Flashback
"That's a great idea," I said, genuinely impressed by the concept.
Bruno, the representative from the Recording Academy, lit up at the praise. "Thank you! I've been working to bring together old and new Grammy winners for quite a while, and the golden anniversary seemed like the perfect time to do it. It feels validating to hear that from someone at your level."
I could see the flattery from a mile away. It was the kind of polite ass-kissing I had grown used to, especially from executives like Bruno. They always assumed I had some sort of divine creative instinct, like I couldn't possibly be wrong.
"So, who do you think should perform with me?" I asked, leaning back in my chair with genuine curiosity.
Bruno straightened up, eager to present his suggestions. "I was thinking, either Bruce Springsteen or Bob Dylan."
"Admirable choices," I nodded thoughtfully. "Have you talked to either of them about this yet?"
He hesitated before answering. "No. The thing is, I was hoping you'd reach out to them. If the request came from you, it's more likely they'd agree."
I didn't mind doing that, not really. But something else was nagging at me. Both Dylan and Springsteen were legends, yes, but they'd still be around for years to come. If this was going to be a once-in-a-lifetime performance, I wanted to share the stage with someone who might not have many more left. Someone whose presence alone would etch the show into history.
"What about Michael Jackson?" I suggested, watching Bruno's expression carefully. "Did you consider him?"
Bruno's brow furrowed as he thought it over, then shook his head. "MJ doesn't do award show appearances anymore. The last Grammy he attended was in 1993, before the allegations went public. The Academy would love to have him back, but we've reached out multiple times. He always turns us down."
That stung. Ever since I started singing and dancing, I had dreamed of performing with MJ. Now that I was finally in a position to make it happen, I wasn't about to give up so easily.
"I'll talk to him," I said with quiet determination. "I'm sure he'll agree."
Bruno didn't look convinced, but he nodded nonetheless. "In any case, I'll reach out to Dylan and Springsteen's managers to see if they'd be interested, without mentioning your name, of course."
(Break)
I looked around at the interior of the stunning Las Vegas mansion, where I had an appointment to meet one of my biggest idols—across both my lives. The space was tastefully decorated, warm yet opulent, with high ceilings, marble flooring, and delicate golden accents gleaming in the sunlight that filtered through the tall windows.
As a young dancer just beginning my training at the Royal Ballet School, Michael Jackson had been one of the artists I obsessed over. I used to mimic his every move. By the time I graduated, there wasn't a single step of his I couldn't replicate. Whether it was the moonwalk, the toe tip, or his iconic spin, I had his entire repertoire memorized.
This time around, I had tried them again—but I wasn't quite as good. Not yet, anyway.
"Hi!" a shrill, unmistakable voice called out behind me.
I turned instinctively and came face-to-face with the King of Pop himself. My breath caught.
Michael Jackson stood there in front of me—slightly gaunt, his cheeks a little hollow, his skin pale. Long black hair flowed down to his shoulders, lending a slightly androgynous elegance to his appearance. But there was no mistaking his presence. It was him.
I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came out. I wasn't the type to get starstruck, not at this stage of my life, but standing in front of him... I was frozen.
"Hey, I'm Troy," I finally managed to say after a full minute of awkward silence. Thankfully, he didn't point it out.
Michael let out a soft laugh. "Of course I know who you are. Do you think I live under a rock, not to recognize Harry Potter? I absolutely love your movies, and especially your voice. You're awesome."
It was, without question, the greatest compliment I had ever received.
"Thank you," I said, smiling with genuine gratitude. "I don't know why, but I had this weird feeling you'd hate me for breaking your Grammy record."
His expression shifted slightly. He looked away, then gave a slow nod. "Had it been a decade ago... probably. But I've stopped caring about award shows for quite a while now. Not just the awards, but the industry itself. They're all a bunch of hypocrites. The moment you're no longer useful, they'll stab you in the back."
His voice carried a bitterness that was impossible to miss. The moment he stopped speaking, I knew—this wouldn't be an easy conversation. Convincing him to return to the Grammys might be harder than I thought.
He motioned toward the couch behind me. "Please, have a seat. Tell me how I can help you."
