𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸

𝗙𝗶𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 | 𝗔𝗻 𝗔𝘀𝗸*

𝙎𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙩𝙤𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙚𝙧, Mallorie always loved spring. She loved Arkansas's spring. There was the skin-prickling passion of the sun that was happy to be freed from the harshness of winter, the loamy scent of water being drawn from the freshly-dug soil and surrounding ponds, and her favorite: the colorful arrival of young tulips.

But Australia's spring was much different than the ones she had treasured in her birth state and the ones she grew up with in New York, visually and by experience. On the flight to Melbourne and the commute to Sydney, they had passed a number of gorgeous plains of wildflowers in their bloom and the incandescent sun. During New York's spring season, the city would still be defrosting and long coats could still be worn in practicality. In Arkansas, spring was a test for all walks of life. The season would bring about every quality of weather; from snow, to wind, to thunderstorms and rain. But Mallorie remembered her mother's prized garden somehow always surviving, even in the harshest of elements. It was a testament to her parents' green thumbs and her mother's sagely advice.

"You gotta pull the weeds before you plant the seeds, even if a storm comes around, so when the sun shines again, you'll have all your pretty flowers."

Mallorie smiled plaintively at the memory. Experience had taught her that transitions were never easy, especially when they were cross-country or international, and she didn't think that the Oceania leg of the tour would be a cakewalk by any means. However, she sorely discovered that she had mismanaged her expectations. Those promises that Michael had made of spending more time together, of sharing a suite were fulfilled, but their fulfillment was nothing she could have imagined.

The first rehearsals in Australia seemed to set the tone for the entire start of the tour's leg, if the drearily quiet flight to the country and the tiredness that penetrated her bones hadn't already. Then a dissemination of everyone's combined exhaustion took place. Stage parts were defunct or inoperable due to Olympic Park's stadium design. There was an impromptu scramble for new instruments when one of their luggage chests was misplaced at the airport. Worst of all, Michael had come down with something, which shortened his opening show in Melbourne from the full hour and a half to just shy of fifty minutes, and left him canceling the second.

And so began the past week. Grueling yet insightful. Being in close quarters with Michael was already set to teach Mallorie a thing or two about him that she hadn't learned already, but the mishaps of the tour thus far made every lesson a degree more difficult than they ought to have been. When Michael was stressed, he became closed-off and distant. The talkative, spirited man that she was doting over had become the stony, soft-spoken caricature of himself that he'd show in interviews. The bed he promised to share with her was frequently empty on his side, leaving her to doubt their relationship and fret about his health—things she couldn't seem to stop doing for even a second of reprieve.

All those worries inflicted her now, and as she gazed out at the stage where Michael was rehearsing, she wondered if her heart and mind would revel in the little joys of touring ever again. The sun was no longer a delightful proponent of her favorite season, but instead a threat of melanoma or malar rash to his hypersensitive skin. His music had stopped being their iconic, electrifying compositions and transformed into a droning soundtrack of his arduous rehearsals. And she wasn't the only one suffering the tour's consequences. In just a week of the tour's start, his frame had shrunken from the healthy, fairly thicker size it took on during the break back to the alarmingly slender condition it was in when she had first met him. It pained her to think that either of them would have to endure the current conditions for over an entire year longer.

"Got your voicemail," Frank DiLeo's rumbling voice cut through her thoughts. "You wanted t' talk to me?"

Mallorie turned her head to face him. Upliftingly, his tone carried a more pleasant, non-threatening quality compared to the last time they spoke. Or more like came to blows. And there was no edge to his expression. She had no doubt that it was because seeing Michael had gotten over his cold put him at ease, and he didn't have a reason to be at odds with her now that her relationship with Michael had been disclosed. At least, she hoped so.