BEHIND THE CURTAINS, michael jackson
the michael movie really dug up the suppressed admiration i’ve always had for michael as a artist & person. this story is inspired by this tiktok explaining the creative process behind ‘the lady in my life’ & the extended version is chefs kiss. we’ll start this off fluffy before we get smutty. hope you enjoyy, mwuah!
content: emotional angst, fame-induced isolation, media scrutiny, fluff, yearning, sensual kissing.
the success of Off The Wall changed everything around michael almost overnight.
suddenly there were cameras where there used to be silence. executives where there used to be family. everyone wanted a piece of him now. everyone wanted wanted to say they knew him before the world did. the fame brought spotlight, endless bragging rights, and an impossible kind of isolation.
you watched it happen slowly.
at first it’d had been exciting. everyone recognized him staring, reaching, and flashing cameras. studio sessions running till sunrise. limousines. award shows. cheeky grins as he watched songs climb the charts.
long slender fingers digging into your shoulders as he shook you with that infectious laugh, “can you believe it?!”
as if he couldn’t believe it himself. but fame has teeth.
the media began slowly picking every piece of michael with a cruel sort of fascination. his childlike wonder and soft voice. every magazine stand seemed to carry another cheaply inked headline dissecting his life and most importantly his newfound appearance. the slimming of his nose. thinned out eyebrows. loose curls that once belonged to a tightly coiled fro, hanging towards those big eyes. trying to decide who michael jackson was soon to become before he even had the chance to figure it out himself. as if he were something to be consumed instead of understood.
you saw it happen in real time.
the way michael glanced in the mirrors a little too long, hesitating before photographs, hiding more of himself behind lowered lashes, dark frames, and glittering jackets. compliments rolled off him like water because somewhere along this journey he stopped believing any of them.
and diana…
diana still had her claws in michael, a inconsistent source of affection and validation that kept him dangling between devotion and confusion. praising michael as if he hung all the stars himself then disappearing just long enough for him to question if he imagined the whole thing. sometimes you wanted to hate her for it but most times you just hated what it did to him. because every time she disappeared michael came back emptier.
tonight was one of those nights.
the havenhurst living room sat dim outside of the television glow, some old rerun playing neither of you were actually watching. the jackson family home had long since gone quiet upstairs. michael sunk deep into the couch cushions beside you, fingers mindlessly fidgeting with his curls.
“you know what quincy told me today?” he asked suddenly, pushing it all out in one quick go.
you glanced over, “what?”
“that i ‘oughta stop reading those magazines.”
a small laugh left you, “that probably good advice mikey.”
“mhm..” he murmurs, eyes still fixed on the television. “one of ‘em talked about how i’m so expressive.. that i’ve got these deformed alien-like eyes.”
“micha—”
“no it’s okay..” he smiled, thise cheeks refusing to reach his eyes. “m-maybe they’re right.”
“they aren’t.” you slammed down a magazine, words final.
he shrugged lightly, laughing it off. “diana says people notice these things because i’m different now.”
there it was again. always diana.
like every road inside of him somehow lead back to her.
“you think she ever really cared?” michael asked softly, voice barely raising above a whisper. “or maybe i just made it all bigger in my head than it was..”
you looked over at him carefully, the plush couch consuming your legs as you faced him. michael kept his eyes fixated ahead, shaking his head as if his thoughts had already turned cruel long before he spoke them out loud.
“i dunno… she gets me.” he murmured quietly, almost to himself. “I don’t think anybody ever got me like diana..”
the words struck harder than they should have. not because they were meant wound you. because he believed them. maybe that somehow made it worse. suddenly every year spent quietly loving him felt unbearably heavy sitting in your chest.
you knew the difference between his real laugh and the polite chuckled he gave. knew when he was anxious with every knock of his knees colliding together. knew that he’d spent hours curating a fresh melody, while he asked “this sounds okay? m’still working out the kinks..”
like your opinion mattered more than executives and producers combined.
you knew that he still got excited over peter pan, nostalgic childhood games, and film despite the world trying to age him into something polished and untouchable.
and suddenly the hurt slipped out before pride could even stop it. “i did.”
michael blinked, finally looking at you. brown eyes wide and searching, full of confusion then disbelief.
“i did michael..”
the confession settling between the both of you almost instantly, fragile and irreversible. you swallowed hard, fighting to steady your breathing despite the way your chest burned with buried truth.
“i loved you.” you voice smaller than you intended, hurt slipping through despite your best efforts. “always loved you.”
his face softened then, quiet surprise spreading slowly across his face like dawn breaking over water.
