“belonging”
—unspeakably, i have belonged to you
disclaimer: this is a fictional story inspired by public figures and public events. it is not intended as an accurate portrayal of any real person. i do not know any of the individuals mentioned and this work should be read strictly as fiction only.
pairings: thriller era/bad era/history era!michael jackson x fem!reader
warnings/contains: a lot of angst haha, some fluff, emotional cheating, actual cheating (basically), paparazzi being invasive, sensitive topics: allegations, media scrutiny, etc. michael is a lover boy and also lowk petty icl, interviewers being weird, arguments, anxiety (?) should that be a warning? idk…..i think that’s all.
a/n: this was NOT supposed to be sooo long, omg, like tell me why i spent four days writing this…anyway, i am KINDA happy with this (???) hmmm…this is also my first time writing michael ever so be nice… and yes i definitely rushed that ending a little i was getting BORED sorry….. this is so long ughhhh… but hey, anything can be a oneshot as long as you post it all at once :) i hope you like it !!!!!!! (Also, i did NOT read this again before posting cos I already had to re read it like 70 times if there are any errors just ignore them💔)
You didn't plan on meeting him.
You didn't even plan the phone call that led to it, but when the Michael Jackson called your home late at night, you didn't really think about the consequences.
It had been years since you two talked like that. A lot of things had happened in those years, to you and to him.
You knew enough, he got married, had kids, remained popular and great and perfect. You'd moved on, too, engaged to someone else now. Your fiancé was a good man—not brilliant, not Michael Jackson—but he was good. You'd learned to settle after Michael anyway.
The phone call was... long. Longer than you'd expected it to be.
He didn't call you from home, he was in some hotel, you realised halfway and that could only mean that he really did need to talk to you. Or talk to someone for that matter. Still, it surprised you that that someone ended up being you (again).
You two talked about many things. He talked about the music, the tours, the tabloids and rumours. He cried a little recalling the allegations and you'd cried with him. He was happy too, though, when he talked about his children. You could hear the childlike joy in his words and it made you smile.
“Prince is a little slow,” he had said, laughing, “but they'll be brilliant. They're amazing kids. Beautiful kids, they're everything to me.”
You smiled to yourself, “Of course, they'll be. They're your kids.” That made him chuckle.
By the end of the phone call, Michael proposed the idea of you two meeting for dinner. You immediately said no, not sure of what this could mean for you right now. But he'd insisted, just dinner. as friends. nothing grand or attention seeking. You knew better, and yet, you agreed.
You never did learn how to quit him, after all.
It feels surreal when you sit down and think about it. No matter how many years pass, no matter how far apart you two grow and change as people in your lives, you always, always seem to find your way back to each other.
You don't believe in fate, but sometimes it does feel like there's a red string pulling the two of you back together into a neatly woven trap, regardless of how hard you try to escape.
—
You still remember the first time you met Michael. You were both so young back then.
You'd got a chance to attend the Victory Tour, thanks to your rich parents and their even richer connections. Michael Jackson was already a known man then—known to the world, but not to you—not yet.
The concert was beautiful. You'd even cried during one of the performances and practically begged your father to take you backstage. On the backstage of that hall was when you first met him.
You shook his hand, or maybe he gave you a hug. You don't remember it clearly. All you remember is that he smiled at you and it made your heart stutter. All you remember is looking at him and thinking—“he's beautiful. This might be the most beautiful person to ever exist.”
—
The next time you two met was in the year 1989, the Grammy Awards.
Michael Jackson by then was an uproar. The most famous man alive. He was an enigma, a mystery, and still way too beautiful for anyone's sanity—especially yours.
You had changed from the little girl fascinated by him too. You were grown now—smarter, prettier, subtler—and following the career path of your choice. But still being very much connected to your parents, you'd attended the award show with your mother.
The award show was like any other—tedious, boring and long. Or maybe it just felt that way to you. You were obliged to clap and smile and laugh whenever someone appeared on stage, especially because your mother had been very clear about not giving the press and tabloids anything to go by.
