Chapter Text
There’s no way this could be real.
You were sitting at your desk, working on an article about a shoplifting incident that occurred in a nearby mall, when your boss shoved her phone in your face to rave about the Michael Jackson arriving in town. It took everything in you to remain neutral and professional when she started going on about how writing a piece on him could boost morale for the company, potentially putting every journalist on the map… he’d been your secret celebrity crush since you were a kid. There was actually a framed photo on your desk of you dressed in his iconic Thriller jacket and singular, sequined glove, that your sister put there when you first got hired to remind you of your “humble beginnings”. You slowly reached forward and tipped it so it fell face first, hiding it from your boss.
As you were conspiring a way to haul tail out of there before getting yourself into something you couldn’t escape from, your boss put her hands on your shoulders and gave you a confident squeeze. “Oh, no you don’t. You’re my top writer – I’m sending you to his hotel. My special source told me that he just made it in.”
Your heart dropped. Going to Michael’s hotel not only felt like an immense invasion of privacy (because why and how does she have the location?), but you were positively sure that you’d pass out before you even made it to his front porch. You fiddled with your fingers, nervous, trying to come up with something to get out of this situation. Before you could, your boss added, “I’ll give you double the pay. It doesn’t have to be a scandalous piece, just… something for his fans. He hasn’t been seen by the public eye in literal years, you can’t tell me you’re not the least bit intrigued.” She had you there – you were embarrassingly obsessed with him and you were starting to get a little worried about his continued radio silence. Plus, a thicker check never hurt nobody. With a resigned sigh, you packed your bag with your usual boots-on-the-ground journalism goodies: your notepad, pen, audio recorder, the company credit card (in case you had to bribe him with food or goodies), water, and a granola bar so there’d be less of a chance of you hitting the floor upon arrival. Your boss cheered and dialed the number for the company’s personal taxi to take you over to his hotel.
The entire drive there, your mind was racing like the clouds trying to keep up with the car in the sunny sky while you ate the granola bar. What if he was upset at being greeted by a reporter on his first day back? The last thing you remembered was that he’d left for Japan to participate in a variety show – he was probably exhausted from all that traveling, now that he was nearing his fifties. Before he departed from the United States, he released a public statement saying that he was retiring to focus on simply releasing music and caring for his family. Your mind couldn’t help but conjure up the image of him enjoying a slow morning with his children, writing out any melodies that came to him without the pressure of performing. The thought made you smile. It was your mission to write a good enough piece on the superstar for your boss without sensationalizing it prior to him achieving his goal of rest, so you started rehearsing your introduction… because duh, first impressions matter.
The driver pulled up to a very expensive-looking, mansion-style hotel and motioned that this was your destination. You thanked him graciously and took a deep breath to steady your nerves before exiting the vehicle, the soft chill of the early evening air crawling up your spine. The building was massive – it took you taking a few steps back and careening your neck upwards to get a good look at the structure. You started feeling sick at the idea of entering a place like this, very clearly not used to being in these spaces, but you refused to back down from the opportunity of meeting someone you’ve looked up to your entire life. With that, you brushed your sweaty palms against your jeans and walked with purpose towards the entrance.
Since the door was a revolving one (aka, your sworn enemy), you got caught in one of the doors and had to do an extra lap around to get out properly. Embarrassing, but not the end of the world. You took a step into the hotel lobby and readjusted yourself. Act like you belong here and nobody will question you. Holding your leg out, the pointy part of your heel immediately got stuck in one of the cracks in the floor, sending you stumbling forward into the table lined with complimentary peppermints and gum for guests. When you gathered your bearings, you closed your eyes and tried to hide from whoever was watching… which was practically everyone. You reminded yourself to ease up on the causal heel-wearing after this.
Finally standing upright, you straightened your back and kept your head high, smoothing your buttoned, black trench coat and walking confidently towards the check-in counter. Luckily, the clerk hadn’t seen your mess of an entrance as she was having the time of her life smacking away at some of the complimentary gum she’d helped herself to. “Hello,” you started in your professional voice as you approached, “I’m looking for Mr. Jackson.” She paused and gave you a suspicious side eye, matching your tone. “May I have the reason for the visit? Mr. Jackson has explicitly advised us to not let anyone up.” You cursed internally – of course he did. “I see. My apologies, he told me to meet him here to discuss an upcoming business partnership. He’s a very busy man, I understand, and I would hate to disrupt his future schedule due to miscommunication.” This lie seemed to make the clerk antsy, as if she’d be hung on a spit roast if she dared mess with his income. She thought for a moment, then cleared her throat. “Room 829.” Your eyes lit up, then quickly dimmed again to hide your excitement, before you thanked her and headed towards the elevator.
