Five • Crazy

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The rest of the day escapes Michael in a blur of autograph signing, peace signs and proclamations of love.

Camera shutters blind him.
Microphones invade his personal space.
Strangers demand his attention.

Public appearances are always the same.

He takes it all with a smile and a gracious nod of the head, until the evening draws near and Bill finally whisks him away from the crowds.

Once the car door slams shut next to him, Michael's ears ring. He hadn't realised just how loud everyone had been. Not until the quiet hit.

Bill climbs into the vehicle from the other passenger door, a drawn-out breath reverberating against the front passenger seat as he buckles himself in.

"You know how to make my job difficult, don't you, Joker?"

Michael can't help but stifle laughter. "The fans aren't the issue, Bill. It's the press. I could stay with the fans all day, if you let me."

Bill shoots a side-eyed glance at him, rubbing his face with one hand. "Yes, I know. You basically did stay out all day."

Michael's amusement softens and he looks outside the window as the car starts to move. Knowing he can't argue, he gives Bill no answer.

As the journey continues, he observes the scenery flashing past him. He takes in the summery hues of yellow and blue in the sky and the way the chanting dissolves slowly back into typical city life.

Beads of sweat gather on his face, the sleeves of his button-up clinging to his upper arms. He releases a puff of air, clammy hands wiping his forehead.

Eyes flitting back inside, he catches the driver's attention in the rearview mirror. "Could we open a window, please?"

"Of course. My apologies, Mr Jackson."

The noise outside intensifies just a little. A breeze pours over him, gently pushing the loose frontal strands of his hair back. For a moment he breathes it in, savouring the cool air against his skin. The sounds of London fill in the gaps where silence would live, a welcome distraction as he people-watches.

A little girl runs along the pavement holding a bubble wand, and he hears her giggling at the bubbles floating around her. A boy catches up to her, yelling in glee as he fires his water gun at her. Their parents laugh at the sight from a few metres behind, the father pushing a small bicycle and the mother carrying a shopping bag.

Michael manages a glimpse of the bag before the family disappears behind him. He recognises it instantly: Hamleys.

He reflects on his visit there earlier in the day, and how kind Florence had been to help select toys for the hospital children.

Any employee would do the same.
It's literally their job.

As the hotel draws nearer, screaming and cheering filters into the vehicle, louder and louder until nobody can hear themselves talk.

Bill looks to Michael, raising his voice. "You ready, Joker?"

Michael nods, unfastening his seatbelt. Adrenaline pricks at his chest as he watches Bill get out to tame the crowds before weaving around to Michael's side of the car.

The door opens. Michael can't quite make out which direction Bill is pulling him in, but he trusts him. Several moments pass by in a haze of dazzling light, crying and random hands reaching at him. Then it all goes quiet.

As he catches his breath, Michael turns to see the ocean of people, trapped behind yet another invisible wall. With a final kiss blown in their direction, he makes his way to his hotel room.

As he fumbles for his suite keys, he notices a faint purple bruise on the tip of his finger.

"Stupid Hamleys shelf," he murmurs under his breath, inserting the key into the hole. "That'll have to be covered with tape."

The door swings open. Immediately he is inundated with Hamleys bags as he steps inside, and he chuckles. With his foot he guides some of them to one side, cautious not to damage any of the contents. Path cleared, he beelines for the bathroom to freshen up.

Loose curls fall over his shoulders once he removes his hair tie. He grabs a towel from the rack, draping it near the shower before undressing himself.

Ten minutes later he finds himself in front of the mirror, lower half wrapped in white cotton, water dripping onto the rug beneath him.

The extractor fan whirs overhead as he stares through his reflection, his mind wandering again.

All the toys we got for the kids today.
Hamleys was truly wonderful.
I can't wait to see their little faces on Sunday.

What a magical experience.

When his eyes refocus, he notices his hair is a mess, and he chuckles. For a few moments he tilts his head down, checking his crown over. Cautious fingers reach up, gently touching the scalp, but a dull stinging forces his hand away and he hisses.

What was the point?
Of course it hurts. It's scar tissue.

With some careful styling, some product and a few pins, he pulls his hair back into a neat low pony, making sure to leave his signature strands out over his forehead.

Shutting off the bathroom light, he enters the hallway. Having forgotten about the Hamleys bags on the ground, his foot clips one of the handles, tripping him and jolting him forward. Startled, he lets out a gasp, grabbing instinctively for something, anything with his free hand. His knuckles blanch as his fingers tighten around the bathroom doorframe, catching his fall.

For a second he stands still, processing the mishap with a dry laugh. Glancing to the bags, he bends down to position them up against the wall.

Amused, he scoffs under his breath, shaking his head as he continues to the bedroom.

"Who knew toys were such a safety hazard?"