“before there was a diana that existed…” you continued, eyes burning as they darted away from his. “I did..”
michael stared at you as if the confession physically rooted him in place. lips parted slightly as he watched you rise from the couch collecting your things, and letting yourself out.
because somewhere between the fame, headlines, diana ross, and the desperate climb to toward greatness. michael never once stopped to consider that someone had chosen him exactly as he was.
westlake had started to feel suffocating by hour eight.
dimmed lights, half empty coffee cups, empty soda cans littering the console, and tape reels spinning endlessly behind glass. again and again the opening chords of ‘The Lady in My Life’ floated through the studio speakers only to stop halfway through another take.
and michael? well he looked frustrated.
everytime the outro came around, he hesitated. like he was standing at the edge of something too vulnerable to say out loud.
“you wanna try it again?” michael asked softly before anyone else could speak.
“mike,” quincy’s voice crackled through the speaker, chair creaking as he leaned up “you singing pretty, man, but we gotta dig deep for that passion.”
every note sounded technically perfect.every run landed exactly where it should. every note sounded perfect. too perfect. but something was missing. michael knew it. quincy knew it. hell even the engineers silently behind the boards knew it.
it lacked ache. longing.
“this one gotta ache a little” quincy continued, “this the one we gotta try for michael. i’m gonna need you to beg, to yearn..” pointing towards the booth glass.
michael nodded once, adjusting the headphones along his messy curls. “i—i can do it Q.”
“I know you can.” quincy chuckled, “but right now you singin’ like you scared of it.”
the struck something tender inside michael, because maybe he was. because michael messed up by letting that confession sit between you for the past week and a half. you didn’t push him. you knew michael well enough to understand that when emotions overwhelmed him, he retreated inward first.
always inward.
“matter fact,” quincy snapped, nodding towards the phone as one of the engineers reached for the line. “we’ll get sweetheart on the phone.”
“what?” michael’s head snapped up instantly.
“that little sweet girl of yours” quincy grinned knowingly, “get her on down here and get a fire lit beneath those feet.”
chuckles filling the space as busy bodies move around the room.
michael stood so quickly the headphone cord tugged taut. “no, no, Q. you don’t go—”
but his protests came too soft. too late. the number had already been dialed. shrinking into himself with every ringing tone.
one hand rubbed nervously against the back of his neck while he stared down at the lyric sheets scattered across the booth floor. after everything that happened, the last thing he wanted was for you to see him like this. yet some buried, deeply selfish part of him still hoped you’d come.
you still came. even with hurt heavy in your chest.
the studio doors opened sometime around midnight, drawing everyone’s attention toward you. you looked exhausted. pretty in that effortless way michael always noticed first. despite everything sitting heavy between you two, you still managed to curl those lips into that teasing smile as soon as you saw quincy.
“only you can have mikey in the studio till midnight on the lord’s day Q.”
your sleepy voice earning the warmest laughs from the room.
“hey,” quincy pointed towards you. “mike says we gotta get them vocals in before the good lord give em to prince.”
the entire studio erupted, earning a soft groan from michael behind the booth glass. ducking his head bashfully behind the microphone, rosy cheeks darkening with embarrassment. “Q..”
“and maybe, just maybe.” quincy spoke louder, leaning back as he grinned towards the booth. “we could use your help getting that match lit for our pretty boy.”
your eyes found michael’s almost instantly after that, curled inward on the stool with headphones hanging around his neck, fingers nervously picking at the wire. avoiding your gaze the second it met his. quincy glancing slowly between the two of you, grinning like he finally understood something everyone else missed.
you stepped into the booth quietly, letting the heavy door shut behind you. the air was thick, warm, and tender in all the worst ways.
“…thank you for coming.” voice feather soft, barely carried above the hum of the equipment. nervous eyes darting all around the room instead of holding yours too long.
“well..” you huffed out a humorless laugh, settling on the arm of the nearest couch. “you show up for the people you care about about.”
“a disagreement doesn’t make everything between the person you care about disappear.” you added quietly, before you could stop yourself. words laced with that sweet honest southern accent, “wondering where you stand every week.”
and the guilt that spread across his face so quickly it almost hurt to look at.
“i didn’t mean—”
“i know.” crossing your arms loosely over yourself, trying to ignore how small the booth suddenly felt.
outside the glass, quincy pressed the talk back button. voice suddenly ringing throughout the booth. “you good in there mike?”
michael froze, eyes flickering toward the glass where half the studio pretended not to be watching the two of you.
