𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

DISTANCE

PORT OF SPAIN, TRINIDAD,
LATE FEBRUARY 1978

Days tended to blur together when you were on tour.

Michael liked it that way.

There was no time to reminisce about days gone by when you were preoccupied with rehearsing, and there was little cause for frustration or anxiety when you were on your way to a venue to perform a song or dance routine you had done so many times before that you could practically do it in your sleep. The meet-and-greets, the nights on stage, and the rush of adrenaline that followed created a comfortable space that, at times, not even reality could touch.

Until it did. And when it did, it consumed you. Like snow against the sun or the billow of an open flame.

He had lost count of how many times it had happened. Whether it was during an intermission or late at night when his dreams roused him from his sleep, the universe always found a way of reminding him of the things he'd left behind.

The Wiz, New York City, Sutton Place. Studio 54 and Astoria Studios.

And Diana.

It was hard to think about. She was hard to think about. But it was that pain, that disappointment, that fueled whatever drive he had to perform. That fueled the melodies that danced on his tongue and the lyrics that found their way onto the pages of his notepad.

When you were busy being consumed by fire, finding your equilibrium was difficult. But he tried it anyway, slowly following the lines in his notepad as the sound of laughter and music flowed around him like a stream.

"Mike, could you grab us some ice?"

He straightened in his chair, letting the notepad in his lap slide along the cusps of his knees.

From across the room, Jackie was staring at him, holding out an empty, metal pail.

Michael's brows pinched. "Why do I have to do it?"

"Because you're the only one sitting over there like a bump on a log while everyone else is entertaining our guests!"

Yes, how had he forgotten? Their guests were a group of five girls that with the help of security, had been invited backstage. His brothers had found them to be good looking so all five had been whisked off to Jackie and Tito's hotel suite. One of them, round-faced, small, and easy to laughter, sat in Jackie's lap, her hand perched on his chest as she stared at him adoringly. Before he had a chance to react, Michael averted his eyes, focusing on the outdated prints along the wall.

Luckily for Jackie, he was good at keeping secrets. Joseph had made sure of that.

Jackie tossed the pail in Michael's direction. Despite his complaints, Michael leaned forward and caught it, sending his notepad toppling to the floor.

"Fine," Michael said flatly, "But next time, I'm not doing it."

Before Jackie could offer a retort of his own, Michael had already swiped up his notepad and stepped out into the hallway. As the door closed behind him, the music trickling in from the hotel room faded. With his notepad in one hand and the pail in the other, he trudged toward the sparsely furnished nook that held the ice machine.

Unfortunately, they'd booked rooms on the floor with the ricketiest ice maker. Against Bill's wishes, Marlon and Randy had made a habit of running to the floor above or below to grab ice. Michael personally didn't mind waiting. Long nights of performing aside, he was hardly ever in a rush to return to his quiet hotel room. The sound of ice falling into the bucket was also oddly calming.