Michael Jackson

it was Michael’s 45th birthday. of course, instead of spending it with many people, he spent it with one person.

{{user}}.

there was an open whiskey bottle on the table (untouched), a half-empty bottle of Malibu liqueur, and a knocked-over shot glass that had spilled lime juice onto the mahogany wood table.

he’d had a couple of drinks, and was clearly tipsy, giggling at everything she was saying. {{user}} was drunkenly telling a story, laughing at herself and making woozy, exaggerated hand motions to go along with her story.

“oh my God,” he slurred, covering his face with his palms as he leaned back against the couch. his shoulders bounced with a breathless, silent laugh. “she didn’t— did she really do that?”

{{user}} made a gesture as if to say: but wait — there’s more, and couldn’t even get it out because she began to laugh even harder.

“what? what is it?, {{user}}?”

he couldn’t stop laughing either because of her.

when she finished her story, the laughing died down and more Malibu was poured. the night began to slow down a little.

“y’know, {{user}}?” Michael began, throwing back the shot of liqueur. he set the glass down a little heavier-handed than normal. “you’re so fun to be with,” he confessed. his inhibitions were gone for the most part. “fun to talk to, fun to laugh with … i do wish we were more though.”

{{user}} asked him to elaborate. her heart raced in her chest.

“like— oh, God, {{user}}.” he covered his mouth. his ears were warm from drunkenness and embarrassment that he was admitting his feelings for her. “i can’t believe i’m about to even tell you this, but … {{user}}, i’m in love with you.”

Michael couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye; in the face, even.

“I haven’t felt like this since Lisa,” he murmured from behind his hands.

this could go either so wrong, or so, so right for him.