I sat down quietly, organizing my thoughts, wondering how to begin the pitch I had rehearsed so many times.
Before I could speak, Michael broke the silence again.
"I was surprised you approached me at all," he said, his gaze steady. "Given the charity you support, and... the allegations against me." He let the words hang there, unfinished, his eyes fixed on mine.
I didn't know how to respond to that. As someone who had been one of MJ's biggest fans in my past life, I should have had an answer ready. But the truth was, if someone were to ask me whether he was innocent or guilty, I couldn't say for certain.
In the years after Michael's death, so many conflicting accounts had surfaced—interviews, articles, interviews within interviews. There had even been a full documentary featuring two supposed victims who had previously testified in his defense, only to later claim they had lied on the witness stand. Then, just as suddenly, they recanted again. It was a carousel of contradictions, and for an outsider like me, it was impossible to draw a clear line.
In the end, all I had was what stood before me.
Michael Jackson sat there with a weary stillness. His face was hollow, the dark circles under his eyes seemingly etched there permanently. He looked like someone who had grown used to people walking away. And at that moment, he truly believed I might do the same.
Whether he had done what he was accused of, I still couldn't say. But I knew one thing with absolute clarity—I didn't care right then. I was separating the artist from the art. And for the art alone, I loved him deeply.
"I believe in the principle of innocent until proven guilty," I said, holding his gaze. "The courts acquitted you. That's enough for me."
Michael studied me for a long moment, eyes narrowed in quiet calculation, as though searching for any hint of insincerity. Then he nodded slowly.
"Thank you," he said softly. "Now, as much as I enjoy having you here, there must be a reason for your visit. Especially considering you're supposed to be shooting a movie with James Cameron right now."
I blinked, caught off guard. "How do you know that?"
He gave a half-shrug. "The media covered it when you made those allegations against all those men. You've been everywhere."
I gave a small nod, conceding the point. It was time to stop dancing around the reason I had come.
"I want to perform with you onstage," I said clearly.
Michael's eyes lit up the moment the words left my mouth.
"At the 50th Grammys."
The glow vanished just as quickly.
"No," he said immediately, his tone sharp. "Not the Grammys. I'd be happy to do a concert with you, if you're open to that. But no award shows."
"Please, Michael," I said, my voice quiet but insistent. "Think about what this show means. It's the golden anniversary. Your fans have been waiting years just to see you perform again. This isn't about an award show, especially not one as flawed as the Grammys, but about the significance of the moment. About legacy."
He looked away, but I pressed on.
"You and I, together, could create something unforgettable. The biggest superstars of the 20th and 21st centuries, side by side. Not for trophies, not for ratings, but for the story we'll leave behind when we're old and grey."
Michael raised an eyebrow, his tone somewhere between amused and incredulous. "You consider yourself the biggest superstar of this century?"
"In the last eight years? Yes," I replied bluntly, without flinching.
He held my gaze for a moment, then gave a small nod of acknowledgment. He didn't argue. Instead, he fell silent, clearly mulling over the offer in his mind.
A few seconds passed before I added the final card I had to play.
"If you agree to do this, I'll join you on your comeback tour next year."
That got his attention.
His eyes widened, just a flicker, but enough to betray his surprise. For a brief moment, he was completely silent, absorbing the words.
"You mean that?" he asked at last, voice quieter now, more cautious than before.
"It would be my honor," I said, meaning every word. "I've got some Harry Potter commitments early next year, but once those are done, I'd be more than happy to tour with you."
Michael hesitated only for a second. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Okay. I'll perform with you at the Grammys."
But before I could even begin to smile, his expression sharpened.
"But we'll need to work on your choreography. It could definitely use some work."
Coming from anyone else, that might have stung a little. But from Michael Jackson? I almost took it as a compliment.
"I have an even better idea," I said, grinning.
(Flashback End)
(Break)
The moment Michael Jackson stepped onto the stage and began singing Rolling in the Deep, the crowd erupted. Every person in the Staples Center was on their feet, many with their hands over their mouths, unable to believe what they were seeing: the King of Pop, back on stage, live, and sounding better than ever.