You were sunken in your chair, watching celebrities go onstage, claim awards, give speeches. There were some performances, too. Though you couldn't wait to get home.
That is, until, Michael Jackson's name was announced.
Eddie Murphy was the one presenting him with an award, you didn't even hear the award title, but you did hear the applause as Michael made his way upstage—it was hard to miss.
You straightened in your seat almost pathetically fast, and prayed a little too late that no hidden cameras will latch onto such a minor detail.
He wore red, with a black coat, pants and tie, and surely, other intricate details you couldn't catch from afar. Stupid curls fell perfectly over his forehead and eyes, as he asked Eddie Murphy to pull up the mic stand for him and the other guy took the opportunity to joke about it.
Michael's laugh echoed in the place. He was still so beautiful, except now it didn’t feel unreal—now it felt unfair.
It felt wrong, almost infuriating how far out of reach he felt.
The crowd laughed along, but you didn't. You hadn't meant to not laugh, you simply couldn't bring yourself to. Especially when it felt like your chest was burning.
And then, by pure chance—his eyes skimming over the crowd—found yours, time stilled for a moment, and then it was over. just like that.
Or maybe, you just imagined that.
After the award ceremony, you'd found yourself standing in the corner of the ballroom with an almost empty glass in hand. Now, it wasn't that you were a lone wolf or enjoyed being one, you just didn't know many people around.
Your parents weren't part of the industry, they were only involved in it, which is why you often found yourself standing at the sidelines.
Honestly, you loved the glamour of the industry. The fashion, the luxury, the influence, but you also loved being able to enjoy all of that without being an active participant in it.
Maybe that was hypocritical of you, but who cares?
You fixed your dress again, it was beautiful and blue and sparkly with a deep back, and you loved it. If you were being entirely honest, the dress was the only reason you even attended.
You took another sip, humming to the music that played in the back. You didn't even notice him until he was close enough to feel imposing.
“Hello,” He said, only to then call out your name in that painfully soft voice. You turned around fast—why did he say your name? How did he even know it in the first place?
You swallowed the questions. You didn't want to ask. You didn't want to be that kind of a girl.
“I'm Michael Jackson,” He continued.
You wanted to laugh. “I know.”
That made him smile. And god, looking at him now made you understand why he always had those sunglasses on. His eyes were... distinct. You couldn't even put your finger on the exact reason, but for a painful second, you lost your entire train of thought.
“It's nice to meet you,” he said, probably an attempt to bring you out of your head. You could already feel your cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Again,” he added, extending his arm for a handshake.
You took it, your palm burning in his grip. It was electric, his entire presence was and as much as you pride yourself on being composed—it was just a tad bit harder to maintain that composure around him.
You didn't understand it when people said Michael Jackson just has something about him, an unmistakable aura, a gravitating energy you don't find anywhere else, but you get it now.
There was an unequivocal air about him—shy yet confident, soft yet powerful.
And that stupidly perfect smile of his didn't help you at all.
After some small talk, that was more daring eye contact than anything else, he asked, “will I see you at the afterparty?”
You shook your head before he even finished asking—no. big no.
As much as you wanted to spend a little more time with him, you weren't yet acquitted to spend an entire night by his side, and, god forbid—the media ends up making a thing out of it already.
Although, if your mother found out that you declined a clearly sweet invitation to an afterparty from the Michael Jackson himself, she'd probably scream her head off. But she was also the woman who taught you to play hard to get, so there's that.
“Oh, no. I don't think I'll be attending,” You replied calmly, running a palm down your dress, “this dress is suffocating.”That wasn't a lie.
He looked you up and down once, so quick, it almost looked like he caught himself doing it halfway and stopped. “Oh, that's too bad. Will I... I'll see you 'round.”
You nodded with a smile. God, you hoped so. “Yeah. I'm sure you will.”
The flowers and invitations had started after that night. Grand bouquets with sweet cards inside them arrived at your doorstep almost every other week, signed with nothing but “Mj”, at the end.
