—✴︎ 𝐵𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝐼𝓃 𝒟𝒾𝓈𝑔𝓊𝒾𝓈𝑒 ✴︎—
Summary: You’re a troubled and struggling model who meets thrad/bad era MJ in disguise at a park. It takes some time for your hurt selves to let your guards down. He falls in love, inviting you to work on the “TWYMMF” music video.
Content: Michael Jackson x Reader, second person, love at first sight, fluff, slow-ish burn??, fem reader, kissing, sfw, emotional hurt/ trauma mention
A/N: This’ll be one of two parts. Plz bare with me, I've barely proofread, and it's PRETTY long. Also, English is my second language, so give me some grace!! I tried to give characters some depth, hope it doesn't come off as just rambling. Thx for reading <3
“If you could just stand here, we’ll be fitting look twelve on you today, ‘mkay?” An assistant’s palm hovers over your arms to direct you. From there, a team of vultures assembles electric-blue sheer tulle over your frame, accentuating your figure with millions of pins the seamstresses press against your sides. You catch a glimpse of the designer’s loud garment that he intends you to model in a dusty full-length mirror near the door. ‘This looks ridiculous’, you think to yourself.
Here you are, shaped like a tsunami with legs, to possibly walk the runway for a designer who frames his models as lifeless jesters. You have no choice, though; you are not fussy about modeling gigs merely because you cannot afford to be. You live in a 500-square-foot flat on the outskirts of LA, and you can barely afford the rent. You moved to LA alone three years ago to pursue your dream of becoming a model, but you have just started making a name for yourself. You appear in a few commercials and magazines. Though you are fairly accomplished for someone in your position, having consistently walked for renowned designers. Still, you somehow remain in the background, with casting directors hardly distinguishing you from the others they recruit. As far as you are concerned, though, this is as successful as you can be just three years in the game.
The casting director storms in, nearly spilling the miniature espresso cup in his tight hands. A warm gust of enamel and coffee reaches your nostrils, “No, no. Pin the shoulder down.” The group shifts its focus to it. “Try it with the emerald boots,” he shifts his weight onto his leg.
After a half-hour of his hot-headed direction, he surrenders. He rubs the bridge of his nose and holds his palm out to initiate a stop. “Enough. She doesn’t have the look. We need more edge.”
The weight of seamstresses is taken off your body, with each instantly gathering their pins and arms before attending the other rooms. Before giving you half the time of day, he cuts off any response you’ve prepared: “Sorry, babe, you don’t fit what we’re looking for in this piece.” He walks off alongside the remainder of the group, leaving you alone in just your undergarments.
The sudden change of heart leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Not because you care for this designer or the clunky dress, but because you have been rejected ten times just this week and need to make rent. You sigh, get dressed, and pull your shades tight between your eyes.
You walk home along the scenic route to help ease the tension building in your neck, starting from stomach. A wave of heat washes over your face, and you can’t hold back the tears. The modeling business is cruel and unforgiving; you know that and sign up for it anyway. Regardless, you contemplate whether you have made the right choices in life.
You find yourself in the middle of a park, minutes away from your apartment. The autumn breeze passes through you, with the cold highlighting your vulnerability. Sadness hits you harder than you expect, with your lips unwillingly curling into a frown. The stream of tears seems to loosen your knees, giving you no choice but to sit yourself down on a nearby bench. Hands over your cheeks, you sob, fogging up your lenses. The sounds you unleash are far from composed, too raw to be unleashed in a public setting. You stop caring long ago, though, as this line of work leaves you with very little dignity anyway.
Interrupting your scene of self-pity is a tap on the shoulder from a man seated near you on the bench. He is a slender, bronze-skinned man wearing an obnoxiously stereotypical baseball cap, sunglasses that are too big for his face, a flannel shirt, and a walrus mustache that seems out of place.
“You alright?” He sets his pencil onto his little notebook and leans towards your face, maintaining a respectful distance.
“Sure, I am. Thanks.” You peek from the corner of your sunglasses and fold your arms tight.
“Couldn’t hurt to talk to a stranger. Not like you’ll see me again.” He tilts his head in persuasion.
A contradictory smile creeps through the corner of your mouth, “I don’t have much else to lose. Why not?”
“I’m Michael, by the way,” he holds his hand out.
“Y/N,” you receive his hand. You shake your head, amazed that you give in to this stranger’s charm without a fight. You chuckle, “It’s just work stuff.”
He raises an eyebrow and shrugs. “Work sucks sometimes. Work’s on my mind even on my days off,” he lifts his pencil and notebook in indication. You give a polite smile and look down at your fidgeting thumbs. “What do you do?” He pushes up his glasses before facing you.
“I’m a model. Usually, runway, but right now, it’s whatever my agent throws at me,” you finally look him in the eyes. “What about you?”
“Just— the modeling thing. You look lovely— even with the glasses covering half your face.” You blush and smile while it compels him to mirror you.
“Thank you,” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “What do you do?”
“I’m a performer. I sing.” He attempts to correct himself to avoid giving too much away, “Weddings and stuff. Nothing big.” His flustered mouth thins to conclude his answer.
You nod, following up with more questions that roll into conversation. You end up oversharing about the industry’s heartlessness and your financial situation while living in LA. He listens and advises you not to be so hard on yourself, since you are doing rather well for a beginner in this industry. He also stresses that he believes in you, and even after just a few minutes of conversation, he is convinced you will achieve great success in your career. He even reveals some insight into his own personal life, opening up about his insomnia and the pressure he faces from his family.
Minutes turn to hours as you give each other space to rant and console. The sun dims to a muted orange, cueing the conversation’s end.
You wipe the tears off your cheeks aggressively and sit up, “Sorry for all that. Didn’t mean to unload all this like onto someone I just met like some weirdo.”
He laughs briefly and tucks a curl under his cap. “I live for these moments. I love to help, even just by lending an ear to a stranger.” He turns his head away, then back towards you with a gentle sigh on its way. “That sounded a lot less cheesy in my head, if I’m being honest.”
You flash a smile. Not the practiced one that you give photographers and casting directors, the first genuine expression of joy you have in months.
You flutter your lashes and look at your fidgeting shoes, “Anyway, thank you.” You pause, hesitating whether you should even ask, “Will we ever meet again?” You swipe the glasses off your face and fold them into the neckline of your shirt, finally facing him with your swollen eyes. “I know we started with ‘we’d never see—,” he cuts you off before you finish the thought.
