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You never seemed to understand art all that well. You knew when something was pretty, at least to you, and you knew when something was unique. But you couldn't explain why a Picasso painting was iconic, or what made his art even good in the eyes of others. So you just stood staring at the strange face of mismatched shapes and colors.
Your high school had taken a school field trip to the museum in Washington DC. A bunch of schools from the South were there, but your friends were looking at the statues or war memorabilia. You were interested in that stuff of course, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the art pieces. History you could understand, enjoy even, but this didn't make any sense to you. You almost wished that by staring at it more you could gain some sort of secret understanding that you weren't privy to at first. But it never seemed to come to you.
"Pretty picture," a nasally voice said from behind you, and you turned to see a short boy from one of the other schools. He was muscular with large teeth and an eerie look in his eyes as he looked between you and the painting.
"I s'pose," you answered, looking back at the disfigured face on the wall.
The boy stepped forward so he was beside you. He was too close to you, you could feel the warmth of his body on your arm and you brought your hands to your lap to make yourself smaller. His hair was choppy and he licked his lips before he spoke again, "you're sure pretty."
You just swallowed, looking away. You did not want to give this boy the time of day. When you didn't say anything he scoffed, "ain't you gonna say anything back?"
"What should I say?" You snapped, finally looking at him.
"You should say thank you." He gestures to his mouth full of gawky teeth, "And you should smile, you look prettier when you smile."
You scowled, straightening your skirt and turning to leave the empty corridor. The boy reached for your arm, holding it tightly, "where you think you're goin?"
"Let me go," you said, trying to wrench your arm from his grasp but he wasn't budging. He had a glint in his eye, a glint of excitement.
"Jeremy says you got a good mouth on ya Y/N," the boy said, his grip still firm. Your eyes widened. You hadn't done anything with Jeremy, but he had cornered you one day asking for a blowjob and you spat in his face. You guess the memory never quite left him.
You stiffened under his touch, trying to pull away more. The boy didn't drag you to him but he didn't let you leave and your eyes began to look around nervously.
"Y/N! I've been looking for you everywhere." A deep voice said, echoing through the empty corridor. A handsome young man you didn't recognize came around the corner, reaching for you in a friendly manner.
The other boy dropped you, saying with a peeved expression, "Elvis."
The boy, Elvis, just shoved his hands in his pockets and looked at the other boy. He stepped close to you, but not to be creepy, he was trying to put his body in front of you. You let out a breath when you realized he was just trying to protect you.
"Whatcha doin?" Elvis asked, glancing back and forth between you and the boy.
"Just talking."
"Mm," Elvis nodded, looking at you directly. He pointed a thumb in his direction, "this bozo been 'talking' to you?"
"Careful who you call bozo, homo."
Elvis placed a hand over his heart, "I'm so sorry, you're right, you're no bozo. Y/N, is this jackass talking or is he stepping his foot somewhere he ain't wanted?"
"Why -"
"Let's get outta here," Elvis said, grasping your hand in his and pulling you around the corner and away from that other boy. When he and you finally stopped in front of a Walter Sickert painting, you let out a small laugh.
Elvis joined in, releasing your hand and smoothing his hair, "didya see his face?"
"He got so red!" You laughed.
After the moment passed you stared to look at him. He was handsome, a lot more handsome than you'd given him credit for. His hair was black and just a little long, curling at the ends. Whatever part of the South he was from gave him a beautiful tan that a collection of freckles seemed to peak out from under in various places, one on his left cheek. He was lean and tall, the oversized shirt tucked into black pants emphasizing how small his waist was. And his eyes - his eyes were a beautiful blue that sucked all breath from your lungs. Of course he seemed to have only the best lashes to match.
"Thank you," you said, looking down when you remembered staring at someone wasn't exactly the best way to go.
"Course." He said quickly, like it wasn't even something he needed to be thanked for. He stuck out his large hand, "I'm Elvis. I'm with the seniors from Memphis."
"Y/N. Seniors from Georgia." You thought for a moment, "though I suppose you already know that."
