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Life with Elvis Presley was just that: life. Already in the first few months of accompanying him on a four-day-turned-four-month tour, you had been to more towns and cities, and seen more states than you thought humanly possible. You had sightseen and journeyed in and out of all of them learning new bits and pieces of places away from home. For the first time in your life, you were truly beginning to live. Every stop you found yourself snagging souvenirs and knick knacks to remind you of every place you’d “lived” to decorate your room with once you returned.
And better still, you had been able to do all of it with EP by your side (well, and his entourage to ward of the flocks of screaming girls). Being able to experience so many things previously not afforded to you was more than you could have ever hoped to gain from life, with or without your relationship with Elvis (even if it was being kept secret to maintain his image of “availability”).
However, the longer you spent on the road with Elvis, the more you realized you may not be cutout to be the girl of a rockstar, that you may be fighting a losing battle.
In the beginning things were great between the two of you. You were always there to help Elvis prepare for a performance with y’all’s pre-show rituals: either quietly singing his favorite gospel songs with him, or making sure he was watered, fed, and properly clothed (even though he inevitably has some missing articles after his show), or just embracing him and whispering how great he was gonna do and how God-given his talent and his ability to entertain any crowd was. Dutifully you watched from side stage every performance as he sang and moved and gave his all, and excitedly embraced him, sweat and all, after each one was done. Afterwards, if you didn’t find some new club or diner to chat in ‘til all hours of the morning, the two of you returned to Elvis’ room and either held each other and reviewed the show or spent all night rocking each other’s worlds.
In the beginning, the swarms of crazed fans all vying to get ahold of the Elvis Presley didn’t faze you. If anything, it only made you worry sick for his safety. You got it; you can remember the first time you’d heard his soulful voice come across the airwaves. You knew in that moment that this man’s records would adorn your turntable anytime a new one dropped. And it didn’t help that Elvis wasn’t exactly the worst thing to gaze upon. That, coupled with the sweetest southern drawl you’d ever had the pleasure of hearing, and the most respectful manners, was a dangerous mixology that could breed the most feral of any crowd of women.
But now…You weren’t so sure.
Slowly but surely, you could see a shift happen in Elvis. After every performance you could see this confidence begin to build in him. Nothing was wrong with that, in fact you welcomed and encouraged it. If he gained nothing else from this experience, you could rest peacefully knowing that this opportunity forever changed and released that small, skinny boy from dirt poor Tupelo, Mississippi; and even if he lost everything else, he would never lose the self confidence that knowing the power he held on stage over a crowd gave him.
But that confidence fed an ugly monster that no one expected: subservient obligation.
Soon, nothing but what Elvis could do to repay his fans and keep them happy and coming back mattered, even though it was abundantly clear that Elvis could sneeze to a crowd, and they would lose their minds. And while you found his gratitude endearing at first, it quickly morphed into upsetting. It started with the rituals. You could barely keep the man stood still to make final adjustments to his outfits and makeup, let alone get through any gospel song or even utter a word of encouragement. He was chomping at the bit before each show, head peeking enthusiastically through a slit in the curtain every five seconds to catch each fresh wave of ecstatic fans hit whatever concert hall you were in at the time. What started as attempts to disrobe him soon turned into successful chances to undress themselves, as fans had no problems throwing worn underthings unto the stage at Elvis’ feet. You still vividly remember the shudder that racked your frame when he casually dangled a pair from the tip of his unoccupied hand during one show.
Now once he was finished singing and gyrating and performing, he stayed on stage long after the curtain dropped, head thrown back, eyes closed, and punch-drunk smile on his face as he listened to the resounding screams and hollers, and chants of “Encore! Encore!”. And when he had had his fill, he sauntered off stage, pressed a quick, closed lip kiss to the top of your head and rushed to his dressing room to hurriedly change, clamoring to meet the fans waiting outside to sign hundreds of journals and shake hundreds of hands. Sometimes you’d be waiting around for him to finish for hours, many of your after-show nights spent helping the custodians clean up the concert hall of all the trash, food, and disturbingly large number of women’s underwear while Elvis paid every adorning fan the attention he thought they deserved.
Eventually, he began taking so long with his fans that you just started coming in a separate vehicle from him so you could just leave right after he was done performing to go back to your shared hotel room and wait for him there. He would come in late at night (or early morning, rather) with a goofy smile on his lips, still reeling from his show and the interactions with the crowd during and after. Too beside himself with stardom, many nights he would come in, shower, and immediately crawl into bed beside you. The two of you would briefly ask about each other’s nights, your answer always the same, and his ever changing, and then he would peck your lips, kill the lights, and you both would settle into silence before drifting off to sleep. After the first three nights of this new ritual, you made sure to be asleep by the time he returned, or faking well enough that when he did, he didn’t even bother trying to disturb you.