You’d declined the first few. Not because you didn’t want them—no, you loved them—your room was soon filled with all different kind of flowers and your drawers were full of cute letters.
You just needed to process what was going on.
Michael Jackson was courting you. Not asking you out on a whim, not inviting you to his bed, not fucking around mindlessly—no, he was courting you—Prince Charming style, with the flowers and all.
And you needed to let that sink in. You needed to be sure that he meant it and it was not some silly obsession. And he made sure you knew it.
At every gift you declined or sent back, the next one was even grander and more thoughtful. He gifted you a beautiful, exquisite dress on your birthday for saying out loud—one that coincidentally matched the colour of the jacket he wore to the next award function—too bad you didn’t attend that.
It wasn’t a show of his money as much as it was a show of his efforts and thoughtfulness.
And you were just a girl. It was oh, so easy to be swept away by him.
Eventually, Michael invited you over for dinner at his house. And you’d accepted. You had run away from what you so badly wanted for long enough now.
The date—yes, it was a date—was magical. That’s the only word you can truly use to describe it with.
It was magical and perfect and Michael had managed to surprise you at every single turn. He’d cleared any and all assumptions and doubts you had, he’d laid out his intentions clearly, he gave you no space for insecurity and anxiousness—only questions, which he promised he would answer any numbers of.
He hadn’t wasted any time with the big question either. He properly asked you out over dinner, fingers brushing yours over the table.
“Be my girl,” he’d said. So simple, so sweet. And you’d said yes. Of course, you did.
You always had been a little in love with him, after all.
—
Your relationship with Michael was everything you’d imagined it would be and more.
Under all the glamour of the superstar, he really was just a guy. A lonely, beautiful, sensitive kind of guy. It broke your heart to find out how lonely he truly was, despite being the most famous man on earth. You’d made sure, with all you had, that he would never have to feel that way again.
You promised yourself you’ll always be there for him.
Michael was also surprising in many ways, his soft voice, for instance, was a conscious construct. He was funny and interesting and childlike in a way that made him so truly pure.
And you loved him. You loved him so much it scared you.
Your relationship brought out a different side of you as well. You felt bolder with yourself. More confident, more loved than ever before. It was almost intoxicating to be with him, it was a high like nothing else could be.
You’d been in love before, you’d been in relationships before, but nothing could compare to what you and Michael shared. Nothing could truly compare to what you felt for him.
It took only a few beautiful months for Michael to propose to you. Before you knew it, the two of you were engaged and planning a wedding. The huge diamond ring set on your finger like a commitment in itself—you were the prize—and Michael made sure everyone knew that.
But then, around the time you were busy planning your wedding, the allegations hit. It was a dark period for him, for the both of you.
But it truly broke Michael to know the lengths at which people misunderstood him, to witness how they thought of him and the things they were ready to do. All he had ever tried to do was spread love and kindness, it was obvious that he didn’t understand any of the hate. He didn’t understand any of it at all.
He’d cried in your arms when he first found out about the allegations. You were shocked yourself—it didn’t make sense—until it did. It was extortion. They wanted his money.
Michael was hurt. You were angry on his behalf.
The two of you dealt with it all together, as a unit. The awful paparazzi, the messy tabloids, the shitty interviewers and their even shittier questions.
It was hard, probably the harshest scrutiny either of you had ever faced in your lives, but you went through it.
The allegations and everything that came after hollowed Michael out in a way, especially when instead of given a chance to defend himself, he was forced to settle it with money—which only made him look bad.
But, one way or the other, it was over. Legally, at least. Because the media was still going strong.
Every interviewer, every paparazzi, every stupid reporter had the same questions, and all that made Michael more anxious and unsure than you’d ever seen him before.
He took all of what they threw at him with a smile, but you knew what it was doing to him—what it was doing to the both of you.
Before this, the future you two had envisioned seemed perfect. Tranquil. Reachable.
But after the allegations, Michael had started seeing it like something that would slip out of his reach if he didn’t hold onto it fast enough. And boy, did that make him paranoid.