“Same time, same place, tomorrow?” He follows by taking off his glasses.
You study his eyes, and he studies yours. Face to face, he can’t help but notice the beautiful blush and glow that follows your tears. He develops some bit of attachment to you after a few hours of talking. You can’t help but admire his rich black eyes, which capture a youthful and tender spirit. He is charming and draws you in through his comforting nature.
The dimples on your cheek expose themselves while you fail to hide a smile. You tuck an untamed strand of hair behind your ears and nod, “Same time, same place.”
Bill picks him up in an alleyway that he designates for discreet drop-offs and pick-ups. Michael spends the short drive back to Hayvenhurst looking out his window and occasionally smiling. The smiles are too audible in the silence, prompting Bill to look over at him through the rear-view mirror.
“Someone’s in a good mood,” Bill attempts to fill the silence.
He wets his top lip and makes eye contact with Bill through the mirror. “Had a nice conversation with someone at the park, is all.”
“She’s got you all giggly like that?”
“She? How’d you guess?” His gaze drifts towards the window to lessen the embarrassment that warms the tips of his ears.
Bill responds simply with an ear-to-ear grin.
“We’re meeting again tomorrow.”
Bill shoots him a look that serves as a warning.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t say anything too crazy. She doesn’t know who I am, and I don’t plan on telling her unless it even goes anywhere,” he pauses to inhale and gather his thoughts. “She just feels different. I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know her, but I feel drawn to her— or something— I don’t know.”
Bill seems amused by how flustered he is just thinking about you, brushing it off, and hoping for the best.
After nine grueling hours of shooting for Glamour magazine, you throw your clutch onto an armchair and kick off your heels, exposing the blisters that have formed over the past few days from standing in positions no feet should endure for hours on end. It doesn’t help that you speed walk home to make it to the park on time.
Although you have just met the man at the park, there is an ease you have with him that you don’t experience with many people. It is as if you have known him for years before the interaction. You also can’t bear the thought of passing up what seems like the first genuine connection you’ve had for a long time. Your lifestyle has been particularly isolating, with your work becoming the forefront of all your relationships. You stay in touch with your mother and talk with siblings here and there, but moving to LA alone has made you tolerant of solitude. Though living is tolerable, it would be nice to have a friend for a change.
You slip on an oversized leather jacket and jeans before heading towards the park.
There, he waits on the bench with a heel on his knee. He uses his calf as a support to hold his notebook up, doodling what he can remember of the sight he absorbed before you left him— your hair a mess and the teary residue accentuating your eyelashes like mascara. He leans in to refine the bridge of your nose and spots you crossing the street. He drops his pencil and tucks it into his book as he lifts his arm to wave. You give an energetic wave back before tugging at your jacket and speed-walking to the bench.
Your magnificence is hard to miss in the crowd; he notices your mood has sweetened, the brilliance in your face beaming a vibrant smile.
“Get up, lazy,” you motion your head towards the path.
He exhales a laugh, “Where are we going?”
“The trail. The leaves look so pretty right now,” you hold a shrug with your hands in your pockets.
“I’m sold,” he gets up without a fight and follows your lead.
“You’re doing better today,” he says, looking around before folding his glasses into the neckline of his shirt.
You maintain that smile from earlier but embrace it now. “I’m not always so negative. Yesterday was just— a lot.”
“I figured as much. What kinda work did you have today?” He leans to listen as if his life depends on it.
“Couple shots for Glamour. Nothing big. A small shoot for a fall fashion editorial,” you twirl a strand of hair.
“Sounds like you’re underestimating how big it is,” he picks apart.
“You’d think. What about you, Mr. Wedding singer? What do you do in a day?”
He gulps to buy some time, “Not much. Been trying to get into songwriting. Been writing some stuff.”
A massive lie. He spends the day with Quincy breaking down a couple of lyrical issues on “Liberian Girl”. He is in there for ten hours straight before heading to you. He isn’t going to give you his identity so quickly, of course. He is hesitant about allowing people into his life (and rightfully so).
Unconvinced, you nod without questioning it. You can tell he doesn’t want to stick to the subject too long, so you let the conversation drift. You talk about interests and hobbies for some time. You both share an admiration for cartoons, and you geek out about Disney Princess movies.
“No way you’ve never seen it!” You walk backward to face his amusing disgrace.
He points a finger at you, “You never watched Pinocchio, though! That’s so much worse!”
“Sleeping Beauty is their best movie! You’re not a real Disney buff, sorry,” you tease, mildly elbowing him.
“That’s not even remotely correct”, he goes to rub the arm you elbow, “Besides, Pinocchio has the best soundtrack by far.”
You shake your head, “How ‘bout this? There’s a Sleeping Beauty re-release they’ll be running next Sunday. Are you up for it?” You stand in front of him to face him, stopping in the middle of the marigold and scarlet disarray of leaves. You lean your head upward to eye him down temptingly.
He licks his lips as his throat resists a laugh, “How do you have this information ready like that?”
“I’m always at the movies,” you sound like a sure and eager child, “Is that a yes?”
“How does nine o’clock sound?”
“Sounds like you’re somewhat of a night owl.”
He scoffs, “That’s not even late!”
“That’s about an hour before I sleep,” your hands clutch your waist under your jacket.
“You grandma,” he laughs.
“If you’re going to peer-pressure me into it, fine. Nine sounds perfect,” you roll your eyes. He tries to contain his grin while writing the plan into his notebook.
“I think you’ll need my number. In case you get lost, you know,” he says, uncompellingly.
You roll your eyes— a habit that’s made itself comfortable in this conversation, ”How kind of you. I wasn’t sure how to get to the theater a block away from here.” You bite your inner cheek to contain your smile, “Where’s your pen?”
He pulls it out while you point to your wrist. Puzzled, he furrows his eyebrows.
“Don’t wanna lose it,” you say without a second thought. Saying the gesture is seducing would be an understatement. He craves your touch. Feeling the blush creep back up from his cheekbones to the bridge of his nose, he holds your hand with a gentle grip and writes it vertically in a neat font. You hold it up to admire for a second before burying your wrist back into your pockets. The fact that you don’t think twice about it gives him butterflies to accompany the warmth that settles in him.