He nodded sheepishly, "I only know your name cause Dick said it earlier."
"Dick? His name's Richard?"
Elvis let out a breathy laugh and it was one you wished you could hear on loop, "mighty convenient, ain't it?"
You laughed too, nodding. Then your eyes strayed to the painting on the wall. It was morbid but it was beautiful. Elvis watched you look at it and you could feel the heat of his gaze on you.
"You're very kind," you say at last, looking up at him.
He blushed, "I haven't done anything anyone else wouldn't have done."
"I beg to differ, clearly Dick would have done differently."
Elvis paused, then lifted his hand like he'd had some epiphany, "You know you's -"
"Y/N!" One of your friends shouting, rounding the corner. The heels of her shoes slapped against the floor, she was out of breath and looked angry. "Come on! It's 3 o'clock, Mrs Roberts will kill you if we're late."
"Sorry, I gotta go." You ran down to meet her, before turning to look at him one more time. "It was nice meeting you Elvis."
———
It wouldn't be another two years before you saw Elvis Presley again, though of course you didn't know that he was Elvis Presley.
You'd happened to be on a trip with your friends in Shreveport, Louisiana. She was a die hard Hank Snow fan (for whatever reason it seemed) and practically begged you to come to the Louisiana Hayride with her. You knew she liked older men but Hank Snow hardly seemed like the type to go after, but you didn't judge. So you sat in your seat, bouncing your knee and listening as they introduced the next group.
The leader singer's name was Elvis Presley, and you chewed on it for a moment, trying to remember where you knew that name. Then the Elvis from the museum flashed in your mind, but you pushed it back down. That seemed like ages ago, and what were the chances that it was the same Elvis? Surely Elvis was a common enough name.
But then he stepped on stage. He looked girlish with the black kohl lining his blue eyes and the bright pink suit that looked just about two sizes too big. But you knew without a shadow of a doubt this was the same Elvis you met at the museum years ago. When he spoke, that confirmation grew inside your chest. He looked handsome. He'd gotten a little muscle, but he was still the lean and tall young man who had held your hand as you ran away from a creepy other boy. Would he even remember you?
Elvis Presley started to sing, and man could he sing. It was a little awkward at first, but in the blink of an eye he transformed on stage. His body moved violently with the song, shaking and thrusting with each beat. It was completely electrifying and you watched with amazement. Something about it was sexual and alluring, but you couldn't quite explain why. It just caused a spark inside your chest to flutter and, when he bit his lip for a second, it exploded. He became a superstar, completely unlike anything you'd ever seen.
You weren't the only woman who agreed. Nearly everyone who wore a skirt that night jumped at the sight of Elvis, totally enamored with this skinny Memphis boy. Woman clawed at him from the stage, managing to get his pink jacket off which revealed a sexy, black lace shirt. He gasped in surprised before the curtain closed and you thought, for just a moment, he might have seen you.
The rest of the night, your friends wanted to enjoy the carnival. You went through the confusing mirror funhouse, tasted all the cotton candy, and stared at the country on the Ferris wheel. It was fun, you didn't deny that, but it seemed that every man you saw with black hair made you do a double take, just to check to see if it was him. But it never was.
You'd driven yourself, so when your friends wanted to go home they lumped together in their carpool and said their sweet goodbyes. You wandered around, enjoying the noises and the smells. There wasn't anything you hadn't done, but you didn't necessarily want to call it a night. There was so much left to do.
You decided to go back into the theatre, just to see if they had anything else going on. You didn't really anticipate there to be anything, the last show had been Elvis and it would probably be complete darkness. But it wasn't.
When you went inside, your heels making soft clacks on the wooden floor, you saw a young man sitting on the edge of the stage with a guitar on his lap. He strummed out a few notes, then sang along in a low, sultry voice.
"Crawfish
Crawfish,"
You watched with wide eyes. Even with the dim lights of the theatre and the distance, you knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was Elvis Presley. And you prayed that he didn't notice you, that he simply sang what sounded like a beautiful tune so you could enjoy it.
