Archive of Our Own ^beta

I learned from you
That I do not crumble
I learned that strength is
something you choose
All of the reasons
To keep on believing
There’s no question
That's a lesson
I learned from you
~Miley Cyrus, I Learned From You

It was Saturday morning. Miley Cyrus, sixteen, lay asleep in her bed, a content smile on her beautiful face. Her chocolate orbs were covered by black bedroom eyelashes. Dark brown locks of her hair were scattered on the purple pillow like a halo — only different. But, however, she wasn’t alone. A pair of arms, covered by white sleeves connected to a white shirt, were around her waist, holding her tight. The owner stirred, then released Miley, yawning. Then a smooth mane of black hair appeared as a pair of chocolate eyes opened. They fell on Miley, and the corners of the owner’s mouth turned up into a smile.

“What time is it?”

The owner’s voice was deep. It was as though he was a smooth, charming speaker — which made sense, since he was.

Miley then stirred as she felt someone caressing her cheek. It took some seconds before her dark brown eyes were finally opened and she turned to see the clock.

“It’s 7:30 AM,” she replied.

She then turned as she said “Why do you ask?” — only to see a familiar-looking pair of chocolate orbs looking back at her. Suddenly her heart gave a leap as she recognized the person that was seemingly looking into her soul.

“You’re Michael Jackson,” she said.

He grinned in his trademark “big kid” way. “Of course. You’ve heard my songs and seen my short films.”

Miley took a moment to remember, and then smiled as it came back to her — Blood On the Dance Floor… Thriller… Ghosts…

“Oh, yeah — now I remember,” she replied.

Grinning, Michael chuckled, then rose from the bed and stretched his arms above his head before bending down and hunting for his clothes while Miley kept her eyes averted, knowing that there were things she wasn’t supposed to look at.

After a moment, Michael then said, “That’s good. Apparently you’ve listened to my music, which I know you like. Have you seen my music videos — which I like to call short films?”

Miley nodded as Michael put on his black pants before picking up his red shirt and putting it on. “Yes, I have. They’re very well-made, of course. And you do such a good job of dancing in them, too.”

Michael grinned bashfully as he buttoned his shirtsleeves. “Thanks, Miley. You know, your music is pretty neat, too.”

“Really?” asked Miley as she rose from the bed and reached for her shorts on the floor, picked them up and put them on, and then looked for her blue-and-white striped turtleneck, which she soon found on the floor a few feet away. As she pulled it on over her head, she hoped that things would be just fine for now, and that hopefully she had gotten over her writer’s block.

The last two weeks had been pure torture for Miley, as she had gotten struck with writer’s block at the worst possible time, when she was trying to write some new song lyrics for a new album. She had tried to make it go away by listening to her previous albums, and then taking a walk outside every now and then. But nothing worked.

Feeling worried for his daughter, and knowing exactly how she felt, since he too had often grappled with writer’s block — especially when recording his 1992 album Some Gave All — Billy Ray picked up his black cell phone and dialed the number of a famous musician he had been friends with for a long time.

The King of Pop was sitting at his desk in his office at Neverland Ranch writing some lyrics for a new song when his cell phone (which was lying on top of his desk) began ringing. He picked it up and answered. “Hello?”

“Michael?” said the voice of Billy Ray.

“Billy Ray!” said Michael cheerfully. “How’s it going, my friend?”

“Not good,” replied Billy Ray. “It’s my daughter Miley. She’s been suffering from a terrible case of writer’s block lately.”

Michael thought for a moment. “Well,” he finally said, “maybe I can help.”

“Really?” said Billy Ray cheerfully. “Thanks!”

“No problem, Billy Ray,” smiled Michael. After they worked out where they would meet, they said their goodbyes, and Michael, smiling, set his cell phone aside.

Michael then said, “You know, Miley, I think you’re a great singer, and you have a great voice.”

“Thanks,” replied Miley.

“And guess what? I know just how you feel — especially when it comes to writer’s block.”

“What?” said Miley.

“Oh, Michael, not you too,” said Billy Ray, who had just come into the room, having overheard the entire conversation.

“Yes,” said Michael, grinning bemusedly at the sight of the shocked expressions on their faces. “I also struggle with writer’s block — as I’m sure everyone who likes to write does.”

“Really?” asked Miley.

Michael nodded. “Yes. Even those writers for cartoons, TV sitcoms and movies also get writer’s block — especially when they get stuck on an idea, but don’t know how to write it down in details.”

Miley blinked and then smiled. Michael sure knew how to put things into words pretty well. After all, he had the gift of gab, a way with words, and a flowing tongue. Words would flow seamlessly and easily out of his mouth like water flowing down across rocks into a large river.

“Wow” was all she could think of to say as her dad left the room and closed the door, and Michael walked over to her, smiling.

“Yeah,” he nodded as he then reached over and tipped her chin up with his long, white fingers, causing her to look up at him. “And I’ll tell you something else, Miley. That song I Learned From You — did you dedicate it to me?”

Miley knew she had to be careful with her words — especially when talking to the King of Pop. So she took a chance and replied, “Yes, Michael. I did.”

Michael looked at her, and those beautiful, ocean eyes of hers weren’t lying one bit.

“Thanks,” he finally said, his lips curling up into his trademark big smile.

Then, with that, he leaned down, placed his hand under her chin and then placed his mouth over hers in a short but beautiful kiss. Miley was caught off-guard, but gave into the kiss anyway. She felt it was a good idea, of course.

Finally, when Michael pulled his mouth away, he then said, gently stroking her face, “Miley, you’re one of the coolest and most courageous people I’ve ever met in my life. Because of that, if you were accused of child molestation like I was back in 2003, you would fight for your life like I did, and you would win.”

Miley nodded. Being accused of sexually molesting a child was a terrible thing to experience. She knew that all too well after seeing the King of Pop on TV on November 20, 2003, as he was taken into the Santa Barbara County Sheriff’s Department in handcuffs to have a mugshot taken — one that she knew, as he did, was going to be shown around the world, instead of being kept private.

“I know,” she said. “If I was accused of molesting a child, I would fight with all I had.”

Michael smiled. “Smart young lady,” he replied. “You have a lovely smile. I like that.”

He gives another smile, tries to understand her side
To show that he cares
She can’t stay in the room
She’s consumed with everything that’s been goin’ on
She says

(Chorus)
Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand

Everything will be alright, he assures her
But she doesn’t hear a word that he says
Preoccupied, she’s afraid
Afraid that what they’re doing is not right
He doesn’t know what to say, so he prays
Whatever, whatever, whatever

(Chorus)
Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand
Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand
Whatever happens, don’t you let go of my hand

Don’t let go of my hand
Don’t let go of my hand

He’s working day and night, thinks he’ll make her happy
Forgetting all the dreams that he had
He doesn’t realize it’s not the end of the world
It doesn’t have to be that bad
She tries to explain, “It’s you that makes me happy,”
Whatever, whatever, whatever

(Chorus)
Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand
Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand
Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand
Whatever happens, don’t you let go of my hand

Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand
Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand
Whatever happens, don’t you let go of my hand
Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand
~Michael Jackson, Whatever Happens