on an album sleeve. a soothing voice that poured from your living room speakers. a figure trapped behind blurry television screens and magazine covers. someone so distant from your actual life that imagining a real conversation with him would have made you laugh a week ago.
and yet, here, beneath the harsh glow of your favourite underground club, he seems remarkably human. the distance that had always existed between you—the distance that was supposed to always exist between you—has quietly dissolved over the course of a single conversation. you are not entirely sure how to account for it. you are even less sure what to do with the violent butterfly situation currently inhabiting inside your stomach.
“michael.”
both of you turn at the same moment, quickly enough to be almost suspicious—as though the interruption had caught you at something you hadn’t been ready to be caught at yet.
bill stands several feet away with his arms crossed.
he is not visibly annoyed, but there is something in his expression; a knowing quality in his gaze sent straight to michael that sends heat creeping up the back of his neck before he's even fully registered why.
michael lets out a quiet sigh and drops his head like someone who has just been told to go to his room.
“i should probably go,” he mutters under his breath.
you chuckle at the immediate mood drop. “probably.”
bill stays rooted to the spot. neither of you makes any real move. after approximately five seconds of what is fairly transparently a middle-school-crush standoff, he clears his throat loudly enough to carry the specific warning of a man whose patience is particularly not infinite right now.
michael’s head jolts up. he raises both hands in surrender. “okay, okay!” he takes a reluctant step back toward the tall, quietly intolerant presence waiting for him.
then another.
his attention stays on you.
“it was really nice meeting you.” the sincerity in his voice catches you slightly off guard, arriving without any performance behind it. warmth spreads through your chest.
he turns on his heel and starts making full strides toward bill—and then you say it before you’ve decided to.
“wait!”
he stops immediately in his tracks. looks back.
you have already turned toward the bar, moving before your courage has the chance to reconsider. the bartender slides a napkin across the counter without question, apparently able to read the situation from a distance.
you borrow a pen and scribble a small heart in the corner first, letting the ink get to the tip of the ballpoint. then you write your phone number carefully beneath it. your name underneath the digits.
you fold the napkin once.
michael watches you cross back through the crowd toward him, his eyes moving between your face and the folded paper in your hand.
you step forward without explanation and slip it neatly into the chest pocket of his silk shirt. your fingers smooth the fabric once afterward, innocently patting it gently into place—a small, matter-of-fact gesture that is there and then gone before either of you can make anything of it.
the warmth lingers long after the touch itself has ended. it steals the air right out of his lungs and roots him where he stands.
a teasing smile tugs at your mouth. “if you lose that, i’m never forgiving you.” you punctuate it with a single, warning finger.
the smile on his face is so strong he thinks the apples of his cheeks might explode.
“i won’t.”
bill’s hand lands firmly on michael’s shoulder, interrupting the heartwarming moment. “let’s go.”
michael groans dramatically as he’s steered toward the exit. he glances back one final time when he hears you laugh at his theatrics, and lifts a hand in farewell with a sweet smile.
only once the heavy door swings shut behind him does he carefully—but immediately—unfold the napkin. he stands there for a moment beneath the cold february air, just looking at it. then quietly, almost to himself, he whispered your name, like he was trying out the sound of it. like he already knew he would be saying it again for the rest of his life.
and for the first time all evening, michael finds himself eager for the night to end, wishing impatiently for morning to arrive faster than twelve hours from now, counting the hours before he can use what he holds tenderly in his hand.
taglist: @nevergettingl4id @darkgreengrl @miratate @undeadzombiebrainz hopefully this taglist works 👀👀👀