"Well I went to the bayou just last night
There was no moon but the stars were bright,
Put a big long hook on a big long pole
And I pulled Mr. Crawfish out of his hole.
Crawfish -"
It was deep and sensual, and the darkness of the room seemed to only add to the sound. Maybe it was his singing, or the flash of memories past, but you stepped closer. You wanted to be closer to the music. But Elvis heard you, and he stopped plucking the strings. He looked up into the vast darkness, saying "who's there?"
You came closer, apologetic over potentially scaring him. His body relaxed when he realized it was you and not somebody who might be trying to hurt him. But you saw him look at you, rack his brain over that flick of recognition.
"Do I know you?"
"1953... Museum in DC."
He snapped his fingers, "Y/N! Right, Dick was bothering you."
You nodded, "I'm impressed you remember."
"I don't think I could forget someone like you."
You blushed, staring down at your feet. His gaze never left from you, he watched you with intent, eager eyes like you were about to say some hidden secret he'd been dying to know. Eventually you just blurted out, "you did marvelous today."
"Thank you," he replied, smiling softly. Elvis seemed to have a habit of pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth when he was thinking, and you tried to not focus on that detail in the dim lights of the theatre.
"I should go." You said, because you didn't know what else to say.
He nodded, but when you went to turn away he asked, "Would you like to... share a Pepsi?"
"I'd like that," you said quickly, turning back around to see Elvis hop off the stage and join you. He'd left his guitar up there and he said he'd get it later. Once again, for the second time in two years, Elvis's body was close to you. The warmth of his skin radiating off of yours as he walked by you towards the little stand that sold sodas. He was so so handsome. But not in the way you usually found attractive, there was something entirely different about him. You couldn't explain it, there was just a magnetism to everything he did. And when he handed you the Pepsi with a little white straw sticking out, his tanned arm flexed just a little under the moon light. You gulped down some of the liquid.
"You wanna try that?" Elvis asked, gesturing to the Ferris wheel. You nodded along, walking towards it despite having already ridden it. You didn't know what to say to him, you were being excruciatingly awkward, but you didn't want to stop seeing him. So you slid onto the little cart with the ice cold Pepsi, looking at him as he sprawled in his seat.
"I didn't know you could sing like that," you finally said, offering him the drink.
He took it, taking a swig, "I love music."
"Me too."
"What do you like?"
"Just about anything, it can be beautiful if it's done right," you shrugged. Elvis grinned at that, nodding as he drank more of the Pepsi.
"My mama bought one of them paintings a while back, well one of the copies," Elvis started, "every-time I look at it I keep wondering why I see a girl. Now I remember."
You took a shaky breath, "was it a Walter Sickert?"
"Smart girl," he said with a smirk. "I always see it and I imagine this pretty girl and I couldn't explain it. But it's you, from that silly museum."
"You think I'm pretty?" You asked with wide eyes, surprised at his boldness and feeling the blush take over your cheeks.
"Oh, doll, you're one of the prettiest girls I've seen."
You looked at your lap, messing with your fingers to try and contain the excitement that spread throughout you. "You're one of the most handsome men I've ever seen."
He smiled back at you, his arm resting on the back of the seat as he stared. The moon light bounced off his tan skin and you looked at the little freckles dotting his neck.
"I haven't forgotten you Elvis," you say softly. "I think about that day a lot."
"Me too," he said, leaning in towards you.
"I hope you know that you are about to become America's next sensation, Mr Presley," you say with a small smile on your lips. "I ain't ever seen anyone perform the way you did."
"I don't know if that's a good thing."
"I'm willing to bet money that it is."
His eyebrow raised, "how much?"
"A pink Cadillac," you answer, putting your chin in the palm of your hand as you looked at him. "Just like that song of yours."
"Okay," he said with a white grin, one corner of his mouth raised. You saw his eyes flicker down to your lips, and when the Ferris wheel came to a halt at the top, you felt a surge of confidence you didn't normally possess. So you leaned in to him.
