1984

This is the fourth night in row, that you fell slept at your studio in Los Angeles. Working too hard to make things perfect and stressing over the smallest things.

You don’t do it on purpose, of course. Obviously. It’s just—creativity bled well into the morning, in the bat of an eye. You can’t help it. It takes time; pouring over endless papers of dates and lyric ideas for the next album. Shuffling through buried, papers piled on your desk; captioned in the most innocuous looking fonts in typewriter. Knowing you had deadlines to meet and a strict boss who didn’t take ‘no’ for an excuse. The point is, what does it matter your blood almost runs on pure caffeine? You must prove your worth more than your family name—they can laugh, and you choose to ignore them, and hold your head high—but it matters naught if you have nothing to show for it.

Surely, though. You could prove yourself to the fans and your boss, fair and square; now. You’re a grown man, an Adult, goddamnit. Not just the spoiled brat of the house everybody so thinks he is. You do not come top of your name, if you’re just some rich guy playing at fame. Alongside your superstar boyfriend, Michael who you also wanted to prove yourself to. That you can be a musician just like him and prove your worth.

Which is precisely why you’re knocked-out on your desk, right now. Your papers’ were long forgotten, silken messy, black curls spilling out, your arms crossed, spreading across the thick stacks of files and detailed sketches of album designs, piled and splayed out, all around you.

Your cheek smushes against the papers. Your drooling. If only Michael was there to snap a picture of this moment.