Your legs were jelly as your heels clicked against the linoleum floors, your stride a little less confident with every step you took. You were about to meet the world’s most famous person and it was all based on a lie. You’d have to pray about that later. You were so out of it that you hadn’t realized that you’d sashayed directly past his room, catching yourself and turning around to stand in front of the door. This was it, the moment your career depended on. Lifting your knuckle, you let it gently hit the wooden door with a series of three raps, each one seemingly louder than the last as blood rushed to your ears. There was about a solid minute of silence before metal clinking sounded as the lock flipped, followed by a creak, and the door opened just enough for Michael to whisper a guarded, “How can I help you?”
His voice didn’t sound like his own – it sounded cartoonish, like he was used to doing this to hide his identity from any creeps. You paused, borderline stuck on stupid, not expecting him to actually be in there or answer. You hadn’t thought this far, but you knew you had to say something before he called the police. “Hi, I’m looking for Mr. Jackson. I’m a journalist for Aurelia Weekly, and I wanted to… potentially… interview him. An early look into his retirement before he steps away from the spotlight for good, in a docu-series style fashion.” You sounded pathetic, more nervous than you had hoped, and Michael noticed. His head peeked into the small crack he’d created with the door, his jet-black hair styled in a loose wolf-cut that fell over his doe eyes as he tried to get a better look at you. You weren’t sure if it was the lighting or his piercing gaze, but your heart was seconds away from jumping on the floor and doing the dougie in front of him.
Without saying another word, the door closed with a soft click.
You thought it was over. He wasn’t in the mood and you’d have to call your boss to let her know that this wouldn’t be the big break she was looking for. On the verge of admitting defeat, you sighed and slipped your hand into your pocket for your phone. Suddenly, a rush of wind hit you, brought on by Michael swinging his room door wide open and leaning against the frame. He’d slipped on his iconic black sunglasses that matched his long-sleeved, silky black dress shirt, black slacks, and black loafers with matching white socks. As he gave you a gentle smile, the scent of earthy bergamot filled your senses. “I read Aurelia Weekly often. Big fan of the work,” He laughed softly, dropping his cover voice to reveal his sweet one that’d been deepened with age. “I’d be honored to entrust my final interview to you. Come on in.”
You weren’t expecting that.
Willing your legs to move, you gave him a gracious nod and stepped into his hotel room. The plush carpet floor softened the click of your heels as you took a look around – it was spotless, as if he’d just finished cleaning, and the blinds were drawn to hide the remaining sunlight painting the sky. His room was coordinated with deep blacks, lacy whites, and shocking reds, like he was doing everything in his power to soak up any threat of color attempting to sneak in. He closed the door behind you and took a seat on the chair beside his bed, crossing one leg over the other and running his finger across his bottom lip. That was a shy habit you’d seen him do a million times before answering any questions in an interview or giving an award acceptance speech, one so endearingly cute that it almost threw you off your game. You followed behind and took a seat in the chair across from him, sitting so politely that your legs almost locked up, and setting your bag beside you.
“What’s your name?” He prompted, sensing your inability to relax. You gave him a partially confident smile and told him your name, to which he nodded and smiled endearingly. He was known for being a natural flirt, his age doing nothing but worsening this fact, causing you to quickly look away from him and slip off your trench coat. Placing it neatly on the arm of the seat, you smoothed your blouse and unzipped your bag for your recording device. “So, Mr. Jackson –” “Please. Call me Michael. ‘Mr. Jackson’ makes me feel ancient.” Silence stretched for a few seconds as you willed your mind to relax, the syrupy sweet octave of his voice clouding your thoughts and stealing whatever it is you were about to say.
“Okay, Michael, I’m going to record our conversation. I like to give my interviewees a heads up before we begin.” His eyebrows went up behind his shades, seemingly surprised that you cared to assess his feelings and level of consent before resting his head against his fist, arm on the back of the chair. “That’s fine with me. How else will you remember what to put in your article?” You felt silly for having to be so honest, causing a light blush to grace your features, one you quickly fanned away and disguised it as brushing your hair out of your face. “You said you were an avid reader of our publication, so I’m sure you’re aware that we don’t report on falsehoods or inconsistencies. Please do not feel as though you must give a performance or justify yourself, this is all about what you feel comfortable letting the public see.” Your voice came out surprisingly even, intriguing Michael even further as he repositioned his hips. He gave you a gentle nod. “I appreciate your kindness. Shall we begin?”