The stroll feels minutes long, but your watch and the setting sun soon humble you both once again.
The day passes as you work, wondering when it would be appropriate to call. Morning? No, too desperate? Noon? Probably busy. Evening? Kind of weird. You eventually decide on the same time you’ve met him at the park for the past two days, 7:00pm.
It is now seven, and you contemplate waiting a minute to seem more casual. You find yourself impatient, so you rest the phone on your shoulder and dial the number on your wrist, anyway.
Not even a second passes before the line picks up.
“Hey,” his soft voice comes through.
“Wasn’t sure you’d be free this time again,” you admit.
“I guessed you’d call me now. And you did. Strictly on time,” his breathy laugh travels through the phone.
His laugh loosens your grasp a bit, infecting your face with a smile.
“How was your day, ‘Ms. Never watched Pinocchio?” He leaves no room for awkward small talk.
“Shut up. Can’t lie, it was pretty busy, but I can’t really complain. I’d rate it a 7/10,” you giggle.
“Did you just do that? I’ve never heard anyone give days ratings like that.” He shakes his head at your ridiculousness.
“Of course, grumpy,” you sneer. “How was yours?”
“Pretty busy too. Had breakfast with my mother and Janet earlier, though. It was a nice way to start the day.”
”Aw, how sweet. I’d love to meet them. Your mom sounds adorable.”
“She’d love you, that’s for sure. Maybe you will,” he rubs the back of his neck as his legs cross over his desk.
You two stay on the phone until midnight, talking up a storm on senseless topics that you both seem beyond willing to engage in. You have pointless debates, like which type of cookie is superior.
“They’re the most popular for a reason,” you assert.
“And you just want to be different! Name one bakery that sells ‘maple pecan’?”
“Who cares if they sell it or not?”
“They don’t sell it because it doesn’t exist,” you accuse.
“What kind of logic is that?” His laughter is so deep it starts in his stomach.
He loves this. You love this. Conversation comes easily— natural. Like you two are a twin flame. Your differences only draw you towards each other. He catches feelings much faster than he’d like to admit, but so do you.
The phone calls keep up throughout the week, with neither of you missing a day. Some days you call, and some, he does. Some days you call three times, and some are strictly the single 7:00pm appointment. Most calls are casual; a few are a little more personal. Nonetheless, they give you both something to look forward to before your movie date.
“The pictures came out beautiful, darling. Be sure to pick up a copy,” your agent’s babbling voice shakes the telephone receiver.
“Thanks, Chris. I really owe you one. Now, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Bye-bye.” You eagerly hang up the phone before walking across the street towards the magazine stand.
Your fingers scavenge for the latest ‘Mademoiselle’ print where you’ve managed to occupy a respectable chunk of pages. Your mind soon becomes distracted as your eyes catch an image of Michael Jackson on the front of a dehumanizing tabloid. You can’t go anywhere without seeing his face slapped on magazines, newspapers, and television, but you never pay as much attention as you do now. His face is front and center, an unflattering and zoomed-in image. His eyes are identical to the Michael you’ve met at the park. The same Michael who listens to you rant and teases you over not watching Pinocchio. His rich, dark chocolate eyes enchant you like no others before. They are too distinct not to grab your attention. You scratch your head and shoot down the thought.
You finally find your copy sitting under another flashy picture of Michael, this time the title praises him for a large donation to charity. You pick up your copy of ‘Mademoiselle’ and step back. Your arm visibly hesitates before picking up the magazine above it. You know it is unlikely, of course, but skepticism takes hold of any sanity you have.
You plop both magazines onto your ottoman, subconsciously reaching for the magazine with Michael first. You flip to the first page to find an image of him waving while licking his lips on a flashy stage. A strange thing— that mannerism seems exactly on point for the Michael you meet. The next page— a smile that folds into methodical dimples precisely like his does. You squint to imagine how he’d look with hair tucked deep into a baseball cap and a rugged mustache.
The epiphany comes to you like a bus. It all comes full circle— why he is so secretive about his ‘singing job’, the hesitation before taking off his glasses, and how he brings his notebook full of lyrics everywhere.
You have befriended a camouflaged Michael Jackson. You nearly forget to breathe at the thought. Horrified, you take a deep breath and hold your blushing face with both hands. You have been talking with this man so casually for a week, not realizing he is THE king of pop. To make matters worse, you have a date with him planned for 9:00pm today.
Contemplating whether you should confront him about it, you read into the cover’s margins. A voice inside you drives you insane with curiosity. You release a deep sigh and flip through the first page, pulling your eyebrows tight together. You read about his co-writing of “We Are the World,” which raised tens of millions for famine relief, alongside others, such as the many personal donations to children’s hospitals. You have not been one to gush over celebrities, simply because living in LA has taught you their contradictory, and often repulsive, nature. But you know him beyond what magazines spew out, and beyond what public relations molds him into for cameras. It is hard to let go of the magazine. The more you read, a tight sensation forms in your chest while the corners of your mouth unwillingly rise gradually.
After some time tracing the outline of his face on a picture, you remember the magazine that should have this much focus. You shove the magazine aside to resist its temptation.
You open the ‘Mademoiselle’ magazine to page six, and the earlier expression on your face is replaced by a crooked smile. Each page is dedicated to a different look. You have taken up five pages, each of which looks supported by a page of writing. You feel some bit of pride, particularly because your name is actually cited this time, but your mind isn’t fully with you. You know this, which is why you push both magazines away and take off to shower before your date.
From across the city, Michael prepares himself for the same date. It takes immense effort to practice making his disguise look reasonably convincing without diminishing his appearance. Combing his wet curls away from his face, he stands inches away from the mirror. He narrows his vision into his faux facial hair, then meets his own gaze.
He thinks about just telling you his identity, since the brief time you’ve talked has earned you the courtesy. His heart begins to race as he contemplates the possibilities of your reaction. Maybe you’ll get upset that he hasn’t told you sooner. I mean, you share rather personal anecdotes early on. He always remains hesitant to share his own, offering you crumbs to ease the tension. Maybe you’ll use him for his fame, only pretending you like him for money. He is disgusted that his inner monologue thinks so low of you and shakes the thoughts away. He understands he has to rip the band-aid, and soon.
Visibly drowning in thought, Bill creeps up from the corner of his mirror.
“We don’t want to leave her waiting, kid.”
