─◌✰್ Track 05: Futile Devices
off the record
( dangerous! michael )
The large, soundproofed doors of the master suite at Neverland Valley Ranch shut out the rest of the world, locking a suffocating, chaotic reality on the other side of the mahogany wood.
Outside those gates, the air is thick with the predatory hum of news vans, flashing camera bulbs, and the cruel, speculative voices of a public that has turned on the man they once worshipped. The headlines are a vicious onslaught of malice and betray, a coordinated effort to dismantle the soul of a man who spent his entire life pouring love into a world that didn't know how to hold it.
But inside the dim, amber-lit sanctuary of his bedroom, the noise isn't allowed to exist. The curtains are drawn tight against the California night, and the only sound is the crackle of a dying fire in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows across the plush carpeting.
Michael is sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the heavy frame of the bed, his long legs drawn up loosely toward his chest. It is 1993, and the grueling toll of his new album clings to his silhouette. He is stripped of the iconic stage wear, the military jackets, and the heavy makeup. He wears only a pair of simple black trousers and a soft, oversized white button-down shirt, the cuffs unbuttoned and pooling around his elegant wrists. His ink-black hair, styled in those long, sleek waves that cascade past his shoulders, falls forward in a dark curtain, obscuring his face from view.
He looks impossibly fragile, his broad shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to shrink away from the invisible weight pressing down on his chest.
You don't say a word as you slide down from the mattress, settling onto the floor right beside him. You’ve been here through the stadium-shaking roars of the tour, and you’ve stayed through the deafening silence of the aftermath. You are his best friend, his anchor, the only person who hasn't demanded a piece of his flesh or an explanation for his existence.
Slowly, you extend your hand, your fingers sliding into the dark silk of his hair. You gently brush the damp waves away from his face, tucking them behind his ear to reveal the breathtaking, tragic beauty of his features.
Michael’s breath hitches at the contact. He lifts his head, and your heart physically aches at the sight of his large, deer-like eyes. They are glassy, rimmed with a deep, exhausting crimson, the long eyelashes casting heavy shadows over cheekbones that look sharper than usual. There is a profound, unspeakable torment swimming in those dark depths—a quiet plea for safety that he hasn't been able to voice to anyone else.
"Hey," you whisper, your voice a feather-light thread in the quiet room.
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he shifts his weight, crawling closer to you with a slow, hesitant vulnerability until he can rest his head right in your lap. He buries his face against the soft fabric of your clothes, his long, slender fingers reaching up to wrap tightly around your free hand, gripping your knuckles with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity. He is a drowning man, and you are the only solid ground left in the universe.
You continue the slow, rhythmic motion of your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp, letting the quiet warmth of your presence wash over his rigid muscles. Slowly, deliberately, you feel the tension begin to fracture. A long, shuddering sigh trembles through his entire body, his chest heaving against your knee as he finally lets go of the breath he feels like he's been holding for months.
"They're saying such horrible things, y/n," he murmurs, his voice cracking into a tiny, fragile whisper that breaks into the silence like shattered glass. He keeps his face hidden against you, his shoulders starting to shake with a sudden, silent wave of tears. "The words... they just don't stop. They write them down, they shout them at me... they use words to destroy everything I am."
"I know, Mike," you soothe, leaning down so your lips are brushing the crown of his head. "But the things said out there don't belong in here. They don't know you. I know you."
Michael lifts his head from your lap, turning his face up to look at you. In the dim, flickering light of the fire, his face is streaked with tears, his expression an agonizing mixture of intense sorrow and a sudden, soaring adoration. He looks at your face, tracing the curve of your jaw, the steady calmness in your eyes, and the absolute certainty of your loyalty.
He opens his mouth to speak, to try and construct a sentence that could possibly hold the magnitude of what he feels for you—the fact that your love has kept his heart beating when everything else tried to stop it—but the words die in his throat. He swallows hard, his jaw tight as he realizes that standard language is completely useless here. Words have been weaponized against him for so long that trying to use them to express his deepest truth feels clumsy, dirty, and entirely futile.
"Words are stupid things, aren't they?" Michael whispers suddenly, a tiny, watery, and heartbreakingly sweet smile tugging at the very corner of his mouth. He reaches up, his large, warm palm coming up to cup the side of your face, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear that had escaped your own eye. "They're so small. They aren't big enough for this."
"Words aren’t enough to explain the emotions that i’m feeling," when i’m near you. the sentiment echoes through the heavy space between you.
"Then don't use them," you reply softly, leaning your face into his hand. "You don't ever have to explain anything to me, Michael. Just breathe."
Michael's gaze drops to your lips, the atmosphere shifting from a heavy sorrow into an intensely tender, fragile intimacy. The sheer gravity of his love for you—unspoken, permanent, and fiercely protective—pulls him forward. He moves with an agonizing slowness, giving you every opportunity to pull back, his breath warm and trembling against your skin before his lips finally meet yours.
The kiss is a quiet, profound vow. It isn't born out of frantic passion or heat; it is an absolute act of healing. It tastes like pure, unadulterated comfort, a slow and deeply soulful melody that carries the weight of a devotion that doesn't need a single vowel or consonant to exist. Michael cradles your jaw with both hands now, his touch so incredibly reverent, so soft and careful, as if he is holding the most fragile, sacred miracle he has ever been allowed to touch.
He guides you closer into his space on the floor, his arms wrapping completely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing sweet, lingering kisses against your pulse point, his chest rising and falling in a steady, synchronized rhythm against yours.
He holds you so tightly that the chaotic world outside the mansion walls completely ceases to exist. Hidden away in the quiet dark, surrounded by the warmth of the fire, Michael rests his mind in the absolute certainty of your touch, fully realizing that while the world may tear him apart, his soul is completely, beautifully safe in your arms.