1956. A girl in the crowd is proposed to by her boyfriend in front of Elvis. It would be a lovely moment if it weren't for the three other girls he also dated. All of them were present at the same time and place, just after Elvis' concert. As the dr...
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* chapter music * - Hopelessly Devoted To You- Olivia Newton-John
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Rosalie POV
The 19th of May, 1957
Remembering life before Elvis, I watched him turn his head back with a steady smile but worry in his eyes. A buzzing full-packed crowd of reporters passed us on all sides, tracing our every track with feet and eyes, flashes and voices trying to capture our attention. It roamed the walls like the sound couldn't escape, and it all went straight back to me when it bounced back from the far-off edges. Despite the noise, his gentle blue still found intimacy in my richer blue. It told the tale of how I no longer was on the outside looking in.
◌ ◌ ◌ ⌯ The 12th of May, 1957 ⌯ Ground rules _________________________
«We'll set some ground rules, Sal, you know, since we're sitting on the ground and all..» He hummed, amused by himself with birds chirping in the background. Gladly earning me throwing some loose strands of grass at his torso, he laughed the birds away. Our cups were all empty, his one with spots at the side of the handle.
«Ground rules?» Raising my brows, I let his dumb joke go.
«Well, some guidelines if you'd like..» He smiled friendly—his eyes cautiously wading.
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Shouts of my name got pushed into my consciousness. One louder than the other, dragging me into the now with a rising pulse beneath my chest. The looks we shared and the known fact of where we were, made it seem like we were shades of two meeting shores—crashing. Elvis and me being one, while the mass of people pushing onto us being the other, trying to have their cake and eat it too. I felt like a single red dot on a green patterned color blind test—soon erased and covered by pointed fluffy sticks, megaphones, and notepads, ready for whatever I could cough up. The need for breathing heightened, even though not a single breath got skipped.
«Ms. Wood, Ms. Wood, any early comment?» It pushed from the right, while the left held the voice of «Where did Mr. Wendell Randell hit you?» Swallowing, I felt my throat tighten and my shoulders rise as I got traced, trying to catch up with whom I came here with. White flashes and glimmer took me like the highest point in a lightning storm, not letting me run off.
In a straight path, up to the faraway long table with microphones and chairs ready for us, Elvis found himself quite a number of feet ahead of me—split up by the crowd. With a slight lift of my hands, one against my back while the other close to my stomach, I pointed my pinkies, keeping the other fingers folded. Without passing a second, a steady hand was on my shoulder—taking over like a lightning rod. The breath of Red was at my neck as he stood close, taking both my cue and control of who got close to me. Elvis, smiling gently with nods to reporters, all polite, made his way back to me. His palm reached for mine, and housing safety, he kept me at his pace with a cradled hold of my hand. Switching to wrap an arm around my waist, he nodded to every reporter meeting his eyes—gifting them his curled lip and starry eyes—only giving their hammering questions the time of a smile. And for what felt like an eternity of internal racing, I could finally sense a slow breath in the works.
