Confidence
Michael Jackson x Black!Reader
warnings: mentions of Joe Jackson’s stupid ass, emotional tension, invasive interview questions, public scrutiny, fluff/comfort, confident Michael Jackson, soft romance
The studio was loud.
Music playing through the speakers, somebody arguing over harmonies in the background, Jackie laughing too loudly at something Marlon said, people constantly moving in and out of the room.
But Michael looked completely unbothered by any of it.
You noticed it immediately from where you sat on the couch near the soundboard, legs crossed while watching him through the glass window of the booth.
He looked different lately.
Still soft. Still gentle.
But steadier now, more sure of himself.
Like he was finally learning how to exist without making himself smaller first.
He stood inside the booth with the headphones pushed over his curls, one hand moving slightly with the rhythm while he sang.
Relaxed.
Beautiful.
“Again,” Joe said harshly from behind the soundboard. “You’re dragging the note.”
A few years ago, Michael probably would’ve apologized immediately.
Would’ve redone the whole thing without question.
Instead, he adjusted the headphones over his curls and pressed the button calmly.
“No,” he said. “I like it this way.”
The room got quiet for a second.
Surprised quiet.
Joe frowned immediately.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Michael stepped out of the booth slowly.
“It means I like the run,” he answered evenly. “It sounds better.”
Joe looked ready to argue again, but Michael didn’t back down this time. Didn’t avoid eye contact.
You watched the exact moment Joe realized pushing him wouldn’t work the same way anymore.
Joe looked like he wanted to push the issue further, but Michael already turned slightly toward the producer instead.
“Can we play it back?”
And just like that, the conversation moved on.
You stared at him from your spot on the couch, trying not to smile too hard.
Because there it was again.
Michael finally understanding that his opinion matters too.
— — — — —
By the time the studio emptied out later that night, Michael looked exhausted.
He practically dropped onto the couch beside you with a dramatic sigh, throwing one arm across his face.
“Tired?” you asked softly.
“Mhm.”
You smiled a little before reaching over and fixing the collar of his jacket where it had folded awkwardly.
“You did good today.”
Michael looked down for a second, smiling shyly to himself despite everything.
“I’m trying.”
“You don’t have to try to deserve respect, baby.”
That made him look up immediately.
And there it was.
That look he always got whenever you said something that meant more to him than he could ever have expected.
“You know what your problem is?” you murmured.
Michael blinked slowly.
“What?”
“You spent so much time trying to please people that you forgot you're allowed to be one.”
You smiled.
“I think you’re finally letting yourself exist, as just Michael, and I love it.”
— — — — —
The interviewer was smiling too hard.
That was the first red flag.
Michael sat comfortably beside you beneath the bright studio lights, one leg crossed over the other, while cameras pointed toward him from every angle imaginable.
“You’ve changed a lot recently,” the interviewer said carefully.
Michael tilted his head slightly.
“I hope so.”
The interviewer laughed awkwardly.
“No, I mean… people say you seem more confident lately.”
Michael smiled softly.
“There’s nothing wrong with confidence.”
“No, of course not,” the interviewer rushed to say. “But some people think success has changed you.”
A few years ago, he would’ve folded into himself trying to sound agreeable.
He looked completely relaxed.
“I worked very hard for my success,” he said calmly. “There’s nothing wrong with being proud of my work.”
The audience immediately applauded.
The interviewer blinked slightly, clearly thrown off by how direct the answer was.
“And what about rumors that you’re becoming difficult to work with?”
You almost rolled your eyes.
Michael just smiled faintly.
“I think people have been very comfortable speaking over me my whole life,” he answered. “I’m simply not allowing it anymore.”
The audience reacted to that immediately.
You tried not to smile too hard beside him.
The interviewer shifted again.
“And your relationship? Has fame affected that at all?”
Michael glanced at you briefly before looking back toward the interviewer.
“No,” he answered simply.
“No problems?”
Michael smiled this time.
A real smile.
“None at all”
— — — — —
By the end of the award show, your hands actually hurt from clapping.
“Again?!” somebody whispered loudly from another table as Michael’s name was called for what felt like the millionth time that night.
You were laughing by award number ten.
Every single time he walked back toward the stage, the applause somehow got louder.
And every single time, he looked toward you first before standing.
By award fifteen?
Forget it.
The entire room was standing before he even reached the microphone.
Michael laughed softly into the mic, shaking his head slightly while adjusting the award in his hands.
“I… wow.”
He glanced down briefly before looking back up.
“For a long time,” he said slowly, “I thought if I just worked harder and harder, eventually maybe I’d feel deserving of all this.”
The room went completely quiet.
“But I think…” he paused, smiling faintly, “I think maybe I already was.”
Your heart speed up instantly.
And judging by the audience reaction, you definitely weren’t the only one.
Michael’s eyes found yours again automatically from across the stage.
And for once
He didn’t look overwhelmed by everybody watching him.
He looked proud.
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