He wanted it. He wanted it as fast as he could get it.
Marriage. Children. A family. Something pure and permanent and his.
And you wanted it too. God, you wanted it with him more than anything, but it was too much, too soon. He was moving so fast, and you couldn’t even lift your foot off the ground in time with him.
That imbalance created a gap of opinions neither of you knew how to bridge. You didn’t even realise when the things you two had always wanted for your future started looking so shockingly different.
Naturally, this led to a few disagreements in your relationship, and way too many misdirections instead of actual answers when he would repeatedly bring certain things up.
And because he was him, Michael noticed soon enough that something was going on with you. And that’s exactly what led to that terrible argument.
You were in your bedroom that night, getting ready for bed. Michael stood by the door, just out of his studio and still dressed in a loose red shirt and black pants. His curls were messier than usual, which meant he’d been doing some thinking.
Instead of filling you up with a giddiness to throw your arms around him and ask him more about what he had on his mind, it filled you up with dread.
You knew him. You knew exactly what was to come.
And he brought it up again. No sweet nothings. No arms wrapped around your waist or soft kisses pressed along your shoulder.
Just: “I was thinking about it, you know… us. Our kids. Our future. Once we get married…”
God, you wanted to disappear.
But you couldn’t. Which meant you needed to address the problem instead of running from it.
You turned around, not scared, not even apologetic this time. But firm, making sure that he hears you and desperately hoping that he understands.
“I don’t think it’s the right time.”
Michael blinked, staring at you like you just grew two heads, and then he waltzed in until he was in the middle of the room. “What?”
You sighed, voice softer. You weren’t trying to fight, you were trying to make him understand your own concerns. “Mike… we just settled the allegations. Things are crazy right now… I just… I don’t think it’s the best time to make such a huge decision—“
“It’s not a decision,” he cut in, almost bewildered at your words. “It’s a plan. Our plan. This was never a decision, was it? Kids. Family. It’s part of our plan. Our future, and—“
“But that was before everything,” you interrupted and his jaw went rigid, “and just think about it, Michael. It’s not the right time. I can… I can feel it. I mean, we aren’t even married yet.”
“We’re engaged. You wear my ring on your finger. That’s not part of the problem.” He said, confused.
Those big, brown eyes stared at you, full of hurt and, almost something like betrayal, like you were taking something precious away from him. And maybe you were, in a way. But not for forever, you just needed time.
You took a deep breath. “There are other things. My—my career is just taking off—“
“It won’t affect your career,” he said, voice so soft and small it made you want to take all your words and push them back down your throat. “It won’t change anything.”
Wait—now, that was a lie.
“It will. It changes everything.” You admitted sharply.
“I thought you wanted that.”
“I do. I do want that with you. I just… I just think we need more time—“
Michael shook his head, laughing a little—but it was that cautious laugh—where he was trying not to let his emotions get to him. “You’re just making excuses now.”
That offended you more than you’d like to admit. You stared at him, brows furrowed. “I’m not making excuses. I’m being realistic. We need time, Mike, maybe—maybe we can wait a few years. Maybe we can move to a quieter place, where less people know you, and we can buy a house there.”
He stared at you like that again—like you were the one weaving fantasies and hoping for something unreal. “Baby, cmon, you know that’s not possible.”
You weren’t sure if his words were meant for the moving houses part or for finding a place where he wasn’t as famous and renowned and crazed upon.
You assumed it was the latter. That’s who Michael Jackson was and there was no running from it.
But—
“We have to try,” you insisted, almost pleading. “I mean, just look at our lives. The media is always crowded outside our house. I can’t take a walk in my own goddamn garden without being bombarded with cameras and pointless questions and worse accusations. And that’s not even the half of it—there’s the paparazzi and the messy reporters and the tabloids. Do you really want to bring children into all of this? Right now? How do you think it’ll affect them, Michael?”