“Did she give you an address?”
Silently, he pulls a sticky note from the drawer of his armoire and hands it to him.
“Do I look okay?” He asks quietly, as if he suspects the response to be ‘no’.
Bill straightens the collar on his button-up, “I wouldn’t let you leave if I didn’t think you did,” he raises an eyebrow.
Michael exhales audibly, heeding Bill’s footsteps to the limo.
He arrives a block behind your apartment in a tight alleyway. He walks to your apartment building and hits the buzzer, head restlessly scavenging for hidden paparazzi.
“Michael, why are you so early?! Give me a few minutes!” Your voice makes his face light up as it shakes the intercom.
“Take your time, I’m waiting out here,” his smile reaches his squinting eyes. His unhurried and delicate voice dampens a few nerves.
“To hell with that, come up!” His face plays up his mind’s recalibration, tilting in slight disbelief. “Room 10D,” something thumps behind you while you curse under your breath.
He penalizes his bottom lip for cheesing so hard, biting it into place while he makes his way up to your room.
Your eyes widen to remember the magazine you’ve bought earlier, sprinting across the flat to tuck it out of sight. You hold it in your hands for a second, frantically, then throw it under the couch.
With your hair somewhat disheveled by the chaos, your head turns to a temperate knock on your door. You open the door to find him fidgeting with a single pink Chrysanthemum. Seeing him again in person relieves the remaining apprehension about his identity.
His nervous presentation also softens at the sight of you. You wear a cherry-red form-fitting dress that hugs your curves, yet conceals them modestly. Your seducing perfume has his knees weak, practically dissolving before you. He offers you the bloom, “I found this guy on the way to your apartment— thought you’d like it.” He seems embarrassed about not bringing a proper bouquet. To be fair, he is unsure whether you even consider this a date. He is clueless that this means more to you, anyway. His words land comfortably within your burning core. You take it, with your thumb circling over its velvety stem.
“Don’t be a stranger, come in,” you search for a reaction in his eyes, and you get it. He expects only to wait outside your door, but he is not intending to pass this offer up.
“Please, sit! I just need to finish my makeup and grab my shoes,” you stop momentarily to watch him hover over your belongings before you leave him to it. He inspects the art scattered around the wall, the picture frames, and the magazines that silently capture your elegance. His eyes seem fixated on a few magazines you leave open on the dinner table. He can feel his heart rate accelerate at the sight before him. In one, you wear just a miniskirt, Six-inch Louboutins, and a lace balconette bra, with hair being an intentional mess. He ponders on how you emerge so tasteful and elegant while outfitted so raunchy. Deeply allured, he shuts it to avoid lustful thoughts, with the guilt shaming him into walking towards the more wholesome region of the flat.
He travels through pictures of family and friends. He notices the pattern of a taller man appearing in many photos with his arm around your waist, and a subconscious anger arises. He catches the scent of his own jealousy and shifts, hoping it is nothing, or at least—is nothing now.
Adjusting the straps around your heels, he calls for you, “Y/N!”
You retreat to your living room, sprouting an inch thanks to the heels.
His long index finger points to a picture of your six-year-old self dressed as Charlie Chaplin, trick-or-treating alongside siblings.
“This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” his eyes switch from the frame to you, looking you up and down. “Oh wow! You’ve grown,” signaling the heels.
“You’ve shrunk!” You heckle.
His eyes return to the picture: “I love Charlie Chaplin.” You lean on the stand, scanning his face to predict where he is going with this.
“Yeah, my siblings and I used to watch his movies all the time growing up,” you look at his lips to read the words forming as his mouth hangs open. He notices your eyes on his lips, prompting a crimson blush across his cheeks. You smile at the ground, now conscious of the effect you have on him.
He continues to soften the atmosphere with questions, “I didn’t know you had so many siblings.”
“It looks kind of wild from this angle, but it was nice. I liked the noise and the company.” You point each sister and brother out and name them, a faint smile creeping up as you recall memories.
You suddenly realize how rude you are for not reciprocating questions. You pause, “You’ve only ever told me about Janet and Latoya. What about the rest of them?”
He reaches out to scratch the back of his neck, “There’s just too many to name so casually, you know?” He looks around the room, searching for a deflecting response. He knows naming his brothers will give his identity away. He at least wants to have the words prepared to tell you directly who he is. “Well, there’s just too many,” you nod, expecting somewhat more of an explanation to fall out.
“We should leave now before we miss the movie.” The abrupt shut-down resonates on your face, as you lick your teeth with slightly aggravated eyebrows. He notices and feels a pit appear in his stomach. You catch your face and shift matters to senseless humor to lighten the mood. Relieved, he plays along, opening the door for you.
At the theater, you insist that a bag of cut-up apple slices you hide in your purse will suffice for the movie, begging him not to buy you anything. You can’t afford to show up to another shoot tomorrow, bloated with a puffy face. He grabs you a large Diet Coke, and for himself, a large bucket of popcorn and a large Fanta.
Watching the commercials, he munches his popcorn loudly, almost temptingly. You glance over from the corner of your eye, and he catches it. You cannot see his eyes through his chunky aviators. You nibble on a sorry little apple slice, glancing at him here and there. He cannot resist the smile that forces itself on his face.
“I see you staring. Have some,” he mocks.
“I’m not staring. I’m enjoying my apples,” you look away.
He takes his glasses off, now satisfied enough with the darkness of the theater to take them off. You catch his beady eyes eyeball your miserable bag of apples. He puts the bucket of popcorn between you. The pressure is unbearable. You can’t help but reach for one.
“Why do you do this to me?” You ask, defeated.
“A few pieces can’t hurt,” he gives a pleased smirk.
Throughout the movie, you grab handfuls of popcorn periodically. At some point, he moves the bucket back into his lap. You just keep grabbing.
“Okay, now you’re getting greedy,” he laughs.
“You opened Pandora’s box, Mike,” you shoot a helpless glance at him. It is as if he kicked a puppy.
“I’m kidding, I got a large for a reason,” he hums out before putting it in your lap.
His voice being so harmonic to your ears, you curl up into your seat. Your arms are wrapped around your legs, and your head rests on your kneecaps. The oversized popcorn bucket beside you resembles an ant carrying a crumb double its size.