Slinging the towel onto the vanity chair, he puts on his pyjamas and perches at the edge of the bed.

His gaze moves around the room until it lands on the little bottle on the bedside table, which he takes without thinking. With a soft pop, the seal breaks on the lid. He pours two pills into one hand, lifting his water bottle with the other.

In the quiet, it floods back.

The flash of light.
Panicked screaming.
The heat.
Dizziness. Disorientation.
Hands grabbing at him.

He tosses his head back, tipping the pills into his mouth, swallowing the memory with them.

At last, he leans himself against the pillows behind him, feet lifting from the ground onto the mattress.

Restlessness builds in the minutes that follow. Above him, the clock ticks relentlessly, every single second slower than the last. His fingers clasp together over his stomach and he twiddles his thumbs, trying to ignore the sound, but it almost seems to get louder.

A hint of a Hamleys bag by the doorway pulls his attention, and for a beat he thinks. Biting the inside of his cheek, he snaps upright from the bed, pacing to the hallway again. Surrounded, he kneels down, scavenging through the bags until he pulls out what he's looking for.

A softness lingers in his eyes as they trace over the writing on the box, committing the description to memory.

INCLUDES:
* GLITTERING "MAGIC" GLOVE
* MICROPHONE
* POSING STAND

Before he reads on, he is pulled back to one word in particular.

Magic.

That is what I want the world to feel when they think of me.
When they experience me.

The corner of his mouth curves up at the thought, but it fades just as quickly.

But it would be nice for somebody to see past the magic.
To see Michael instead.

Still holding his miniature counterpart, he returns to bed, setting the doll down on the blankets as he gets himself comfortable.

Hours pass, his mind awake, his body wired.

At eleven o'clock he finds himself sprawled across the chaise, composing lyrics for songs.

At midnight he winds up cross-legged on the carpet, foot tapping along to music on the television.

By one o'clock he somehow hangs upside down over the edge of his bed, humming nameless tunes to himself.

At two o'clock the doll has been taken from its packaging, partaking in a one-sided conversation with its larger, sleep-deprived owner.

By two-thirty, the owner is laid across his bed, limbs outstretched, the doll between fingers itching with unspent energy.

By three o'clock, it becomes too much. He jolts up, the doll slipping from his grasp.

The pacing begins, up and down the length of the suite hallway, heavier-footed than intended.

His mind swarms with thoughts, melodies, lyrics, anxieties, imaginary scenarios, ideas, feelings and flickers of memories.

His hand pats the side of his thigh, rhythmic and repetitive, in time with his footsteps.

A knock on his door halts him, so quiet he almost doesn't hear it. Swallowing his frustration, he approaches the door, checking the peephole before opening it.

"Hey, Bill. What's going on?"

"Your stomping around is what's going on, Joker." Bill's face falls into the palm of his hand, rubbing at the fatigue in his eyes. "You woke me up. I'm surprised you didn't wake anybody else up."

Michael's brows lower subtly. "I'm sorry. I didn't even realise I was being so loud."

Bill looks to him, his demeanour mellowing. "You struggling to sleep again, huh?"

Michael stares blankly at him for several moments, contemplating which answer to give. "I-I'm just—all these ideas in my head—they're constantly flowing. You know?"

Bill sighs knowingly, gesturing with his hand. "Can I come in your room?"

"I mean, sure. But for what?" He widens the gap in the entrance, watching as Bill passes him. "Don't you need to go back to sleep? I won't make any more noise. I promise."

"I've had a few hours already. But you clearly haven't." Bill turns back around, making a point to maintain eye contact with him. "Maybe some company will distract you from that over-active brain of yours. Enough to at least give you a little rest."

"Oh, well—well, you don't really need to do that, Bill. I'm just—"

"I'm already in your room." He gives a low chuckle. "You can try and kick me out of the room if you want. But based on past experience, you'd struggle to even pull me an inch in your direction."

A smile cracks on Michael's face. "Yeah, well, that's why you've been my Head of Security for over fifteen years. Because you're strong. And I'm ... definitely not."

"You are strong, Joker. You shouldn't talk down on yourself like that." Bill expels air from his nostrils, shaking his head. "But that's besides the point. Let's go to your room. I'll sit on the fancy chair and you can sit on the bed. And we can talk about anything you want to. And maybe somewhere in there, you'll catch some Zs."

As Bill heads towards the bedroom, Michael follows after him. "Clearly I kept you around all these years because of your physical strength. Because if I needed a realist, you wouldn't have lasted an hour."

Bill scoffs as he reaches the chaise and sits down. "Here was me thinking you liked me as a person."

"Of course I do." Michael climbs onto the mattress, shuffling himself around to face Bill. "And I'm all for being ambitious—I mean, it's literally a part of my job. But sleeping seems to be off my schedule for tonight."

