𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊

𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙲𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝙲𝚊𝚕𝚕

♥︎
1989
Los Angeles
Word Count: 4.8k

The distant roar of the crowd outside was a relentless, almost primal force, swelling with each passing second. Their chants and cheers merged into a single, pulsating wave of sound that reverberated through the concrete walls of the stadium. The vibrations traveled down the dimly lit corridor, slithering like tendrils of anticipation under the door of Michael's dressing room, knocking with a sound that was more felt than heard.

Inside, the room was bathed in a warm, amber glow cast by a series of incandescent bulbs framing the large vanity mirror. The air was thick with the scent of cologne, mingling with the sharp tang of stage makeup and the faint musk of leather. The vanity itself was cluttered with the tools of his trade: brushes of various sizes, compacts of powder, tubes of foundation, and an array of other cosmetics that had become part of his daily ritual. A half-empty glass of water sat to the side, the condensation forming tiny rivulets that ran down its surface, pooling on the wooden tabletop.

Michael stood before the mirror, the reflection of his face half-shadowed by the dim light. He was meticulously fixing his curls, each twist and coil of his hair a deliberate act. The soft whir of the air conditioning unit in the corner barely registered as he concentrated, his fingers nimble and practiced. The curls bounced back into place with each adjustment, a testament to his unwavering focus. Next, his hands moved to his waist, tightening the black leather belt until it sat just right, snug against his hips. The metal buckle gleamed under the lights as he adjusted the straps around his legs, the belts crisscrossing over his thighs with a satisfying snap as each one was secured. The leather creaked slightly with each movement, the sound almost drowned out by the distant echoes of the crowd.

You stood leaning against the far wall, the coolness of the brick seeping through the fabric of your tour jacket, which clung to your body in the slight chill of the room. The jacket bore the symbols of the tour—bold, flashy, a representation of all the sweat, passion, and soul that had gone into the performances. But tonight, that emblem held a new weight. This was the last night, his final show. Michael had confided in you just the night before, in a quiet moment away from the buzz of the crew and the lights, that this tour would be his last. The words had hung in the air between you, a mixture of resignation and relief, their finality striking you with bittersweet force.

Watching him now, as he slipped into the black and silver outfit for the last time, you felt a lump form in your throat. The outfit was iconic—each piece meticulously designed to catch the light just so, the silver accents glinting like stars against the deep, inky black. It had become synonymous with him, a second skin that the world recognized instantly. And now, you were witnessing its final curtain call.

Michael's gaze caught yours in the mirror, his dark eyes meeting yours with a soft, reassuring smile that barely curved the corners of his lips. It was a smile meant to soothe, to comfort, but you knew him too well—there was a flicker of something else there, hidden beneath the surface. He broke the eye contact, turning his attention back to the mirror as he zipped up the bodysuit. The fabric stretched over his torso, smooth and unyielding, but as he adjusted the plain white T-shirt underneath, a smudge of makeup had already begun to stain the collar. The makeup, applied with such precision to cover the telltale spots of vitiligo that had spread over the years, was a daily battle he fought in silence.