He listened to you without so much as blinking. Genuine hurt crossed his features. He knew it was hard, god, if anyone knew how torturous it all could be it was him. But he couldn’t bear to let go of the one thing he was so desperate to have. It clouded his judgment, it made everything else seem less important.
“I can’t change that. There’s nothing I can do about that,” he replied, matter-of-fact, “except…block them out. Don’t let them affect you,” he shrugged slightly, but even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.
And then, after a short pause, he asked—stupid and dire, “why… why do you even think of it like that?” Why do things have to change? Why can't we just do them the way we imagined?
You stared at him in utter confusion, lips parting. “Why don’t you?” How can you refuse to look at what's right in front of you?
Silence fell between the two of you as Michael stared at you. His brows furrowed, eyes clouded and worried and you wished you could soothe his worries away like you always did—with a brush of your palm against his cheek, or a hug that both of you so desperately needed—but he needed to think for himself right now.
This was a decision you needed him to take. For you. For your relationship. And for the future you two had envisioned together.
There was fear in his eyes. It was in yours too. He was terrified that he’ll never get to have the future he’s wanted all his life, and you were terrified of what will happen once he does gets it.
Neither of you were wrong, but that was never the issue. Being right didn’t save you.
“I…” he parted his lips, staring right ahead, not exactly looking at you anymore. He looked lost, unsure of what he’s supposed to value and what he’s supposed to let go of. He blinked again and now, it felt like there was a glass wall between the two of you, like he couldn't see you quite as clearly anymore. And then, “I want my kids.”
The words were like a splash of cold water on your face—no, he wasn’t unsure, he’d already decided.
You stilled, staring at him. Your expression broke before you could manage it, tears filling your eyes. And you spoke without thinking, you spoke what he had somehow managed to forget.
“Our kids, Michael.”
You were mad. Hurt. In disbelief. It was hard to tell.
He blinked at your words, and you noticed him flex his hands, but he didn’t take it back. There was guilt in his eyes—not regret.
And that just broke your heart further.
The silence this time wasn’t loaded. It felt like a knife being stabbed into your chest, nudging deeper with every passing second.
Michael’s words just managed to confirm your biggest fear; the fear that he wanted a family a lot more than he wanted a family with you.
And all you could do was stand there and accept that painful truth—it was laughable, really. And you didn’t even know how to.
You didn’t know how to look at the man you loved more than anything—the man you’d dedicated your whole life to and had planned on dedicating even more—and watch him choose a future that you dreamed of together, only to push you right out of it. Like you were never the irreplaceable part.
“I want my kids.”
His kids. His family. His life.
Suddenly, you felt like a stranger in your own home.
You didn’t know what to say anymore. You just stared at him, with teary eyes and a despaired expression. He couldn’t even look at you, eyes dropping to the floor, the bed, anywhere but your face.
After what felt like ages, he finally spoke up, rubbing his palms on his shirt, “I… I think we should talk about it in the morning.”
You hadn't slept that night. Michael laid next to you, asleep—or pretending to be, you didn't know anymore.
You couldn't even bring yourself to cry, you just stared at the diamond on your finger, watching it catch the moonlight coming from the window, as a terrible realisation sunk in your gut.
He will have a family. He will have kids. One way or the other, but you just weren't ready.
No matter how many times you told yourself that you could do it, that you loved him enough and you two could get through anything together—part of you knew that it wasn't for you—at least, not yet. Maybe not for a long time.
And Michael wasn't one to wait. He never had been. He decided what he wanted and he always, always got it.
That's how he became who he was.
That's how he got you.
But there was also hope, blooming inside your chest from the love living there. However bleak and insignificant it felt at the moment—it was there. It told you that you loved him and he loved you, and even if that didn't solve everything, it still mattered. It was real, and it happened.
And as you intertwined your fingers with his and buried yourself into his side and Michael lazily through an arm around you, too sleepy to be angry—you knew it was over.
You won't be able to convince him. Nothing you could say would change his mind. You'd seen the fear and desperation in his eyes, and you'd never seen him like that before.