Ignoring Michael's pessimism, Bill changes the subject. "So, yesterday was a pretty good day, huh?"

"It truly was." Despite his weariness, Michael's brown irises sparkle. "I'm so excited to visit the children at the hospital on Sunday. I can't wait to see their faces at all the gifts."

Bill glances down at the doll, still buried among disturbed blankets. "And you even got yourself a mini-me."

"I considered gifting it to one of the kids there." He picks up the doll delicately, admiring the glittery accessories and the sculpted face as he talks. "But I figured that would look a little egocentric."

"Did Frank do something to annoy you when we were at Hamleys?" Bill asks. "Because when he came over to us, you didn't really talk to him. After Florence went to the front counter, I mean."

Automatically, Michael smiles. "She was so kind to us. Wasn't she?"

Bill raises one brow. "Who was?"

"Florence. I mean—I know she was just doing her job. But at least she spoke to me like a person." His fingers fiddle, undoing the Velcro on the doll's jacket just to fasten it together again. "And she spent an awful lot of time with us, helping us choose what to buy. I really hope she didn't get into trouble with her manager for that. But, I mean, we had the whole store to ourselves, so she didn't have much else to do anyway, right? There's only so much you can stack onto shelves for eight hours anyway. But what do you think she—"

"Joker."

Michael's eyes snap up. "What?"

Bill grins wide, suppressing the urge to laugh. "I didn't even ask about Florence. I asked about Frank. You seemed annoyed with him earlier."

Warmth flushes the tips of his ears as a chuckle shudders between parted lips. "Oh, Frank? No, it's fine. We just had a little misunderstanding. It resolved itself pretty quickly."

"What was the misunderstanding about?"

"The doll. Me. My career. Stuff like that. It's nothing." He shakes his head, dismissing the memory, his focus back on the doll in his hands. "Like I said, it resolved fast. Once you called me over to see the train, and once Florence came over to help."

Bill folds his arms over his chest, observing Michael's behaviour. "I guess she was pretty helpful. It got our job done a lot quicker and easier."

"Yeah. We would have been there a lot longer without her expertise. I know toys are ... well, just toys. But some of the stuff she suggested, I wouldn't have even thought to buy."

Bill nods. "And then the public appearances after Hamleys were successful too."

"Oh yeah. I loved seeing all the fans today. The press were a little crazy, but I guess that's all part of it." Taking the doll with him, he presses his back to the headboard, his body easing just a little. "Makes me glad the press won't be at the hospital. If they overwhelm a grown adult, think how much they'd scare the kids."

"But the press being there would at least force them to publish something positive about you for once."

"They'd find a way to twist it anyway. They'd probably say I invited them to come so I could brag about how wonderful and godlike I am. Something like that."

"I think people forget you're just a human being sometimes, Joker."

Human.

"That's what Florence said to me earlier," Michael tells him. "I wish I could thank her for everything."

A silence settles between them. For one of them, a sadness blossoms. For the other, contemplation begins.

Michael senses the mismatch, looking up from his doll to see Bill leaning back on the chaise, eyes glancing down in thought.

"Bill, what are you—?"

"Maybe you can."

"Maybe I can what?"

"Maybe you can thank her."

Michael's brows furrow, his lips twitching with a thousand questions. "Thank her how? Bill, what are you talking about?"

"Why don't you invite her to one of your shows? I know the tickets are all sold out, but who's to say she can't watch from the wings?" Bill rises from the chaise, sitting at the edge of the bed by Michael. "You wanna thank her so bad, then do it. What do you think?"

Michael laughs wryly. "I think you're crazy."

"What? So, Michael Jackson—the epitome of crazy in the best, most glorious type of way—is calling me crazy for an idea that solves the issue that's clearly keeping him awake?"

Michael looks down, avoiding Bill's gaze. "If I invited every single person who has ever been kind to me backstage, I'd walk off stage to another entire audience right after the show, Bill."

"Anyone can be kind, Joker." Bill places a hand on Michael's shoulder, earning his full attention. "But you won't shut up about her."

Michael doesn't answer at first.

He swallows. Gnaws at the inside of his mouth. Stares through him, desperate for a smart comment to hit back with.

"And how do we know she's even a fan of my music?"

"We don't. But it doesn't hurt to ask her."

"And how would we do that?"

"I'll get Frank to call Hamleys, first thing in the morning." Bill nods assertively, biting away his enthusiastic smile. "Just say the word, Joker. And we'll make it happen."

"This is ridiculous," he murmurs.

Michael thinks it over for a little longer, pleading with himself to find a smart remark. Something, anything to deter the situation from escalating.

Nothing comes to mind.

"Fine. Let's be crazy."

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I hope you enjoyed Chapter Five. xx