“m’fine Q.” swallowing hard, but his voice cracked around the lie. silence lingered another moment before michael looked toward the microphone again. “… can we start again?”
quincy nodded, exchanging a quick look between engineers. “roll it.”
the instrumental started once more.
michael adjusted the headphones over his messy curls, but before the first lyric could begin he hesitated. “c-can you close the curtains please?”
quincy’s teasing expression softened slightly before he nodded towards the booth. the thick curtains slowly slid shut around the studio glass, cutting you two off from everyone else in the room. even now, after years of performing, there were still pieces of himself that he hated exposing in front of people. especially this kind of vulnerability. this kind of wanting.
now it was only you. only him. only the dim amber lighting and the music curling through the booth like heat.
michael stood still for a few notes, eyes lowered toward the floor. breathing carefully. working uo the courage for something bigger than the song itself. then finally, he looked at you.
really looked at you.
no nervous glances away, no shy smile softening the moment. just raw. just michael. and when he sang this time, it wasn’t polished anymore. it was honest.
‘stay with me’
‘i want you to stay with me’
the music swelled gently around him, the melodies soft, dreamy, and slow enough to breathe inside. his voice quieter now, richer. every lyric threaded with something achingly personal. allowing himself to feel every forbidden desire he’d spent years swallowing down.
‘i need you by my side’
‘don’t you go nowhere’
doe eyes holding yours with a kind of vulnerability that almost hurt to witness. because michael didn’t sing sensuality loud, he sung it tenderly. like devotion. like trust. like he finally allowed himself to want something out loud.
‘ooh, girl, let me keep you warm.’
somewhere between the soft melodies and whispered promises, every guarded piece of himself started falling away. the shyness, the hesitation. the fear of wanting too much.
‘i love you, i love you. i need you, i want you babe’
‘stay with me. don’t you go nowhere.’
‘and i love you babe’
“oo—ooh, babe..” lowering his head slightly, the sharp inhale crackling through the sound system. warm and intimate against the silence of the booth, as though you were standing close enough for his breath to brush against your skin. steadying the trembling exhale before diving back into the song. “don’t you go nowhere.. your my lady,”
“all through the night…” michael let the note linger longer than anyone expected him to. long enough for the studio air to warp itself around it. his head tilted back as the sound poured from him smooth and aching, the vibrato trembling just enough.
“let me feel you babe.” the repeated promises. the pleading softness in his voice. the aching trembles melting into one another. “all over, all over, all over.”
he was sounding less like the worlds rising star and more like a man desperately trying to hand someone his heart before they walked away with it still inside him. and the longer he sang the closer he drifted towards you between versus without even realizing it. pouring every unspoken thing between you into the microphone, like he was saying everything he failed to say earlier.
‘lay back with me’
‘let me touch you girl’
‘lay back with me’
“all over, all over, all over, all over, all over, all over.” his throat bobbing hard, like each repeated promise pulled another layer off him. like every whispered ad-lib dragged something deeply buried to the surface. “all over babe, whoo”
“your my lady” michael’ voice wrapping around the lyri like it physically belong to you, hold his arms out to his side, palms open, opening himself up completely. knees sinking a little as he fell into the melody, curls falling against his forehead “your my lady babe, hee—”
“rock me, rock me, rock me, babe” his head shook faintly with every word, curls brushing against his carmelized skin. body swaying as each one weighted down by the emotion sitting behind it. like he was losing the composure he barely cling to. settling somewhere painfully deep in your stomach, pulling a thigh across the other as your fingers tightened along the seat.
then the final note faded into silence.
michael just stood there, breathing hard. still staring at you. slowly slipping the headphones from his curls and crossing the booth with careful steps, almost like you’d disappear if he moved too fast. barely any time to catch your breath before his hands found your face gently. like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you this way.
“i’m sorry.” mouth meeting yours with an unraveling need as he let out the softest sound into your mouth. his curls brushing against your forehead with every tilt of his head. breath warm and uneven against your skin as he kept returning for another kiss before either of you could fully pull away. “m’so sorry..”
like he couldn’t stop.
like now that he finally had you, even breathing apart for a second felt wrong. and you could feel the slight tremble of his hands when your fingers slid against the back of his neck. letting your plush chest rise up against him every time the kiss deepened. pouring that aching devotion into every slow drag of his tender mouth against yours.
the soft smacks of your lips echoing over the running melody seeping through the studio speakers outside the booth, earning a few applause. quincy lunging for the talkback switch and cut the booth audio off with a sharp click. somewhere behind the glass, leaning back in his chair with a cheeky grin.
“…that’s the one”