Even as you closed your eyes and inhaled his scent enveloping you, you knew that the morning will come and everything will fall apart.
And so it did.
You clasp the buckle of your heel over your ankle, sitting on the edge of your bed. Your fiance is in the back, fiddling with his cufflinks. It's your usual morning routine, getting dressed together in silence, grabbing breakfast in the dining room, and then leaving for work with a chaste kiss. You rarely get to spend time together and honestly, you prefer it this way—as much as you dislike yourself for it.
Michael told you he'd be in your city tonight, you two could get together for dinner, talk a little. He was going to hang around here for a while, he said, not that you cared.
Now, you don't exactly know how to tell your newly engaged fiance that you're meeting up with your ex. The ex who apparently had left you in ruins not too long ago.
"What time will you be back?" He asks, not looking away from the mirror where he's been running his hands through his hair for the last twenty minutes.
About that question, you did tell a little lie—but hey, it was better than making the poor guy anxious about freaking Michael Jackson, right?
You told him you had a little business meeting tonight. Something that could take longer than usual. You'll be in late. And yet, here you were, answering the same question for the 40th time.
"I'll be late," you remind him, getting up to grab your purse and coat. You glance in the mirror once again, for no specific reason except to make sure your hair sit right today. No exceptional reason at all.
"Might, uh, meet up with some friends later." You added quietly, nodding to yourself. That sounded good enough.
You obviously don't want to lie to him. On the surface, there's nothing to lie about. It's just a friendly dinner between two people who had once meant something to each other. A lot of exes end up becoming great friends, you even know a lot of people who went through something similar.
And yet, you can't bring yourself to tell him the truth, to even utter that name out loud.
Maybe because that name will never not have history and love attached to it. You'll never be able to look into someone's eyes and say, "Oh yeah, Michael Jackson? I was engaged to him once, crazy times." It will never be something you laugh off or joke about.
Even after your relationship with him ended, a lot of reporters and media channels had tried pestering you into doing interviews and saying things that would feed their own awful dynamic of him. You'd only agreed once, and regretted it immediately.
"What about what he looks like?" was a question you were asked in that interview. It still weirdly irritates you to this day. You'd just stared at the interviewer after that, all that really came out was a bewildered and loud, "what?"
The thing is, you aren't a celebrity—maybe you were something almost close to it when you dated Michael, but you aren't one of them. You aren't bound to keep up appearances and laugh off rude questions. For your own sanity, you never accepted any interviews after that one.
"What friends?" Your fiance asks, bringing you out of your head.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you just don't have many friends, so—“
You scoff, turning to him. "I have plenty of friends."
"Since when?" He asks, not noticing your clearly offended expression.
"Since always," You reply, frowning as you give him a look.
The man just shrugs, "Alright, have fun with your new friends," he jokes, walking over to kiss your hairline.
You roll your eyes, scrunching your nose at his heavy perfume, "That's not—"
"Whatever you say, babe." He grins at you, and all you can think about is a smile that's not his.
God, what's wrong with you?
—
The cafe is—expectedly—very high-class. There aren’t many people around which, you assume, is why Michael chose this place. You can’t even get in without a reservation, which means no fans or media are going to bother you
You were the one who suggested entering the place individually. Michael had offered to pick you up, but you denied. God, no. You couldn’t imagine what that would lead to. Being alone with him in the car, being alone with him anywhere truly—even the thought made you shiver.
And thinking like that about a married man? You really don't know yourself when it comes to him. It feels as if all logic flies out the window, and all that's left is a roller coaster of emotions. It's annoying truly, how easily he manages to make a fool out of you.
You order a glass of water while you wait. You’re dressed nicely, you think, maybe too formal—but it's too late to worry about that now. You sigh, smoothing a hand down your dress anxiously.
Suddenly, this decision doesn’t feel so right anymore, especially when you look down at the gold band around your finger—
An uproar breaks outside.
Not a fight, or a loud protest, or—oh—it’s just him.