It took about three weeks of this behavior to really make you question yours and Elvis’ relationship. That’s why you found yourself sitting at the piano on the stage of this night’s performance. You didn’t want to do your thinking about where your future and place in Elvis’ life stood, or whether you still even wanted to have one, while you were enveloped in his scent or surrounded by your knick knacks that were quickly losing their sweet connotation. So that’s where you’d sat after everyone had vacated the building. The custodians that had been silently cleaning and sweeping had long gone, leaving you to stare out absent mindedly at the empty concert hall and fiddle with stray piano keys here and there.
When your fingers strike a certain chord, you pause. It sounded familiar, but you couldn’t bring anything to mind right away. Your finger replicate the sound a few more times before a certain part of a song you can’t quite hear yet pings in your mind. You shift down to the left by a few keys and adjust a few fingers on each hand and attempt the notes again. This time the accompanying tune that sounds from the piano reminds you exactly of what song you were thinking about.
You remember the first time you’d heard the song it was in passing. You and your friends had been walking to the soda shop one warm summer afternoon when you heard the most woeful lyrics drift out of a record shop. Not wanting to stray from your original plans (and also not wanting to hear your friends gripe about your obsession with music), you’d made a mental note of the store and what lyrics you’d heard so you could return back later to ask the clerk what song it was and buy it.
When you’d finally returned home, new record in tow, you closed yourself up in your room and played through the entirety of the song. You couldn’t help the tears that gathered and fell for the first two plays, and you found yourself wondering what the artist had been through to inspire such a heartbreaking lament of soul crushing devotion. You knew what ever they had experienced, you hoped one day you would get to experience a love, good or bad, great enough to inspire a song as amazing as that one. You wanted to feel love in its entirety because you’d always felt, very much like the world, like you hadn’t felt enough, would never feel enough. Now you wish you had sworn off love the moment you learned it could illicit such sorrowing emotions.
So when your fingers begin to play the song you’d learned by heart all those years ago on their own volition, you just provide the vocals.
Up in your room once again, tempted
Bad for me, it’s the truth, but I can’t miss this…
You allow your eyes to fall shut as the chorus’ meaning hits you as you sing it.
Waiting for you, even how you treat me
You’re my baby, even when you leave me
Maybe I’m the one to blame
Maybe I’m the cause of the pain…
Maybe I’m the problem and the one that’s causing all of this
You shudder at the raw emotion you can hear in your own voice. You’re so caught up in your own performance that you don’t hear the loud click of the exit door shutting.
I can’t say I love you no more
‘Cuz my friends gon’ judge me for sure
It took some time, but I realized,
You do me wrong, but it feels right…
Feels like I’m stuck on you
Your fingers continue to tickle the keys as your body lazily sways to and fro, the only thing keeping you grounded are the lyrics flowing effortlessly from your mouth.
Trust me, I do understand, this is
Bad for me, I’m fool, but I can’t end this
Far from love, but I’m stuck
You fall airily off that soprano note to suck in a breath and belt the next lyrics, feeling the words resonate so deep you can feel them brand into your bone marrow. You’re still none the wiser to the presence in the room that has now made its way to the middle seat of the middle row in the middle section to sit and speculate your one-woman show.
Staying while you kiss me, saying that you
Miss me, hate it when you tempt me
This time when you reach the chorus, you can feel the hot tears welling in your clenched shut eyes and the painful lump forming in your throat threatening to rob you of your voice.
I can’t say I love you no more
‘Cuz my friends gon’ judge me for sure
It took some time, but I realized,
You do me wrong, but it feels right…
Feels like I’m stuck on you
You let the last chord ring out through the empty hall, eyes still cemented shut. You unceremoniously slump forward on the piano, a dissonance of chords playing at the impact of your crossed arms cradling your tear-streaked face falling upon them. Soft whimpers fall out of your mouth and tears from your eyes as you let the reality of your situation sink in. You were unconditionally in love with Elvis, and right now he was in no position to reciprocate it. Worse than that, you’d shamefully come to accept that you would pathetically take any shape, form, or fashion of that man if it meant you never had to lose him. Your head snaps up at the sound of heavy footfall walking across the wooden floor of the stage, and you’re met with the eyes of the very inspiration for your song therapy. The King himself.
Your mouth kind of fishes open and shut as you wipe your cheeks and go to try and explain yourself, explain that even if that’s really how you felt, you’d gladly feel it to the day you died if it meant you’d always be his. Even if he wasn’t yours, and never had been. Or ever would be. He beats you to the punch.
