Chapter Text
Something Michael had always been passionate about was dancing. As teens, he used to show you new dance moves he was practicing before he’d try them out in his performances. Sometimes you’d go over to his place, settle in with a book, and look up every few minutes to find him repeating the same move over and over until he was satisfied he’d gotten it right. You always teased him for it, but the truth was, you were in awe of how effortlessly he seemed to move. Once, you’d tried to copy his moves on your own at home and could’ve sworn you’d knocked some bone out of its socket.
Sometimes he’d try to get you to dance with him, grabbing your hands and spinning you around the room, or stepping behind you, hands lightly guiding your movements. You never were any good at it, but he didn’t mind. If anything, he just seemed to enjoy watching you try. He liked that you were willing to dance with him, even if you felt ridiculous doing it.
You could still recall one night where he was practicing a routine for a television appearance he would be doing with his brothers. He tried to get you to dance their part while he did his. The brothers always had identical moves, always synchronized, everyone knew Michael was the star, and that he’d be getting the focus.
You could never get the moves right, and despite Michael’s perfectionist attitude towards his performances, he never cared when it came to you. He always had high praise to give you, even though you knew he was just trying to be nice.
“You’re getting better!” He insisted, barely managing to hide the shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
“I am not.”
“Yes you are!”
“I’m terrible.”
He laughed, shaking his head lightly. “Two left feet.” He muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help smiling at him.
He stepped closer, reaching for your hands as he tried to demonstrate the movement again. You stumbled through it, earning another quiet laugh from him. Without warning, he rushed towards you and slipped his arms gently around your waist.
“I think it’s best if you just stop right there,” he teased.
Before you could protest, he lifted you effortlessly off the floor. You let out a startled yelp, instinctively grabbing onto his shoulders as he raised you higher, laughing at your halfhearted cries for help. Despite his skinny frame, Michael proved to be stronger than you thought.
You looked down, meeting Michael’s eyes, crinkling as his bright grin nearly blinded you. Staring down at him, you realized that he didn’t look quite so much like his brothers anymore. The matching hairstyles and outfits had once made them hard to differentiate, but Michael was growing into someone entirely his own. You knew he was going to grow way beyond what anyone thought was capable.
You knew your view of him was changing. For a moment you simply stared at him. Michael noticed.
His smile faltered into something softer, almost uncertain, before he slowly lowered you carefully back onto the bed. Trying to bring the mood back, you grabbed his shirt tightly, pulling him down onto the soft sheets. He landed beside you, both of you bursting into laughter.
Your cheeks were warm, and you hoped he wouldn’t notice. Eventually, his father shouted from somewhere in the house for the two of you to knock it off.
Neither of you listened. For that moment, nothing else seemed to matter.
As the two of you grew older, your bodies and minds changed, along with the feelings you both tried not to acknowledge. You did your best to ignore the way your feelings for Michael had begun to change. After years of going to his house, you were starting to notice the changes in yourself too. You’d grown a bit taller, slimming out in places and filling out in others, slowly becoming less like the girl who used to sit cross-legged on his bedroom floor with a book in her lap. Michael was changing too. He grew taller, though somehow he remained just as skinny, his lanky frame seeming almost too delicate to hold the amount of energy he had in his body.
Michael’s brothers had always tolerated your presence. They didn’t dislike you, but they rarely paid much attention to you unless Michael decided to bring you out of his room. You felt they probably felt as indifferent towards you as you did towards them at the time. You did grow particularly fond of his sisters. You’d never really had girl friends before, and spending time with them made you feel like the other girls at school. You could talk about things you never discussed with Michael, and occasionally you’d find yourself wishing to stay in their presence a little longer.
As you got older, heading into your older teens, Michael’s brothers occasionally began making stray comments that would leave you red-faced. You know the older ones were mostly joking, teasing you because they knew they could get an easy reaction out of Michael by attempting to put moves on “his girl”.
Still, you couldn’t deny that sometimes their compliments felt good. Michael, on the other hand, tried very hard not to notice how you’d grown somehow even more beautiful. He instead focused on maintaining the friendship you’d always had.
His schedule was becoming more demanding by the day. Between touring, recording, interviews, and press conferences with the Jackson 5, it wasn’t hard to tell that Michael was becoming increasingly popular. More and more people were after him. Everybody wanted a piece of Michael in those early days.
But whenever he had time off, all he wanted to do was see you. You made him feel like he was actually a teenager instead of a superstar.
Sometimes, after school, you’d stop by the public library, still banned from using your school’s library. You’d pick out a couple of new books, tuck them under your arm, and make your way to Michael’s house on foot.