"What are you thinking about?"
"I'm just daydreaming," he said.
"I think if you can dream it you can do it, baby."
"That so?"
You nod, and after a pause you said, "and I think you should kiss me, before you regret it when you get all famous."
Elvis licked his lips, giving you a small smile like he was just a little taken aback but what you said. But he did as you commanded. His hand came to hold onto your face gingerly, thumb grazing along your cheek as he pulled you closer. Then his plump lips took yours, sweetly kissing you. It wasn't pushing anything, it wasn't fast or full of passion the way some books write it, but it was everything. You felt yourself sigh happily into the kiss, relishing in the feeling of his lips. Then he parted from you, leaning his forehead on yours with a happy noise. The Ferris wheel started to move again and Elvis sat back, but held your hand still in his.
———
Your work as a seamstress was limited, but you understood costumes and styling like no one's business. Even if you couldn't sew as well as your coworkers, your designs were unparalleled. But the work itself typically wasn't too complicated, and you could often bring it in the comfort of your living room then take it back to set to help the actors get it on. You loved your job and you were getting better every day.
The director of this current movie you were working on, Norman, with 'Live a Little, Love a Little' was an old friend of yours, and practically ran into your apartment upon discovering that he got to direct at least one more Elvis Presley movie. You'd seen him direct almost all of them but Elvis's interest had started to decline and Norman feared he wouldn't have another. But he did, and he asked you if you wanted to help with costuming. You were a little nervous at first. It had been years since you'd last seen Elvis at that fair ground where he kissed you on the Ferris wheel and your lives had changed drastically. You were designing costumes and he was swooning half of America. But you couldn't say no.
Norman sent a script over to your apartment and you started to plan out the outfits for the three main characters. The extras needed to have strong clothing but nothing that was too eye catching because the focus of this film was Elvis. They always were. The measurements were sent over to your house and your assistant came to help sew the material.
Two months later and you had the basics for most of his costumes, needing him to then try them on before sewing the final product. You walked onto set with the rack of clothes, looking around for Norman.
"Y/N!" Norman exclaimed upon seeing you, grasping you in a tight embrace before looking over the costumes. "Oh how marvelous!"
"These are just the basic costumes, of course. I just need to make sure I have Mr Presley's measurements correctly and they fit him properly. Then we will work on the finished product."
"Ever the expert," he said, holding your hand in his. "Say, I must introduce you to him! He's the most interesting of characters."
"Oh -"
"Norman," a familiar deep Southern voice said from behind you, and your friends face completely lit up. The two of you turned to see the man himself. His hair was still jet black, slicked on his head. He wore a green turtleneck and black pants, and his skin was still beautifully tan. He'd gained some weight in these past years, though you suppose you had as well. It suited him, his shoulders were broader and his arms thicker. Stronger.
"Elvis! So glad you're here, this is my costume designer a Miss Y/N L/N."
You didn't have to wonder if Elvis recognized you because he smiled widely and said, "why yes, we've met before. The Louisiana Hayride?"
"Y-yes," you said, a little stunned that the Elvis Presley remembered your small evening of shared kisses together. He didn't comment on that part of it, at least not with Norman, but he seemed pleased to see you.
"How've you been?" He asked, putting his hands on his hips as he stared at you in astonishment.
"Good, real good."
Norman kept looking between the two of you in apparent shock, but he didn't say what you could tell was on his mind. Instead he guided the two of you to the office where the assistant had taken the clothes, telling Elvis to put on the blue suit first.
When the two of you were alone, Elvis finally said something, "you look good. Damn good."
"You look better."
He shook his head with a little laugh, "if I remember correctly, I owe you somethin right? You predicated all this."
"Don't know about all this but, I definitely knew you were going to be huge. You have one hell of a voice, Mr Presley."
His eyes stayed on you, looking over your face with a small smile on his face. Like he knew some secret you didn't. He was so handsome and so kind, you had to remind yourself to breathe. It's like his very presence sucked the air right out of your soul.