“You’ve always had such a beautiful voice, (Y/N),” even now, his deep southern drawl caresses your ears and mind and soothes the aching parts of your heart. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, he just gently glides his hand over the edge of the black grand piano lid, a look of confused deep thought plastered on his face. Your jaw snaps shut as your eyebrows furrow in confusion. You aren’t sure how much of the song he heard, but it wasn’t hard to catch the gist of what it’s about, and all he had to comment on was your voice that had sung hundreds a song with him. You stay silent and burn holes into the keys of the piano, waiting to see if he speaks again. You figured you’d done enough speaking, or singing
“Never did I think it could sing something so terribly sad. And never something so sad that was about me.”
You snap your head up when he says this, a fresh wave of tears hitting your eyes. Again, you go to explain yourself, and tell him that you’ll feel anything as long as it’s him making you feel it, but like before, you flounder like you’ve never even seen the English language, let alone speak it. You’re going to sing away the love of your life because you’re suddenly too dumb to function.
“But I-I reckon the bigger problem here s’that I eva made you feel like you were a problem in the first place. That I let the best thing that eva happened to me feel like she wat’n good enough.” Elvis looks down sheepishly as he says this, not meeting your eye.
The tears that threatened to fall do, and before you can think about it, you’re up and around to where he stood. You reach for him but are unsure if you should, so you just step close enough that you can just barely see the blue of his eyes under his dark, thick lashes. You think you’re capable of forming a coherent sentence, so you take a deep breath and speak.
“Oh, Elvis, baby, no. No, you never, ever made me feel like I was a problem, and it wasn’t that I felt like I wasn’t good enough. I just felt like I couldn’t compete,” you say quietly, your hands nervously wringing and twitching. Elvis pulls his head back slightly to give you a confused look. It was the first time you’d made eye contact with him, and even through his look of bewilderment you could see the hurt in his eyes.
“With who, darlin’?”
The fact he thinks it one singular person, and that he can’t think of that any one person, or further still that you thought there was anyone who could compete against you, showed you that Elvis doesn’t understand the full effect of how he shows his graciousness towards his fans. You almost don’t want to tell him the truth, that you’re terrified that your love for him could never amount to anything compared to the love his fans have for him. Instead, you want to lie and say it’s his career, all the shows, the traveling day in and day out, being home sick, anything but the one thing that blossomed that shy scrawny boy from Tupelo and Memphis into the beautiful specimen of a man stood in front of you right now. But you hate lying to Elvis, so now that he's asked you out right, you feel obligated to provide the truth. Anything less is a slap in the face to both of you.
“Your fans,” you whisper. Now it’s your turn to sheepishly look down and wait for the explosion. But it never comes. Instead, Elvis steps even closer to you, eliminating the remaining space between the two of you. He brings both of his large hands, fingers calloused from years of plucking strings, up to cradle either side of your face. At first, he just holds you there, striking blue eyes flickering back and forth between yours. The sadness that still remains in them scares you a little, so you bring your hands up to grip his wrists to ground yourself for the inevitable break up that must be brewing behind his lips. You almost sob in relief when he moves in to slot his plump lips over yours.
He kisses you so gently, and so sweetly, that you relax completely into his hold, your head falling back further on your shoulder as he presses his mouth more firmly to yours. This kiss isn’t urgent, or angry, or even sad. This kiss is simply an answer, a refute, a reassurance. When he pulls away just enough to break the kiss and tenderly strokes from your temple to your jaw, you draw in a shuddering breath and open your eyes to find Elvis already gazing at you.
“I been neglectin’ my girl, haven’t I? I got so caught up in this snow biz that I almost lost sight of my bestest, prettiest snowflake.” You don’t answer him, you just nuzzle your hand further into his palm, turning your head to gently kiss the palm of the other one. In response, he removes his hands from your face and envelopes you in his arms instead, and you in turn snake your arms around his narrow waist.
“ I-I’m awfully sorry I did you like that, (Y/N). After all you’ve done with me and for me. You been there every step of the way, helped me realize every dream I was capable of makin’ come true…all’f’it. I’m a damn fool for ever losin’ sight of it all.”
He moves you in his hold to stand more to one side so he can get a good look at you when he speaks again.
“If you’ll still have me, I won’t never get so caught up in my fans that I almos’ lose my biggest one again, I swear it, doll.” This time you lean in, raising up on your tippy toes, to plant your own sweet kiss on Elvis’ lips.
“Elvis, there won’t ever be a day where I won’t have you.”