By then, fans were almost always gathered outside his front gates. Once people had discovered where Michael lived, there seemed to be a constant crowd staking out the property alongside his security team. You’d pull your hoodie over your head and walk briskly towards the guard station, where they already knew you well. Some people took notice of you, but most of the time, people just assumed you worked there. Nobody seemed to consider that you might actually know someone inside.
Once through the gates, you’d rush to Michael’s room to show him the stack of books you’d picked up. Sometimes you’d both pick a book and read alone in each other's company for a while, a random record spinning in the background. The Beatles, or maybe Bob Dylan. The music didn’t particularly matter then; it would often fade into background noise as the two of you settled into comfortable silence.
Other times, if you were really enthusiastic about a book, Michael would lie on his stomach across his bed, as you sat on the floor beside him, reading aloud. Michael wouldn’t admit it, but he always preferred this arrangement. He loved hearing you talk, especially when it was a book you’d already read. He could tell when you were approaching a part you were excited to share because your words would tumble out faster, your voice filling with energy. And when the story turned sad, he’d notice the way you tried to keep your voice steady, even when you were struggling to keep your emotions in.
Michael could afford to buy any book he wanted by then. He could have filled his shelves with anything you happened to mention. But he secretly loved it when you brought them to him. It wasn’t really about the books. It was the thought you put into them. The fact that you’d seen something and thought, ‘Michael might like this.’ Michael treasured that.
When you were both around sixteen, Michael practically begged you to get your driver’s license. He hadn’t had time to get one himself yet, but he swore he’d get around to it eventually. You liked to tease him about it, joking that he was just too scared to take the test.
Despite this, you obliged. It wasn’t as though you’d ever be able to afford a car at your age, but that didn’t deter Michael. He had more than enough money for a nice car, and before long, you found yourself driving him all around town.
Sometimes, you wouldn’t even stop anywhere. You’d just drive until the sun set over the city’s skyline, talking and joking with each other until you inevitably ended up back at his house. There was something about driving around with nowhere to be that made the two of you feel almost as if you were just like any other pair of friends in the city.
A lot of the time, you’d go to random gas stations. Those were always particularly empty, which meant Michael could get in and out quickly without stirring up too much attention. The two of you would load up on junk food and rush home with your haul to put on a movie. Usually, a horror film, or some old comedy that Michael insisted you needed to see, even if he’d already shown it to you before.
You always felt like a real teenager during nights like those. Just two friends staying up late, eating junk food, and watching movies together. You figured it probably made Michael feel normal too. For just a little while, he didn’t have to perform for anyone. He just got to be Michael, sitting beside his best friend and laughing at some dumb movie.
Around this time, you had also gotten into experimenting with movie makeup. At first, you did it purely for fun, practicing different techniques on Michael whenever he was willing to sit still long enough. He never was a big fan of how long it all took.
Halloween was always his favorite, though. You’d go all out with special effects, turning him into whatever monster it was that he wanted to be that year, pulling a mask on and walking around unrecognized. Eventually, these small skills turned into something more elaborate. You began experimenting with prosthetics, wigs, and makeup that could make Michael look like an entirely different person, hoping to give him a chance to go out in public. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.
It was fun for you both to try either way. He always secretly loved watching you work. He’d sit patiently while you focused intently on his face, holding his head still as you examined every little detail. Sometimes, you’d practically climb onto him just to get a better angle, completely oblivious to how close you’d get. He never seemed to mind.
By then, the two of you had become such a constant presence in each other’s lives that it was difficult to imagine one without the other. You were the main part of his world, and he was the same for you.
But the main reason you’d continued honing your makeup skills had nothing to do with helping him avoid fans and paparazzi. What you really wanted was to help him feel more comfortable in his own skin.
Michael’s vitiligo had become a significant source of insecurity for him, despite your countless attempts to reassure him that there was nothing wrong with the way he looked. Whenever he wanted, you’d help even out his skin tone, carefully applying the makeup until he was satisfied with his reflection.
Even though you hated that he couldn’t see how perfect he was, you liked that you were able to help him in that way. More than that, you liked watching the change in his expression when he would look at himself in the mirror. That confident, shy yet cocky smile would come back, and he’d bite his lip lightly, which always drove you crazy.
You’d smile from beside him, quietly proud of yourself. “Told you I could help.” You’d say smugly.
He’d glance at you through the mirror, a familiar grin spreading wide across his face. “Yeah, you did.”
Something both of you grew to bond over was your families, though not in the traditional sense. You knew what Michael’s father did to him and his brothers. Saw the scars and bruises. You’d noticed the restrained way they’d speak to their father, the way their expressions changed whenever he entered the room. There was a fear there that was impossible to miss.