You went on the rest of the day with a little more familiarity, sliding into easy conversation with him. You spoke about his movies, his time in the war, Priscilla and baby Lisa Marie. That small part of your chest pulled when he talked about his wife, but you knew that was entirely irrational. He and you barely knew one another, to be jealous was stupid.
Then you cleaned up your things with your notes on the costumes, preparing to fix the trousers and all the tiny things.
Elvis gave you a warm kiss on the cheek, "I am so happy to see you."
"Me too."
"I think about you often. That night was fun."
The same swelling of your heart intensified, "I think about it too."
Elvis didn't say anything else, just nodded and made to move away from you. Then he turned, like he'd remembered something, but just waved goodbye. You waved back.
The next morning, the keys to a Pink Cadillac were dropped off at your apartment. A little note signed 'EP' as your only indicator.
———
After that first meeting, or reacquainting, with Elvis back in 1968, you never dropped contact. It wasn't like the past two times where there was a fleeting moment followed by radio silence. You were involved in his life, you were his friend above all things.
So a call at 7am your time when it was 10am in Memphis wasn't out of the ordinary, and you answered to hear the voice cracks of a very broken man.
"She left me," he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. You could practically imagine his face red with tears, and your own heart broke to heart it.
"Oh baby."
"She don't love me no more," he sobbed quietly into the phone.
"I'm so sorry," you said.
He hiccuped, "She took Lisa Marie."
"Oh EP, baby," you didn't know what to say. What does one say to that? How do you comfort your friend for years over something so devastating? You wanted to hug him, to hold him, to remind him that he was loved by so many. He was loved by you. But that wouldn't make it better, it wasn't what he needed right now. You looked at your schedule, last night was the last night for the movie you'd been working on. So you told Elvis, "I'll be there tonight."
"What?"
"Give me some time to pack and buy a ticket, but I'm coming baby."
He sobbed into the phone and his voice was barely audible, "thank you."
You got there by 9pm. You were tired, having spent two hours in Denver only to almost miss the flight to Memphis but you made it all the same. The carryon was the only thing you packed and you lugged it up the steps of Graceland. Your hand was still lifted to knock when the door swung open.
Elvis looked a mess. His hair was sticking in just about every direction, his skin was pale and blotchy, his blue eyes puffy from crying. The red robe he wore hung loose on his frame like he'd forgotten it existed, and his chest took deep, uneven breaths.
He practically fell into your offered arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he sobbed. You stood there for minutes, simply holding Elvis as the tears flowed freely. You didn't judge him for a second, how could you?
Eventually you went inside, leaving your carryon by the steps and sitting on the living room couch with Elvis. His head was in your lap and he clutched his abdomen tightly.
"I ain't ever gonna recover baby," he said, tears hitting your pants but you didn't mind.
You put your hand through his hair and gingerly scratched his scalp with your nails. He loved the feeling and you knew it. "It's going to be okay. It doesn't feel like it, but it will."
He didn't say anything else, just cried softly and wiped at his nose with the tissues you offered. Eventually he fell asleep with his head still on your lap, and you didn't have the heart to move him. So you leaned your head back and closed your eyes, feeling his deep breaths against yours and falling asleep. He wouldn't know this, but he was your everything. He was your best friend and he was starting to become your love, so you would help him recover over anything. Elvis had his issues, but you never wanted him to feel this type of pain.
———
It was a few months later and you'd taken to staying at Graceland. Elvis had asked you to move in, as his friend, to help him cope and such. You couldn't say no to him and his blue eyes. So you stayed, getting accustomed to working from Memphis and sending over your sketches to your studio still in LA.
One late night you were reading on the sofa, legs stretched out before you as the warm fireplace roared. Elvis came in and you paid him no mind, figuring he was just going to grab something. But he didn't. Elvis stood in the arch way and stared at you for several moments before you finally put your book down and looked at him.
He was drunk, his eyes bloodshot and his body leaning to one side. But his plump lips started, sputtering a bit before saying what he'd been trying to say, "I think I'm in love with you."
