Chapter Text
Memphis, 1956
After the show
The walls behind the stage still rattled with the sound of screams, of sequined hysteria and heels scraping concrete. You leaned against the cold cinderblock, cigarette forgotten between your fingers, watching the door like it might spit him out again—him, with the sweat-damp hair and the smile they all swore was holy.
You hadn't expected him to look at you again. Not after all this time.
But then, just minutes ago, on that stage of flashing lights and velvet, he had. Right in the middle of Heartbreak Hotel, his eyes had slipped from the crowd, and landed on yours. Stuck. Like something buried deep had just risen to the surface.
And now?
Now the door creaked open.
“Elvis,” you breathed before you meant to.
He stepped into the hallway like he was shedding a skin—no spotlight, no crowd, just a man again. The rhinestones on his jacket caught the dull hallway light, but the shine in his eyes was dimmed, tired. Real.
“I knew it was you,” he said, soft drawl curling around the edges of your name like it had never left his mouth. “You were at the Texarkana show, weren’t you? Back when it was just me and Scotty and a busted mic.”
You smiled, slow and unsure. “I was there when the mic blew out and you finished the set anyway. Just your voice and a grin.”
He gave a breath of a laugh. “You always watched like you already knew I'd make it.”
“I did.”
Silence slid between you both. He looked at you like you were the last unsolved chord in a song he couldn’t stop playing.
“I keep thinkin’ about those nights,” he murmured. “Back when the only thing louder than my voice was the crickets outside the windows. And you. Always sittin’ near the back. Singin’ along when no one else cared to.”
You dropped your cigarette, crushed it under your heel. “And now look at you. Gold records, girls faintin’. You’re untouchable.”
He stepped closer, boots slow on the worn tile. “Yeah, well... I’m startin’ to feel like I don’t belong to myself no more. Everyone wants a piece, but none of ‘em ever knew the man underneath all this.”
He tugged at his collar, the glittering jacket suddenly looking like a costume. His voice dropped lower.
“You did.”
You didn’t answer, just looked at him—really looked. The soft curve of his mouth. The crease of exhaustion at the corner of his eye. The way his fingers twitched like they missed a guitar.
He tilted his head, like a prayer. “You still followin’ me around?”
You shrugged. “Not chasin’ the fame. Just the music. Just you.”
His smile broke, slow and tired and honest. He reached for your hand. Not to hold it like a gentleman, but to feel it. Like he needed to be sure you were real. Like you were an anchor in a sea of flashbulbs and screaming girls.
“C’mon,” he said, tugging you gently down the hallway. “Let’s get outta here. I wanna sing you somethin’ they’ll never hear on a record.”
You followed, heels echoing beside his boots. Because maybe tonight wasn’t for the King of Rock and Roll. Maybe it was for the boy you’d once watched strumming gospel into the empty dark.
And maybe—just maybe—you were still the only one who knew how to love the man under the rhinestones.