ꨄ︎
Hours had gone by without you noticing, asking general questions about how he felt and what his trip to Japan was like. He’d answered to the best of his ability, easing into a more relaxed posture when the conversation drifted either to his craft or one of his other special interests. You found yourself inquiring about his retirement announcement, as it’d followed directly after rumors of his This Is It tour potentially taking place. He seemed slightly uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but made no moves to discourage you from continuing. “Well,” he started, looking up at the ceiling to find his words. “I just wasn’t feeling it. Between my life of tight schedules and low album sales thanks to Sony not pushing Invincible, I decided it was time to step away. I am still planning to release an album entitled, This Is It, but there will be no live performances associated with it. I am nearing elderly age, I gotta quit while I’m ahead.” He joked, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest.
You completely understood why someone that grew up only knowing the public eye would get fed up with the mistreatment and take the nearest exit. You thought he was insanely courageous and respectable for doing so after everything he’d been through up to this point, disregarding the fact that your audio recorder would pick up your next words. “That’s very brave of you, Michael. You are attuned to your needs.” He perked up at this, leaning forward in his seat. “Brave?” He questioned, tilting his head ever so slightly. “I don’t recall anyone ever saying that to me. I sincerely thank you and enjoy your kindness, from the bottom of my heart.” You flushed an impossible shade of red, the room suddenly feeling a dozen times hotter than it did earlier. Clearing your throat, you reached forward and clicked off your audio recorder, signaling the end of your questioning.
“That’s all I have for you. How do you feel? Was I pushy, in any way?” You asked earnestly, going over your end-of-session survey that you did with every person you interviewed. He shook his head, silky smooth strands of hair bouncing with the motion. “No, not at all. You are a delight to have around. May I offer you some tea? It’s cold out and I’d feel guilty sending you away empty handed.” You were going to refuse, believing that his presence alone was enough of a treat, opening your mouth as you held your head down to pack up your things. When you looked back up, Michael had already crossed the room and began fiddling with the teapot in the kitchen built into the room. This hotel is like a mini-condo for luxury apartments. Once that thought passed, you looked between the seat he was just in and where he stood in the kitchen now – he’d moved awfully fast for a middle-aged man.
Instead of refusing his offer, you sighed with a soft smile and shrugged your bag over your shoulder, standing and joining him in the kitchen. You watched him work on your tea, humming a soft melody to himself as he opened one of the cabinets above his head. He must not have been paying close attention, as the glass mug he’d “grabbed” jumped from the cupboard and smashed into pieces on the floor. The noise startled you, causing you to circle the island and rush to his side. “Michael! Are you hurt?” His hair and shades covered his eyes, so you couldn’t tell if he needed any first aid or not, until you looked at his wrist and saw a deep red gash against his pale skin. You didn’t say a word as you located the nearest rag on the countertop and all but flew to the sink, dampening the cloth and wringing it out. When you turned to hold it against the bleeding injury, Michael had started sweeping up the glass shards on the opposite side of the kitchen. Wasn’t he just…
“I’m sorry. I must still be quite jet-lagged.” He said simply, bending down to sweep the pointy material into the dustpan he’d also managed to grab. You blinked a few times, trying to figure out if you’d dreamt the moment he sliced his skin on a glass shard. Looking at the countertop where he stood before, you saw two red droplets of blood, confirming you hadn’t made that up. However, when you looked at Michael (who was now dumping the glass into the trashcan), he seemed completely unbothered. You broke out of your frozen stupor and walked over to him, softly pushing the fabric of his long-sleeved dress shirt back to inspect his wrist. There wasn’t so much as a blemish in the area that you were sure blood was pooling just moments ago, and his skin was impossibly cold.
“Um,” Michael started, looking down at you over his shades.
You realized you were completely overstepping, quickly releasing his wrist from your grip and taking a few steps back. “I- I thought I saw…” You fumbled, confused and starting to question everything you’ve ever seen in your entire life. All he could do was laugh, rolling his sleeve back down and sliding his sunglasses up into his hair so he could see you better. There was a hidden warning behind his eyes as he spoke. “You’ve been here a while. Go home and get some rest; I will contact your company when I am ready for the next interview. I’ll treat you to tea. Thank you for spending time with me today.” At that, he placed a polite hand on the small of your back as he began guiding you to leave.
His gaze and pearly white smile had you stuck. You could only close your mouth and nod, heading out since you’d clearly overstayed your welcome. He held the door open for you and gave you a kind wave, saying a sincere, “get home safely” before gently swinging it closed with a click of the lock. Once you were back in the hallway of the mansion-style hotel, your heels clicked loudly against the floor once more as your thoughts ran a million miles a minute. You’d heard the glass shatter. You’d seen the shard he tried to pick up nick his wrist. You saw the stream of blood threatening to spill over his beautiful skin and onto the counter. Where did it all go? Why did he jump to escort you out when you checked on him? Why was he Antarctic-levels cold, despite the layers of dark clothing he wore?
There was something more to him, and you would not rest until you figured it out.