âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Marc Bolan •

Happy birthday Marc! Here's something for the pixie king on his special day, I hope you enjoy! This one's a bit longer than the others because I just couldn't help myself and I apologise if there are any mistakes - I wanted to get it out on time for his birthday! :)

--☆--

So deep in the city, it was rare to see the stars at all, but the clouds that evening had rolled briskly by and left the burning fires of eternity twinkling in their wake.

You’d had a quick look before slipping
into bed. You weren’t an avid astronomer, but you’d seldom glanced the stars since moving to London that you couldn’t help but take a peek.

It was harder to sleep when the nights were so balmy, so the caller caught you awake, though unfortunately not in the best mood. Lack of sleep, an unrelenting sheen of sweat and endless tossing and turning never put one in the best frame of mind. Your greeting was short in both speed and tone.

"Hello?”

Instantly, you were met with harsh sobbing, the usual soft tones strained and shrill, the ragged breathes as jarring as a child’s scream. Even so, the voice was too familiar for you not to recognise it.

“Marc?”

He managed to make some noise of recognition at your voice, and you waited patiently while he sobbed and sniffled himself into some form of fluidity.

While your consciousness slowly began working to its full capacity, you consoled him as best you could, giving the regular words of comfort that seemed to serve little purpose but continued to fall past your lips even so.

Whether they worked or not, you weren't sure, but he was able to quieten himself down in a few minutes.

When he first mumbled the three words, he was so quiet and choked up that you couldn’t hear him properly.

“What did you say, love?”

“Elvis is dead.”

As soon as he’d said it clearly, when it had penetrated the fogs of your mind, all you were capable of doing was denying it.

“What? No. No, he can’t be. He was just -”

You couldn’t even think of the words. The King... was dead. The man who had become the future, who had shown kids that being like their parents wasn’t their destiny, who had inspired every artist signed to a record label since... was dead.

And, Oh God, how Marc had adored him.

He tried to speak again, but you could hear that he was still crying through the receiver.

You were too dumbstruck to speak. Elvis had sparked a rebellion in your youth, long before Marc, before Dylan, before the Beatles, before you had found where you belonged. And just like that, he was gone forever, his flame snuffed out long before its time – he was only 47 years old. 47 years wasn’t enough.

“Y/N? Y/N, are you there?”

You weren’t sure how long Marc had been calling your name for. Everything seemed hazy. Each sound, each movement, each normal function seemed to flit aimlessly in and out of your mind in a dream-like state, unable the pierce that immoveable force. Elvis... was dead.

You opened your mouth to speak, but had to swallow the knot in your throat to allow it.

"Are you sure?”

Even though he was three miles away and your eyes were tightly closed to fight the emotions flaring up behind them, you could envision Marc cradling the phone tightly against his ear with clammy hands, his tear-streaked face glimmering beneath the dim lamplights, nodding in his admirably vigorous way, so blindly self-assured even in the worst of situations. “It’s all Tony can talk about.”