He can’t help but notice how wholesome you look as you watch your comfort movie so lovingly. At some point, he stops watching the movie altogether and simply watches you. You appear so at peace. His mind drifts, imagining you as the princess and him as the prince, kissing you out of the curse of your troubled life. You catch on rather slowly, but when you do, you wake him from his delusion.
“This is the best part, please focus!” His eyelids feel heavy with the weight of fondness. The fascination you have for this movie adds fuel to the fire burning in his heart.
You both end up dozing off, sleeping through the entire ending. The crowd’s stomping in the cinema brings you back to consciousness. Your head rests on his shoulder, and his head over yours. You jump to realize your position, but it isn’t forceful enough to wake him up. You slightly lift your head deliberately and poke at his chest. He releases a deep exhale, perplexed by what pokes him. He looks below to find your weight on his shoulder, smiling up at him. He feels his complexion fill with heat.
“You missed the ending.” You force an angry tone.
Unconvinced by your tone, he laughs, “WE missed the ending.”
You unhurriedly push yourself away in a stretch as you grab his popcorn bucket. You nod towards its emptiness and narrow your eyes at him, “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“C’mon, you’ll live,” he says, eyeing you with an ear-to-ear grin. You push him playfully with your shoulder. He pushes you back, careful not to hurt your delicate frame. “My god. You’re so violent for such a small thing,” he chuckles.
You roll your eyes and giggle.
He walks you back to your apartment, steadily enjoying the brisk stroll under the moonlight. A minute in, he notices your bare shoulders and your sad attempts to heat your arms with your hands. He unbuttons his shirt to reveal a fitted white T-shirt underneath.
“What are you doing?” You watch his moving arms, puzzled.
Without a word, he slips his button-up over you like a cape. You explore his dark eyes from the side, your own cast under an inner brow raise. He can’t help but stare back. Your puppy dog eyes are absolutely intoxicating to him. You are intoxicated yourself, with the scent of his cologne hugging around your shoulders, driving you insane.
He sighs, looks towards his moving feet, and back at you.
“I wanted to tell you something,” he starts fidgeting with his knuckles. You give him your full attention, paying no mind to your footsteps anymore.
He adjusts the temples of his glasses and clears his throat. “I know you think I’m somewhat of a closed book,” you bite your inner cheek in the silence. “I don’t want you to think I’m weird or I don’t like you or something, because I really do.”
Your eyes glisten at the words. ‘He likes me?’, you think, giving the butterflies in your stomach an instantaneous flutter.
He takes off his aviators to rub his tear duct. You can sense his agitation, but don’t want to rush his words.
“Why I keep deflecting questions and stuff- I wanted to tell you sooner, but I was just scared that—,” he gulps to gather his words. You nod and look away, hoping it eases some of the pressure. He straightens his posture and folds his arms. “Are you familiar with Michael Jackson?”
“Of course.” You try to sound oblivious, and he buys it.
He hesitantly swipes off his lace facial hair and stands in front of you, stopping you in your tracks.
“I’m Michael Jackson, nice to meet you,” he holds a firm palm sideways between you. You lock eyes and remain unfazed. You can see the confusion in his eyes when your tone and face remain the same as they always have.
“Y/n L/n. Nice to meet you, too.” You grip his hand, give it a firm shake, and a smile relaxes your face. He exhales a breath he doesn’t know he is holding.
“You’re taking this much better than I expected,” he admits.
“What were you expecting?” He protrudes a lip that reads ‘hell if I know?’ and takes his place back to your side. He maintains a puzzled look, now with his gaze over the stars.
“Are you sure it isn’t weird to you?”
You shake your head and bite your lip, “I mean, you’re still you, aren’t you?”
He smiles and nods gently, now looking at his shirt, smothering you.
You fight to maintain the same concealed look, but a deep smile creeps its way to your face. “Okay, fine. It’s kind of cool.” You breathe out half a chuckle. “I can’t believe I fell for that stupid mustache.”
He gnaws on his bottom lip and joins you in a chuckle.
His smile softens into a contented calm as he walks you up to the doorstep of your apartment building. You reach to pull the shirt off your back when his hand halts yours.
“Keep it. The color brings out your rosy red cheeks.” Those red cheeks make themselves present before he finishes the line.
You blink slowly to the ground, “Thank you.” You clutch the collar of your new shirt possessively. “And thank you for tonight. I really enjoyed myself.” Before he can reply, you lift yourself on your toes and peck his cheek. Now his cheeks are that ‘rosy red’ he mocks you for a minute ago. He opens the door for you, his fingertips curl at a cautious wave goodbye, almost unwilling to return you. He watches you disappear into the elevator while you are unknowing of it.
Six weeks pass with occasional and brief strolls anywhere you can meet, with your busy schedules unexpectedly swallowing you up and regurgitating you into spectacles. Regardless, you remain on his mind. Your presence gives him a comfort he can’t describe, squeezing you in tight gaps for just enough minutes to smell your perfume.
He notices the insecurity in your voice the first few times you call, so he later picks up the slack and calls you before you have the chance. He starts the conversations and makes the moves, quietly asserting the fact that he is a gentleman who is willing to weave you into his life. Your calls become expected, going to work, daydreaming about his decadent voice you’d hear in a few hours. Your number is one he memorizes after a week, despite its out-of-order sequence.
He feels compelled to stay closer to you now that he has entrusted you with his identity. He has had his fair share of backstabbing by those who were once close to him, giving him good reason to be hesitant about who he allows into his life. He does not expect it from you, but then again, he does not expect it from others. Women have always left his heart damaged. Growing up, it is Diana Ross who toys with his emotions and discards him when she can no longer profit from him. Past girlfriends have often sold him out to tabloids, oversharing and spreading misinformation about his personal life. Relationship after relationship, he builds enough barriers that protect his heart from further hurt. He swears never to let his guard down around anyone, especially not a woman. His mind goes back and forth.
However, he has never had feelings for anyone so deep, so soon, as he does with you. It is all new. You have also acted so tenderly towards him, expecting so little in return. You are grounded and seem genuinely interested in his character. After all, you agree to carry through with plans, believing he has very little to his name and a ridiculous mustache. Something within him knows this isn’t another instance of his naivety.