Scarlett was no different. A wave of disbelief washed over her as she clutched the armrest, eyes wide. She was a little mad at Troy for keeping this from her, but the surprise more than made up for it. She had longed to see Michael Jackson perform live for years. And now, finally, she was getting the chance, at the Grammys of all places.
"Thank God I didn't skip it," she whispered to Taylor Swift beside her.
Taylor, speechless, could only nod as one of the most iconic performances of the 21st century unfolded before them.
When Rolling in the Deep ended, the beat shifted. The unmistakable opening to Billie Jean filled the arena, and this time, Troy stepped forward.
As MJ launched into the vocals, Troy reached up and smoothly plucked one of two identical black fedoras from Michael's head and placed it on his own. The move was seamless, perfectly rehearsed, and the crowd responded with another wave of cheers.
Then Troy began to dance.
While Michael sang, Troy brought the legend's moves back to life with effortless precision. The tip-toe freeze. The 45-degree lean. The iconic spin. Each motion was fluid, sharp, and reverent, an homage to the man standing beside him.
The audience roared with every move, as if trying to outdo their previous cheers. It wasn't just admiration, it was awe. Troy was pulling off the impossible right in front of the originator of those very steps.
But there was one move he hadn't done yet.
Scarlett could feel it coming. She sensed it in her chest the way a conductor feels a symphony's climax. He was saving the moonwalk for last.
And sure enough, when the song reached its crescendo, Troy and Michael stood face to face.
They shared a quick glance, a subtle exchange of mutual respect. Then Michael gave a faint nod.
At once, they both began to moonwalk, gliding in opposite directions across the stage in perfect sync. The movement was mirrored, smooth, weightless, and hypnotic. To Scarlett, it looked almost kaleidoscopic. A living reflection. Past and present dancing together.
If the crowd had been loud before, now it was thunderous. It felt as though the arena itself might lift off the ground from the sheer force of the cheers. Scarlett screamed at the top of her lungs and was proud to admit she wasn't losing in volume to anyone around her.
The performance ended moments later, but the ovation was relentless.
The audience, already standing, erupted into applause so deafening it drowned out the music. Cheers, whistles, and chants shook the room as Troy and Michael embraced on stage. They bowed side by side before exiting the spotlight.
In that moment, Scarlett knew one thing for certain: this wasn't just a performance. This was history. A once-in-a-lifetime dance between two legends, destined to be remembered for generations to come.
(Break)
"Best Pop Vocal Album goes to… 2006, Troy Armitage."
"Best Male Pop Vocal Performance goes to… We Are Young, Troy Armitage."
"The Song of the Year goes to… Rolling in the Deep, Troy Armitage."
"The Record of the Year goes to… Somebody That I Used to Know, Troy Armitage."
"And the Album of the Year goes to… 2006, Troy Armitage."
The applause thundered through the Staples Center as I rose once again, stepping onto the stage for the final time that night. This moment wasn't new to me, but it still felt electric. I took the microphone, my hand steady, my thoughts already forming.
"It would be a lie to say I wasn't expecting this," I began, voice calm but sincere. "Not because I knew I was the best, but because I knew I had done my best. And I really loved the result."
I let the silence settle for a beat before continuing.
"Whenever I finish a song or a movie, I ask myself one question: 'Could I have done it better?' If the answer is yes, then I didn't give it my hundred percent. If the answer is no, I stop worrying about the outcome. Even without this trophy, I would've considered myself a winner.
"And if you're watching this at home, remember this—there's only one real path to success: hard work."
With that, I gave the audience a final nod and stepped away from the podium.
Backstage, a flurry of reporters and flashing cameras awaited me, eager to capture soundbites and reactions. Just like last year, I had swept a significant number of awards, including the most coveted: Album of the Year. In total, I walked away with eight Grammys tonight. Combined with the twelve I had won the previous year, my tally now stood at twenty.
Still, as I stood under the blinding lights and faced the swarm of media, I had a quiet feeling in my gut—that by tomorrow morning, my Grammy haul might not even be the main headline.
A thought that was confirmed as soon as I stepped foot in front of the reporters.
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AN: Visit my personal website to read ahead, or check out my second Hollywood story set in the 80s.
Link: www(dot)fablefic(dot)com