You’d never seen him do anything, though. You figured he was careful around you. Maybe he was afraid you’d tell the media, or the police, or someone else who might be able to intervene. Whatever the reason, you didn’t particularly care. You were just glad that whenever you were around, Michael was safe.
Over the years, you’d grown incredibly attached to him. He was the first real friend you’d ever had, which still felt strange considering how different your lives were. Michael was surrounded by fame, money, and people who constantly wanted something from him. You had none of that.
But there was one thing you understood about each other better than anyone else could. Home wasn’t always somewhere either of you wanted to be. Whenever your father made one of his abrupt appearances at home, you’d often find yourself making your way to Michael’s house instead. You’d stay as long as you possibly could, stretching each visit out for another hour, another night, another day.
The longest you’d managed was four days. You figured you could probably go for another week before he ever noticed you weren’t there at all. Then the school called. You hadn’t bothered to go, not like anybody was around to make you go.
When you finally trudged your way home, the punishment wasn’t for missing school. It was because you’d not bothered to cover your tracks. Your parents couldn’t care less what you did, just as long as it wouldn’t get back to them and make them look bad.
You came back to Michael’s with a split lip and a bruised eye. Michael noticed. Neither of you said anything. You both learned that you didn’t need to.
Neither of you liked talking much about what happened at home. You understood each other’s situations well enough that there was rarely any reason to bring it up at all. If one of you showed up with a new bruise or injury, the other might notice, but neither would ask.
Michael’s room was different. It was your escape from everything outside. It was a space for books and music, movies and dancing, and for telling stupid jokes and having long conversations. You didn’t want to ruin that by bringing up such horrid things in this space. So you didn’t.
There was one other subject you hated to talk about. Michael’s tours.
You hated when he left. You’d never admit this to Michael, but his absence left you feeling lonelier than you’d been before you’d met him. When Michael was gone, you had nowhere to go.
Nowhere to escape to, no one waiting for you at the other end of the hallway. Because sooner or later, your father would stumble through the door again. And Michael wouldn’t be there to make the world feel safe.
It was precisely this situation in which everything changed for you. Michael was gone, touring across countries you could barely keep track of. You’d grown used to his absence, even if you never learned to like it.
Your father had come home earlier than expected. He’d dropped off what little money he had left after indulging in his habits. Despite the small amount, it still covered a quarter of your family’s budget. At least he’s good for something, you used to think.
That evening, you were coming home from school when you reached the front door. Growing closer, you heard voices inside, then things rustling and slamming as if somebody were struggling inside. You heard your mother’s voice.
Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. You threw the door open. Your mother was on the floor, cowering beneath her arms as she screamed. A man towered over her, holding a large silver knife you recognized as your own.
Something inside you snapped. You didn’t think, just lunging forward, kicking, punching, screaming. You slammed into the back of the man with everything you had, driving him back until he hit the wall. The two of you went down in a tangle of limbs, and you scrambled away, desperately trying to get back on your feet.
As you stumbled up, you tilted your head up to come face to face with your mother’s attacker, freezing. For one horrifying second, you didn’t recognize him. The man standing in front of you looked like a stranger attacking your mother. But it was your father.
A dispute over money had started the fight. You had only thrown yourself into the middle of it, adding fuel to something that was already burning.
Your father slowly pushed himself upright. You watched him turn toward you. There was something terrifyingly calm about the way he moved.
Then you noticed his eyes. The rage in them made your blood run cold, making you completely forget about the knife he’d been wielding just moments earlier. Your eyes widened as he began walking towards you.
You turned to run. Behind you, your mother screamed. You barely made it even a step. Your father caught your wrist and yanked you backward with enough force to send you stumbling into him.
You close your eyes for a moment instinctively as you feel the impact. Then, pain. A sharp, searing pain takes over your senses, spreading all over your side. You look down, for a moment, everything gets strangely quiet, and your breath catches. Your mind couldn’t catch up with reality. Then your knees gave out.
You scream out, fighting against him as he continues to stab. Twice. Three times. Four. You stop counting, desperately clawing out at anything within reach, your hands shaking as you struggle to breathe. Suddenly, your father stops. His eyes seemed to glaze over, his body swaying before he slowly collapsed to the side. Behind him stood your mother. She was trembling, frying pan still raised over her shoulder.
For a moment, everything was completely still. Then she dropped the pan. Your mother rushed towards the phone, fumbling with it as you sank to the floor. The last thing you could remember was the sound of her voice desperately giving your address.