Your mind is a similar battlefield for different justifications. You have a strong fear of abandonment stemming from your father leaving you and your siblings behind to be single-handedly raised by your mother. Your upbringing is beyond rough, with most of you and your siblings working to support the family before the age of twelve. Men slip in and out of your mother’s life, with each man you’d share a fatherly bond with leaving you sooner or later. This trauma isn’t something you openly share, but it’s what’s most impacted your relationships. You often prefer being alone over being left behind. It is simple. You suspect Michael will eventually get sick of you, find you insignificant enough for his extravagant lifestyle, and discard you as most stars do to women. The thought of it aches your chest and tightens your throat, often having to convince the negativity out of you.
You feel you have a connection like never before, and pray it isn’t simply the hopeless and broken romantic in you speaking. It is the little things about him that show he cares—the active listening, the mirrored expressions when you talk, the way he acts like a gentleman without paying it any mind.
You and Michael care deeply for each other, but each of your barriers has been built so loftily through hurt. It is just a matter of when they crumble.
Eventually, his schedule simmers down, giving you enough space to weave yourself into his day.
“You know it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other,” he says as if he’s arriving at some point.
”It’s kinda hard when you drown yourself in work all the time,” you rest the phone on your shoulder. “It’s alright, I mean, our calls are wonderful anyway,” you try to sound grateful, but both of you know you’re not.
“You know I fly back in three days.”
You stand up in your chair, a free hand gripping the armrest. “This is news.”
“Surprise,” he exhales a breathy laugh.
“You’re insufferable,” you groan with a tone that carries a smile.
“Then why do you keep answering my calls?” His smugness sends a wave of heat over your face.
“Because I don’t got nobody else,” you admit through a snicker, carrying the quiet weight of your pain.
He catches on and goes silent for a few seconds. The mood stiffens. “I’m sorry about my schedule.” He exhales. “You sound like you could use the company.”
“I told you before. I know it’s not your fault.” A moment passes, “But I do hope I can see you soon.” Now you twirl a strand of your hair as you melt into your couch cushions.
He tugs the cord of his phone, answering with a careful set of words. “I’ll make it up to you.” A gulp. “Would you come to Hayvenhurst on Monday? I get back sometime in the morning?”
Your eyes haze into a long blink, dimples forming deep craters in your red cheeks. “That’s an offer I can’t miss.”
“It’s only fair, you know, since I’ve been welcomed into your home.” ‘Home’ is probably not the correct term, since his home makes yours look comical.
“Great, can’t wait to flip through your stuff,” you playfully fire at him, recollecting how he snooped around every square inch of your living room weeks ago.
A guilty, embarrassed titter passes over the phone. “Be my guest.”
Your cackle initiates his hand at his chest, trying to feel the heat that circulates through him as you speak. The words hover, blown away by a breeze as a stillness sets in.
“I’ll send a limo over at 7:00pm.” Seven has become your lucky number by the time you two have entirely opened the period up for each other.
“Seven? No can do,” his heart skips a beat, and you can feel it in his silence. “God, Michael, I’m joking!”
Color comes back to his face, “That wasn’t funny,” his face betrays his words as it flashes his pearly whites.
“Mhm,” you hum, “it’s a date.”
His breath hitches at the word.
“Anyway, my break’s over, I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, ‘kay?”
He is still high on the thought of it being a ‘date’. Snapping back to reality, he reciprocates the goodbye, “Have fun, see you soon” His ear presses deep into the telephone a few moments after you hang up. As his thoughts continue to race, he reaches for a magazine that is already flipped to a page with you modeling a designer makeup line. He rubs his chin, tilting his head slightly with a content smile forming.
He has been silently collecting magazine pages you have modeled in, with utter fascination of you. He has always been a fashion nerd, and with the additional (and more promising) modeling gigs being offered to you this month, he analyzes all your looks and movements. The fluidity of your body and the cultivated aura surrounding you resemble that of a swan. To him, the collection is completely justifiable, as he is simply admiring your work. However, something within him makes him suspect it is questionable, so he hides them under his dresser and refuses to let anybody know about it.
“Did you look over the final screenplay I sent over?”
“Yep. As a matter of fact, Joe, I just finished. I had a few notes written up, I hoped we’d go over together when I land,” he rubs his fingers against his forehead and drops himself into his office chair.
“That shouldn’t be a problem, I’m free noon tomorrow,” the director flips around pages of his calendar.
“That’ll be perfect, see you then,” Michael scratches a reminder on a torn piece of scrap paper and sets the phone down without giving attention to any reply.
Beside the scrap paper are his annotations for the “The Way You Make Me Feel” screenplay that Joe Pytka has sent over. Your name, starred, is in the corner as the vision for the female lead. He etches over your name with a blue pen, echoing how it has etched itself into his mind. He has been meaning to ask if you will be a part of his work, but decides it will be more convincing in person. It is the reason he invites you over today—well, that and his parasitic fixation, ravenous for you.
The ride is quiet, with the limo driver showing little effort in small talk. However, the air carries the weight of your heavy thoughts, which seem to entertain you during the thirty-five-minute ride to Hayvenhurst. Your fingers keep busy pressing the aluminum foil over a paper plate that sits on your lap. You have raided a stack of old cookbooks for a maple-pecan cookie recipe, the cookie that he swears is superior in a heated debate a few weeks ago. You have nibbled on a test cookie (it has fallen on the floor) and are disappointingly surprised by how tasty it is.
Your eyes widen at the sight of the house, glorious and tastefully immense. Your head rotates to different windows as you pass through the gate.
Your square heel clicks against the pavement as your head lifts to search the premises. In the corner of your eye, you catch a figure in a familiar white T-shirt stepping towards you. Narrowing your eyes, with your free hand serving as a visor to block the polluting sun, your legs shuffle in a rhythm towards him.
Before words can form a greeting, he brings you in for a warm embrace, lasting long enough to give his hand a chance to pet the small of your back. He pulls back to take the paper plate you offer.
“What’s this? You didn’t have to bring anything,” he peeks inside.
“No, I know, just some cookies,” you fold your now awkwardly unoccupied arms tight under your chest. “My mom would’ve killed me if she found out I came over as a guest empty-handed,” you babble.
A familiar scent prompts further investigation, with his face buried deeper and the aluminum raised higher. “Is this—?”
“Maple pecan,” your arms unstiffen. “You were right. It was good as hell,” you nod into a toothy giggle.
