Whatever Happens (M.J)

Two

By the time they arrived at Studio 54, the party was already in full swing. They hadn't taken 3 steps in and already someone was offering them some kind of substance.

"Make sure you don't tell your mother I'm letting you be around slime like this!" Diana yelled to him over the thumping disco bass.

"I won't; but they might." Michael yelled back, pointing to the photographers milling around. In Michael's experience: where there was a camera, a trash tabloid publication wasn't far away.

"They're just taking photos for art magazines; your mother doesn't read that kind of thing! We'll be fine! C'mon; let's dance!"

Ah, dancing. Yes; that was something Michael could do. Once the bass line, the drum beat and the guitar riff entered his bloodstream, he'd forget all of his insecurities and he'd be in control.

"Hey everybody; we got Diana Ross and the one, the only, Mr Michael Jackson in the studio tonight!" The booming voice from the DJ booth above announced their presence, causing a wave of applause to sound around them.

Diana basked in the attention; Michael just wanted to dance. She looked at him when he took her hand. "Let's dance." He said, pulling her onto the floor.

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Michael barely noticed Diana dancing with other people; even when he did, he was too high on the music (and that was all he was high on!) to care. He could feel people watching him dance; they all thought he was fabulous, something else entirely he was so good.

But Diana had been the lead singer of the Supremes for one reason (besides her relationship with Berry Gordy): she hated to have the limelight stolen from her. After little over an hour, she tapped Michael on the shoulder.

"Could you get me a drink, please?" She asked, forcing her sweetest voice.

"Sure; what would you like?" Michael asked, still moving to the beat.

"Martini, please; if they'll serve you."

Michael nodded and danced off the floor, heading towards the bar.

He stood at the bar, his lower body still moving. He turned to watch Diana dancing; a man much older than Michael was whispering in her ear and she was giggling. Michael frowned when they danced, practically grinding on each other. What happened to this being their - his and Diana's - date?

"You stare too hard; your eyes will fall out." Michael looked over his shoulder, frowning. "And if you frown too much, you'll wrinkle prematurely."

Michael went to frown again, but stopped himself. The barmaid chuckled, wiping the glass in her hand with a cloth. "That's better. You're too young to age prematurely."

"I'm sorry; who are..." Michael started to speak, but the barmaid cut him off.

"It doesn't matter who I am; you just need to know that I'm your barmaid and that the only question that should be asked is: what can I get you?"

"Is that you asking me?" Michael asked, a smile spreading across his face.

The barmaid snapped her fingers. "Correct; you got it in one."

"Can I have a martin, please?"

"How old are you?"

Michael chuckled; it had been a long time since anyone had asked him that. He couldn't even remember the last time some asked him what his name was.

"I'm 19." He replied.

"You're under age." The barmaid stated.

"It's not for me; I don't drink. It's for..." Michael looked back over his shoulder at Diana, who was still getting cosy with the mystery male.