You sit straighter in your seat, staring out the glass windows. Michael’s Rolls Royce stops at the restaurant’s entrance and so does the crowd that always follows him around—surprisingly, it’s not as huge tonight as it always is.
He signs a few autographs on his way in, avoids any questions about who he’s visiting, or why he’s here at all, and once he’s inside the lobby, it all finally slows down.
Except your heart, which is running a mile per minute.
Technically, you've seen him almost everyday even after your breakup. You've seen him on tv, in interviews, heard him on the radio—he's been exceptionally hard to escape, and you'd accepted that eventually, learned to live with it.
But seeing him in person, looking into those eyes, not having to hear his voice through a device filtering it, its almost scary. It's too much.
And it's too late to run away, too.
You swallow down your worries as Michael finally enters, dressed in a plain shirt and pants, and, of course, a black hat. You don't even try to hide the eyeroll you give him. Of course, he's wearing the damn hat. And of course he looks amazing without even trying.
"Hey," is what he says, voice soft. Like he missed you, like he was looking forward to this, too.
"You're wearing your hat," you observe plainly, looking up at him. He's always been a little taller.
"Yes," is all he says, his smile catches you off guard. Oh, he's happy.
"I thought you were supposed to be discreet."
He makes a confused face. You want to laugh. Gosh, he's adorable—despite it all, he's still so damn adorable. "I am being discreet."
"You're wearing the hat, might as well hold a sign that says "Look at me, I am Michael Jackson.""
That makes him laugh. And the sound of his laugh—in front of you again—not on a screen or through the phone, makes your heart jump. You can't stop yourself from smiling either. Damn him.
"Let's sit down," he mutters, moving to pull your seat back. You blink, taken aback, not sure why, Michael has always been this way.
"Uh, you don't have to—“
He gives you a look, perfectly arched brows screwing together, "it’s alright."
Something in your stomach flutters, but you ignore the feeling as you take your seat.
“That was quiet a crowd,” you point out, avoiding looking directly at him, instead you divert your attention to the menu before you, despite the fact that you’d been looking at it for the past fifteen minutes that you spent waiting.
You don’t want to look up. You know he’s watching you with those stupidly deep eyes—not even giving you the mercy of a glance, but gazing at you in a way that you can feel in your bones.
He nods at your words, and you finally force yourself to look up. “I’d to move fast, didn’t want anyone interrupting this.”
“You sure do move fast.”
Michael blinks, his lips curl—not exactly a smile, but something close enough. He heard the sharpness in your tone, and he knows he deserves it. Besides, anything is better than not having you at all. Though your tone is a bit too sassy for his liking. “Are we doing that? I don’t wanna do that.”
You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Fine. Tell me about the kids. How are they?”
Your question makes Michael launch into a very detailed conversation about his kids, “…Prince… he don’t listen,” he says, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, “Paris is sweet… I love them a lot.”
“I’m glad,” you tell him, genuinely. “You wanted this.”
He nods, something flickers in his gaze. Something sweet and sad.
“And, uhm, what about… Debbie? Your wife.”
Michael blinks, “oh, no…. We’re not… it’s not like that…” he begins, searching for the right words.
Your brows furrow as you listen.
“We’re… not like that. She gave me the kids as a present. She knew I wanted to be a father.”
“Oh… that’s… oh.” You don’t know what to say, you just stare at him.
“Yeah.”
The words sink in, and you hate how the very first thing you feel is relief.
“We’re not like that.”
“She gave me the kids as a present.”
You shouldn’t feel the way you do, and that alone tangles the relief with guilt and sadness.
“Thats…” you swallow, “that’s nice of her.” What else are you supposed to say?
Michael nods, smiling softly. His eyes trail down to the ring on your finger. A second, maybe two, then he looks back up at your face.
“That’s a nice ring.” He points out. You shake your head before he can even begin. Michael was never arrogant—but he could be when he wanted to.
“Don’t start.”
“Nah,” he grins, “tell me about him. Your… uh, your guy.”
“My fiancé,” you correct him. He waves his palm like it doesn’t matter.