Immediately you set your book down, body stiffening at his words. You wanted to believe it, God you wanted nothing more than to believe it. But he was drunk and he was still painfully hurt from Priscilla leaving him. This was nonsense, it had to be.
Elvis pressed forward when you didn't answer right away, "I know I seem right crazy. But, but you always been there. I think bout them nights with you all the time."
He stumbled, arm catching himself on the archway. You got up off the couch, going to help him up the stairs. He wouldn't stop talking, mentioning how often he thinks about the Ferris wheel or how you tasted of Pepsi. He said he loves the scent of your shampoo and seeing you in his home makes him happy.
Eventually you stopped him, tears in your eyes as you said firmly, "Elvis you're drunk. You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know damn well what I'm talking about!" He stamped his foot like a child.
You swiped at a tear which fell down your face, "I think it'd be best if you went to bed."
He stared at you for what felt like minutes before he tramped upstairs, slamming the door to his bedroom closed. You fell to your knees on the steps, putting a hand over your mouth to stop the cries from becoming loud sobs. It hurt. You loved him so much, you loved him more than any person should ever love another and it broke you to hear him rumble about things that couldn't possibly be true. So you pulled your knees to your chest, leaned on the railing and cried until there were no more tears left.
You didn't speak to Elvis at all the next day. You had errands to do, and frankly you wanted to ignore him. But the day after that, you woke up to a gentle knocking on your bedroom door. Elvis came in, dressed handsomely in a magenta suit. He didn't step fully inside, just leaned on the doorframe.
"Hi."
"Hi," you answered, still mentally exhausted.
"I didn't see you last night."
You got out of bed, pulling your nightgown down from when it had ridden up your thighs. You knew his gaze immediately went to the exposed skin and you tried to ignore it, "I had things to do."
A pause.
"I didn't lie."
There it was again, that complete soul sucking moment with him when you felt as though all the oxygen in your body vanished.
"I didn't lie, Y/N. I'm in love with you," Elvis said, more firmly this time. His voice cracked, "that's - that's part of what drove Priscilla away."
"Don't lie," you said softly.
Elvis shook his head vehemently, "never. Never to you."
"Friends don't lie, Elvis."
"I'm not lying. I love you. I'm in love with you."
The tears came faster than you'd expected, falling down your cheeks quicker than you could wipe them away. Elvis came to you, holding your face in his hands.
"I'm sorry I've been so gone for so long. I have been blind for years."
You nodded, reaching to hold his hands, needing to feel him.
"I was willing to wait."
"Thank you," he leaned in and kissed you. "Time can do so much, I'm so sorry. I'm here, I'm home, I'm exactly where I need to be. Thank you for waiting for me."
You kissed him the way you've been wanting to kiss him, the way you've dreamed and craved of kissing him. The memory of the Louisiana Hayride played in the back but this was different, this was more mature. That feeling of uncertainty was gone, but the nerves still fluttered around in your chest rapidly.
He was everything.
——— August 16th, 1977.
When you heard the news, it didn't seem real. You prayed it wasn't real. Your car couldn't take you fast enough to the hospital and the doctors words seemed the farthest thing from English.
You broke down, falling to your knees and clutching your chest tightly. A few months after that kiss in 1973, he'd given you his ring to wear around your neck. Right now, that ring was your anchor and you clung it. There couldn't be a world without Elvis, that seemed completely ridiculous. Yet, you were faced with the reality that the love of your life was gone.
The doctor let you and other family members come into the room. He laid on the bed with his eyes closed, lips parted like he was about to crack some joke. But he wasn't. He never would again. When you reached for his hand, it was cold to the touch. You screamed. This couldn't be reality, this couldn't be real. Your heart pulled in your chest and you just knew that it had died with Elvis.
You thought back to that kiss, to your moments with him, to his final performance.
"Lonely rivers flow
To the sea, to the sea
To the open arms of the sea, yeah
Lonely rivers sigh
'Wait for me, wait for me'
I'll be coming home, wait for me..."
You wept.