Elvis One Shots/Imagines

Love Letters - Elvis

A/N : I sincerely loathe the Blonde movie with all of me. Can't tell if I executed this idea well but here she is

You drove up the winding path to Graceland, knuckles white as you gripped the steering wheel. Weeks later and the tears refused to stop. Each thing reminded you of him, each person, each word, each song brought back some memory of the time you shared with him and how short it had been cut. You hadn't been able to handle Graceland, even though Vernon had been asking you to drop by since the memorial.

He sat on the steps, his grey jacket wrapped around his frail frame as he watched you park the car. You turned to grab your bag, angrily wiping away the tears that were already falling from your eyes.

When you approached, you saw the look in his eyes. They were pale as though they had no more tears left to cry, all had been taken from them. Vernon had lost both his sons and his wife, maybe it had. He tried a smile, but it didn't extend into a look of anything aside anguish. You smiled back, playing along with the charade that things were going to get better.

"Hello," he said, his voice scratchy.

"Hi," you said back. Your voice sounded small and weak.

"Come on in." He waved you forward, walking into the expansive house that suddenly felt out of place. Elvis wasn't here, this was his home. How could you go into a home when the heart isn't there? When the heart stopped beating long ago?

Vernon stood near the steps, a hand on the railing as he let you look at everything. The way every piece of furniture was covered in a light layer of dust. They hadn't been used since his death, and you doubted they'd be truly used again. Then Vernon walked up the carpeted stairs and you followed obediently. He led you to the master bedroom, a box lying on the silk sheets.

"There's other things for ya," Vernon scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, staring at his feet. "But I though you'd like to see this first."

You went to the box and lifted the lid, letting it fall to the bed. Dozens and dozens of letters sat in the box, some nearly tied together with a ribbon and others thrown haphazardly. Your name was scrawled on all of them. Sometimes the writing was sweet, others it was harsh, sometimes it was just your initials like he was low on time. You gasped as you picked one up. It was Elvis's handwriting. Elvis.

You looked up to Vernon, tears already clouding your vision. He nodded, "I'll give you some time."

Vernon stepped away and you heard his footsteps disappear down the stairs. The letter burned in your hand. This one was one of the loose ones, your name written in a more casual style. Y/N Presley. You set your bag on the floor and opened the letter, sitting to prepare yourself.

"March 17th, '63
Hey baby,"

You brought a hand to your mouth to suppress the emotion. You felt silly. A few words and you were already in tears. But those words... you could hear him saying those words every lazy Sunday. He'd turn his head on these very pillows and blink slowly, muttering, 'hey baby.' And the words that followed. They were just a description of the St Patrick's Day party Jerry had surprised Elvis with. He talked of the numbers, the crowds, and how surprised he'd been by all of it. You could hear him say everything, as though the ghost of Elvis was sitting on the bed and laughing about each person Jerry pinched.

"... funniest thing happened too. We all be going on talking bout luck and how it affects us and what not. Jerry says he's the unluckiest guy in the whole wide world, he says I oughta be the luckiest. And I realize I really am.
Not every man can say that he can do what he loves or be surrounded with the people he loves. All this to say, I just wanted to write how much I love you, baby. You're my good luck charm, after all.
Yours Truly,
EP
(PS pinch yourself for me if you ain't wearin green.)"

You laughed in an airy voice to yourself, thumb running along his sweet words. It was a mundane letter, sweet but not necessary. But you loved it. You hugged the letter to your chest and laughed softly, the laughs dissolving into sobs.

You picked up another letter. This one was yellower, more crumpled, and came wrapped in a set with others matching. You opened it. It wasn't addressed to you, it was addressed to Vernon. It had been folded many times and stained by age, but either Elvis or Vernon seemed to have saved it. Your eyebrows shot up at the date.

"May 2nd, 1959
Hey,
How's life back home? I sure been missing the sun. It don't stop raining much back here and we spend just about every minute under it. My sergeants keeps on going on bout how we soldiers gotta get used to the cold, but I sure as hell don't get how getting used to the cold will help me shoot someone.
My buddies and I been going round town lots, but they get real frustrated. I thought no one would know who I am in Germany, but it don't seem to be the case. Girls come up speaking quick German and all I know how to say is Hello! I ain't interested in a one of 'em.
One of the Air Force captains lets us up at his house some and there's girl there that I quite like. Probably shouldn't say I like her in any sort of way cause I've only known her a few days but she makes quite the impression. And I got a feeling bout her, she's just so smart and I could listen to her for hours. When I first met her, I turned to my buddy and I said, 'that's the girl I'm gonna marry.' Course he laughed at me cause I can't go on liking some captain's daughter. Her name's Y/N. She's pretty. You'd like her real nice. Momma woulda liked her too. Give my love to the family!
Yours Truly,
Elvis."

You were crying hard now, and you set the letter on the bed. Elvis had kept the letter he sent to Vernon about meeting you. He knew, somehow, that you were his. And he was yours. You went to the restroom and grabbed tissues, wiping your eyes and holding your stomach as you sobbed.

Why did sadness have to hurt so much? It was like a physical ailment, slowly wrecking down all your functions until you fall to the floor in a boneless heap. You suddenly can't breathe, you can't see and your ears are ringing and you just keep thinking about how much you need him. You need, you need, you need. Your hands come to your hair, to your heart, clinging and ripping desperately like that will make the pain go away but it never does. The hole just widens, gaping and dripping mucus into your heart.

You get up. You wipe the tears from your eyes, you calm your breathing. Elvis's presence is in the room. You have no proof, no explanation or evidence but you know it's true. And if Elvis wanted anything after his death, it wouldn't be this. You can feel the ghost of Elvis help you rise from the floor, feel him smooth your hair as you take deep breaths.

You spend hours reading through as many letters as you can. The bundled ones were from his army days. Some of them featured you, some didn't, but they were all insights into his thought processes as a human. You found yourself laughing and crying, somehow comforted by his words. Each letter was a different day and different year, and the random ones were always shortest and from the most different times in his life.

As the dark night rose and you had to get up to turn on the lamp, you saw one letter lying neatly in the center of the box. It was smaller than all the others, more like a thank you note than a letter. You picked it up.

"June 23rd, '77
Hi baby. It's been a long time. I miss you like all hell. I think bout you just every night. When sleep don't come I just think of you or Lisa. Jerry's bought me this book of facts to try to get me to sleep but it don't seem to work all that well.
Did you know there's a kind of bird that doesn't have any legs? So it can't land on nothing. It lives its whole life on the wing.
I think 'bout that bird sometimes. The way it must spiral and spiral, growing weary. I wonder what it must be like to land.
I love you, Y/N. I always have, and I always will. I'll be coming home some time, wait for me.
Yours truly,
Elvis."