“He’s nice… simple. Works a 9 to 5…”
“Mhm, interesting,” Michael adds, sipping water. You can’t not hear the pettiness in his tone.
“He is.” You say, convincingly, “he’s very…” you pause, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like a lie, “…classy.”
You almost don’t agree with that yourself.
“That’s amazing, you love classy.” He replies, smiling like he just won something.
Michael knows it’s a lie. You know it too. “Classy” has always been a word you used to describe him—you shouldn’t have said that.
He looks down at you in a way that makes it hard to hold his gaze. You cross your legs over each other.
The fluttering in your stomach reminds you of the first night he invited you over for dinner. Back when you were still reckless and brave and hopelessly in love with him and there was only the future before the two of you.
No history. No pain. Nothing to mourn or look back on.
Things are different now.
And yet, yet—it doesn’t seem to matter.
—
The manager and some of the workers take a few pictures with Michael once you two are done. The manager, then, suggests you two to go out by the back entrance to avoid any intrusion. You listen.
The back entrance goes through a lobby behind the kitchen, Michael leads you there, a hand just brushing your lower back as he guides you front.
You can smell his perfume now—the sweet, calming scent mixed with something so distinctively him takes you back in time—to the nights spent in his arms, to the long, comforting hugs after weeks and months apart, to how his scent would comfort you in a room full of intimidating, imposing people. How it was always there, just like him.
And now its back, after you spent years training yourself to not turn your head at the distinct scent—now, it feels like something that never left.
You swallow hard, glad at the cold air hitting your face once you reach the end of the lobby and the heavy metal door thuds open for you.
Michael's holding it open for you, he's so close. You can feel his breath on your cheek, you glance up at him once before walking out. He follows.
The pavement outside is empty, even quiet except for the buzz of the city—
—all for a totality of five seconds before people are stopping by and asking for autographs.
Soon enough, there is a tiny crowd around Michael, his security is already there, one of the bodyguards push you aside without looking, clearly in a rush. Unsure of what to do, you step back, looking around so you can go stand in a corner while he deals with the fans.
But before you can even move, a hand wraps around your palm, slender fingers covering yours. You freeze, eyes wide as you look down at his hand and then back up at him. Michael pulls you into his side, making you stand beside him like you belong there. The bodyguards move back without a word.
He's not even looking at you. He casually continues signing autographs and talking to the fans like nothing in the world is wrong. Your throat dries up, the chilly air doing nothing to help.
He's not changed much, you realise with a painful twist in your chest.
He still smiles at fans even though they're clearly interrupting. He gives them autographs and answers their questions and hugs them and makes sure they know they're valued by him.
Despite yourself, it makes you smile.
He holds your hand until the people start clearing and security begins escorting him to his car. Neither of you notice the paparazzi that are also beginning to show up—or maybe you simply can't bring yourself to care. Especially not when your hands fits in his like it always used to.
It feels just like old times, running to his car after a late night dinner, hiding your face with your hands and giggling, because when you two are together, everything is fun. Everything is better.
Except the clear truth—you aren't together anymore.
"Are you two dating again?" Someone yells.
"[name], you've been recently engaged, does your fiance know about this?" Another.
"Planning a divorce already, Michael?" And another.
"The lovebirds can't stay away from each other, huh? This will make headlines." And another.
The cameras flash incessantly—pop, pop, pop—right into your faces. You squint at the flashing lights and Michael instinctively wraps an arm around you to pull you in closer.
Even more flashes.
Your heart beats faster and your breaths get shorter with each flash. The ring on your finger shines under the light, someone laughs. Michael curses.
"This will make headlines." The words echo in your head.
You look up at Michael as someone finally opens the car door for you. His eyes are soft. There's guilt in them—but no regret.
And that somehow makes everything so much worse.
a/n: if you guys sorta kinda MAYBE want a part 2 lemme know !! not tagging anyone yet, if you wish to join my general taglist, just comment <3 im also working on headlines, so look out for it :)