He raises his eyebrows in pride, with his white canines making themselves known. For what seems like a few minutes, his mind is set into chaos. ‘She remembered’, he thinks, failing to conceal the haze that your meticulousness sends him in.
You can tell he is distracted, and try to bring him back to Earth. “Soo.. Where are we headed first?”
With an anxious hand rubbing his neck, he redirects his attention, “Right this way, follow me.”
He takes you on a longer route to the studio, giving you an informal tour around the plot. Your face lights up at the sight of a zoo scattered about. You are lost in a childlike wonder as your hands sink into Louis’s soft white curls. You then learn that the infamous Bubbles takes a strong liking to you, refusing to unhook himself from your arms. However, you fail to keep your cool when he comes around to show you Muscles.
“You’re positive he doesn’t bite?” Your eyes cannot seem to look away from the husky python.
He feeds off of your fear and laughs, “I mean— he hasn’t bit me yet.” Muscles slithers from his shoulders to yours, transferred through Michael’s arms held against you. Muscle’s uncertain direction sends chills down your spine. You close your eyes, then force them back open to play off your apprehension. Your heart beats frantically, trying to escape the wrath of the snake. Michael feels your pulse through his arms.
“You call yourself an animal lover? He’s friendly, I promise!” His eyes switch from Muscles’s circulation to your eyes, reading your tension before calling the coercion off. “That’s enough. You handled it like a champ. His tall fingers delicately lower him into his enclosure.
You shrug, “It wasn’t even that bad. He was scared of me, if anything.”
He reaches back into the enclosure satirically and taunts you, “In that case, let’s ask him what he has to say about the matter.”
You jump backward, and two surrendering hands hover over your chest, doubling as a shield of some sort.
You two cackle, his noticeably louder than yours, being so lost in his playful mockery of you.
You stay frozen in laughter for a minute before he redirects you to various other rooms that hold no notable significance to you.
Eventually, he takes you to his personal studio, which awes you with its tech-savvy layout. A sheet of buttons and switches stretches into the walls, with its lights resembling a metropolis through an airplane window. The beauty of it catches your attention first, then its chaos. Discarded sheets, notebooks, and tapes are scattered around chairs and nesting tables.
“Oh wow,” your mind can’t generate words too complicated right now.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, picking up crumpled balls of paper and throwing them in a small waste bin. “Sit down, I wanted to show you something.”
You plop down onto a cushioned chair in front of the buttons. He picks through demo and final tapes to find what he came here to show you.
“Here we go,” he slides it into a tape recorder beside you, leaning close enough in front of you where his cologne melts you into your cushions. “This is what I brought you in here for,” he says, sitting back down with his locked arms on his knees.
An upbeat, catchy, charming tune blesses your ears while he focuses on your face and its microexpressions. You seem to enjoy it, your eyes rolling around the ceiling in focus and your head swaying to the rhythm.
“How do you feel about this song?” He narrows his eyes, forcing a legitimate answer out of you. He leans in fully, with his hands between his lap and his resting head.
You build up the courage to retain eye contact. “I loved it. It’s really catchy.”
“Be more specific,” he scoots closer and narrows his eyes further.
“It’s the typa song I’d dance to. I don’t know! I don’t know much about music!” You cry out.
He retracts some of the seriousness and sits up through a sigh, then a smirk. “Would you dance to it?”
“Where is this conversation going, Michael?” You scrunch your face up in confusion.
He reaches towards his notebook with lyrics and notes, clasping it against his chest. “Would you ever star in a music video?” His eyes pierce through yours, contemplating his own rejection.
Your face softens. “You want me to star in a music video for this song?” Your eyes release their tension, revealing your delighted, wondrous gaze.
“That’s it,” his face loosens up as well.
“Then say that!” Your lips curl into a smile.
“Okay! Let’s try this again,” he pauses to get back into character, “Will you star in my short film for ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’?”
You giggle, briefly glancing at the window, then back at his eyes. “Of course,” your vision seems indecisive on which of his eyes to focus on.
He releases a breath he forgets he holds for so long and smiles at his feet, “That’s good to hear. Thank you— really.”
“No, thank you,” you cough up a short chuckle. “Sometimes you forget how famous you are. I’d be an idiot to decline.”
It is true, and he knows it. He knows how influential he is as the king of pop, but often lacks self-assurance in social situations. You are not picky with work, and you certainly wouldn’t turn him, of all people, down, but his mind fights against it anyway.
“I’ve always wondered how you came up with the melodies,” you tuck your bottom lip under your front teeth. “My mom owned Off the Wall and Thriller cassettes, and she watched you guys on TV all the time. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a fan,” you confess.
His eyes and dimples make way for a deeply flattered smile. “This is news to me!”
Your eyes squint into a close-mouthed smile, “I didn’t want you to get so big-headed!” He exhales deeply, now stretching out of his chair. You follow, now leaning against the spread of glowing buttons. He paces, running a hand through his curls, as they fight against it to fall onto his forehead.
He runs through the process you will have to go through, noting that the director urges a chemistry test and a few fittings before anything else. He tries to be as descriptive as possible without saying anything too discouraging. After all, he really wants you there and will feel most comfortable with you being the interest in the film.
Finishing up his spiel, he claps into a concluding hand rub.
“Are we finally free from work, now?” You regret the harshness of your words as soon as they spill out of your lips, hoping he doesn’t assume you are uninterested in his creative process. “I just mean this is your time off, we don’t need to always think about work,” you stumble over some words.
Instead of taking offense, he shakes his head in a snicker. He actually finds the brash phrasing precious. “Fine, I’ll show you the rest of the house, now. Have some patience, woman!”
Walking out alongside him, you release the nerves around your previous remark. “How could you keep thinking about work 24/7 with a zoo and a mansion?”
“And a pool,” his sly remark moves alongside his speaking hands.
You audibly gasp with the corners of your mouth raised. “Why are we standing here, then, if the pool is feeling so lonely?”
“It’s freezing out, the pool will understand,” he says, and bumps into you intentionally.
“So we’ll warm it up,” you shove him back.
“If I get sick, it’ll be your fault.”
“You’re a big boy, you’ll be alright.”
“You don’t even have a swimsuit.”
“We can skinny dip,” your mouth goes lopsided trying to keep a laugh in.
