ky.

You weren’t supposed to go. Frank, despite his tendency to overshare on the internet, was extremely private about his relationship with you. Technically, no one even knew you existed, and letting you tag along would mean you would be visible to thousands of people. You’d be a public figure whether you liked it or not. As someone who’s experienced the world’s attention, taking you on tour would feel a lot like leading a lamb to slaughter.

It turned into a fight—your first real fight as a couple ever. You’ve been together for 2 years, but you feel like he’s intentionally hiding you; maybe he’s embarrassed to be seen with someone so soon after his very public separation from his long time spouse. You know Frank is just trying to protect you, but being his secret doesn’t feel great.

The negotiation process is tedious; it’s a long night spent convincing him, going back and forth hearing each other out and considering the consequences. The conclusion: You knew what you were getting into when you started seeing each other. You’re aware of the microscope you’ll be under, but you care more about being there for him, and he can’t hide you forever.

It takes a couple weeks for Frank to get over himself. He’s insufferably angsty. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” “I just don’t want this to fuck us up.” You have to reassure him that it’ll be okay for a while, But when he finally comes around he’s excited to have you be a part of such an important aspect of his life.

Turns out you make an excellent travel companion. You fill in all the gaps that label management doesn’t. You got both boarding passes in your digital wallet, already checked in, and you know where his passport is when he doesn’t. You even have Advil in your purse for when he inevitably gets a headache. You’re 2 steps ahead of him, which he appreciates, because being in an airport at 3am makes him feel like he’s going insane.

Binge watching TV shows during plane rides and at various hotels. This round it’s The Sopranos. You get so into it that it becomes apart of the post show nightly ritual. Shower, room service, weed gummy, and The Sopranos in bed. Frank always falls asleep halfway through the episode. You fill him in on what he missed over terrible hotel coffee in the morning.

Tour management keeps an air tight schedule between cities. Everything is planned and executed with military precision; flights, accommodations, transportation, catering, rehearsals, sound checks, press junkets. It’s interesting for you to see the culmination of what Frank and the guys have been working towards—what it takes to put on a show of this scale. Frank loves when you ask questions. You love to hear him yap.

You become familiar with the crew—guitar techs, roadies, stage managers, assistants, etc. Some of them already know your name. They’re all happy to meet you. Frank must’ve told them about you.

For the first couple of shows, you watch the first half from the wings of the main stage, and live feed of B stage on a flatscreen in the green room. The internet was slowly catching onto your existence; Twitter threads about the mystery person Frank has been sneaking around with, blurry pictures of you getting in cars, standing off-stage during shows, wandering around various cities on his days off. It freaks Frank out, so you agree to lay low for a bit, just to ease his anxiety.

Frank lurking on social media, doom scrolling through twitter speculation. He was bothered by it at first, but now he thinks it’s kinda funny. Specifically, the pixilated 100x zoomed in pictures of you watching the show from the sidelines accompanied by unhinged theories and fan commentary. “Ha, oh man, they really got your ass. You’re like fuckin’ Bigfoot to them. Wait, what’s a ‘soft launch’?”

Contrary to what the internet speculates, you two aren’t fucking like rabbits. Touring is less glamorous than people think. It’s relentless; all tight schedules, meetings, and liminal spaces. Airports, hotel lobbies, mazes of stadium hallways. It’s all very unsexy. Sure you’re tired, but Frank is feeling very much like an exhausted 44 year old. When you do fuck, it’s slow and lazy. Usually Sleepy missionary in the morning, with your legs wrapped around his waist. There isn’t much said—you’re both still waking up—but you can feel how much he wants you in the way he presses his weight into you, big arms cradling the sides of your face while he rocks into you.

As the weeks go on, he fully stops giving a fuck about what strangers online are saying about him. You’re at a coffee shop in Stockholm on his day off—a pit stop before meeting up with one of his industry friends. You catch him taking a picture of you looking up at the menu from behind. Later that night, back at the hotel, he asks if he can post it to his story—no tag, just the picture. “I’m small launching.” You shrug and nod, not bothering to correct his butchered phrasing. You didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Internally, you’re geeked. Twitter has a field day. You both agree to avoid social media for a while.

He asks if you’re gonna come out to watch B stage on a whim after a sound check at Wembly. “Did I tell you Ray’s wife is flying in tonight? She’s gonna catch B stage if you want to go with her. She’s cool, you’ll like her.” He says it casually, chugging a water bottle in between sentences and fucking around with his in-ear piece.

You don’t go to every show. Sometimes you elect to stay at the hotel, or go out by yourself and explore wherever you are in the world. But whenever you tell Frank you’re gonna watch him play, He looks forward to it. He manages to hold it together during main stage ‘for the sake of theatre’, give or take a couple of sly glances and smiles. But once you started going to B stage—once he was comfortable with you being seen—he starts putting on a show. Just for you.

He’s mellowed out with age, but you get glimpses of his younger self sometimes. You think it’s sweet that, after 2 years, he still wants your attention; direct eye contact while he plays, intentionally obnoxious gum chewing, making stupid, overly suggestive faces just to make you crack a smile. “Oh I’m there baby” crooned into his mic, with a wink and a shit eating grin (cornball behavior smh), said to thousands, but he’s only looking at you.