His heart revs at the thought, and he plays off his nerves by cheesing at a window. “Nah, I’m pulling your leg. Perhaps another day,” your fingers push and rub against the moving walls that pass you by. A few seconds pass before you overshare to fill the silence. You burst, “You know I’m a really good swimmer.”
He snorts into a chuckle, “Yeah? How so?”
“I did competitive swimming for like five years. I was insanely good at it, too.”
“Do you still?” He ceases his walk, facing you and the pool simultaneously. He points a hand towards the sun chairs, and you both take a seat.
“No, I hated it then and hate it now.” You close your eyes, giving a faint grin. Your blunt tone amuses him. “My mom tried to keep me occupied with extracurriculars while she took extra shifts at work. I did piano for ten years.”
He leans his wide-crossed legs towards you on the opposite end of the chair, “Piano is nice, at least tell me you enjoyed that,” he raises an eyebrow.
“Matter of fact, I adore piano.”
“Do you still play?” He notices an irritating strand of hair hovering over your eye and sweeps it behind your ear. You break eye contact to blush, now staring off to the pool.
“Everyday. I have a Steinway Model M that eats up half the space in my room.” The manner in which you present it as a fact you teach him makes his heart swell. He pretends to know what that means, nodding in admiration.
“Maybe I should’ve snooped in your room then,” he says, side-eyeing you.
“Maybe I should go in yours now,” you catch his side eye through your own as your grins form in synch.
One of Michael’s hands holds a firm grip on the door’s edge, and the other directs you into his room. “Go ahead and judge my mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone to see it today,” he quips.
It resembles your bedroom in its harboring of memories and personality, but lacks the chaos and scattered entities. Everything is organized in its place, with books neatly stacked on the shelf in alphabetical order and figurines arranged in a pattern that makes sense. Your eyebrows scrunch in confusion, “I’m not seeing any mess. Are you delusional?” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes in doubt and spirit.
“Oh my god,” you hover over a corner of his room dedicated to awards. The section is somewhat hidden, exhibiting them in a discreet and modest manner.
His mind is on other things. He admires the way you do your hair today. He thinks to himself that you are the one trophy that will leave him satiated in his success, that without you, this wall means nothing. He watches the awe in your eyes and the slightly parted lips that gasp so frequently. He simply watches silently, wearing a marveling smirk.
You move on to a set of childhood memories on the bedside table and shift your weight into it. You lean into a portrait of three boys resembling Tito. “Are these the nephews you told me about?”
He follows your gaze onto them, “Tito’s boys, yeah. Love those kids like they’re my own.” You brush your hair over your shoulder and nod.
Your eyes fixate on the next, “Aww, who’s this?” It is a photo of little him embracing a diapered infant against his chubby cheeks.
“Janet. I love this picture,” he lifts it for you to catch sight of, and drops it moments later. You look at him to pout your lips at the cuteness and tuck it back into the same lingering smile. “She threw up on me right after it was taken, too.” A breathy giggle escapes between words. “I didn’t mind it, she was my baby,” his face displays the remembrance of joy. Your eyes focus on his lips, and he speaks, with the words rippling through your sight and hearing.
You then pick up a family portrait of himself, his siblings, Katherine, and Joseph. He fidgets with the hem of his shirt.
“I don’t love this one,” your smile slips into thinned lips. “The way he’s in the center, like he’s the king of something,” you grimace. Michael has told you about Joseph and the abuse he endured at his hands, but Michael’s feelings are always a bit complicated towards him.
“He’s not a good man,” he says, attempting to put into words what he feels towards him. “I don’t know. He’s my father, even if he doesn’t like us calling him that. He made me who I am, sort of.”
“No.” You shoot a piercing glare. “You worked to become who you are. All he ever did was try to curb your opportunities. You shouldn’t give him the credit you deserve.”
He nods at your stubbornness as your words strike a chord in him.
Waiting for the thick words to dissolve into the atmosphere, you drop yourself onto his bed. He shortly joins you. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, while his gaze is fixed on your chin. Your hand pats his kneecap and remains there, trying to soothe him through the sudden melancholy. His eyes work their way up from your chin to your lips to your eyes. Feeling his eyes on yours, you follow.
He gives a pathetic smile. His eyes lift for a split second to put his hand over yours that lies above his knee. Your breaths remain steady and relaxed.
Something must be in the atmosphere, as the sunlight that breaks through the window resembles the amber scene outside. A chilled wind seeps into a room steadily. While the room is a bit cold for your liking, you feel warm and cozy.
He glances again, briefly, to lock his fingers into yours, then beholds your plump, thirsty lips. He cups your cheek, stroking it with his thumb. Your burning cheeks against his hand carry its temperature down his body.
Thinking about nothing but this moment, you each lean into a kiss, lips remaining locked gently, with no rush. There is tension built behind this kiss, but it does not make it tense. It is relaxed and endearing, savoring the flavors of your lips rather than wasting them in a rigid move.
You break free from his lip’s embrace to take in the moment’s influence on his face. Before knowing it, he sucks you back in with more force. You brace yourself by locking your arms around his neck, rolling onto your back at some point—a hand of his holds your head, and the other, your waist. The passion and force snowball, with your tongue and his dancing against each other. Your being becomes surrounded by his, trapped between his arms, legs, and torso. The chilly stiffness in the air transforms into a passion-filled humidity.
You pull the collar off his shirt to rest on the bed alongside you without breaking away. Tangled in arms and legs, you sit on your sides, lips tying your souls together. He lifts his head to break it, strumming the strands of hair that lie disheveled on your forehead. A smile squishes your eyes upward, with breath traveling through your teeth. His hands reach to sense your buoyant cheeks. His own close-mouthed grin plumps cheeks formed under the pressure of yours. You peck the tip of his nose and rest your head in the crook of his neck.
You two lie there for a while, with minimal movement except for his stroking hands. He feels the walls he has spent his life building up collapsing under the weight of this instant.
“I’ll tell Joe to squeeze you in tomorrow,” his arms hold a possessive grip around your lower back. “It’s just a quick thing, it shouldn’t be more than half an hour.”
Your hands are tied around his neck, with your head tilted upwards to receive his conversation. “Just call and let me know what time, kay? I should be out of work by three tomorrow.” He nods.
“Thanks for coming today. I really enjoyed myself.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” you exhale as a whisper.
He bids your swollen lips a goodbye kiss, with his lips championing your lipstick as a souvenir.
