Austin Butler & Elvis Presley one shots

Tender care (sick) - E.P

It was another restless night for Elvis. The relentless cough had kept him awake, each fit sending sharp pains through his chest. His voice, once smooth as honey, now cracked and strained. He lay in bed, listening to the distant sounds of Memphis outside his window, the city that knew him as the King.

Priscilla stirred beside him, her hand instinctively reaching out to soothe his fevered brow. "Elvis, honey, you okay?" Her voice was gentle, tinged with concern.

He tried to speak, but all that came out was a raspy whisper. "I... I can't breathe right, Pris. My chest... feels like it's on fire."

Her heart sank. She had seen him through so much, but this illness, this relentless cough that haunted his nights, shook her. "Shh, it's okay, baby. I'm here."

Elvis closed his eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle upon him. Each breath was a struggle, a reminder of his mortality. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this weak.

Days passed like a blur of cough syrup and warm compresses. Priscilla never left his side, her touch a balm to his weary soul. She knew his favorite Elvis records by heart, and she played them softly in the background, hoping to lift his spirits.

One night, as the moon cast a gentle glow across the room, Elvis woke with a start. His chest tightened, panic rising like a tidal wave. He coughed, each spasm tearing at his throat. "Pris!" he gasped, his voice barely audible.

She was by his side in an instant, her touch calming. "Easy, baby, easy. Breathe with me," she whispered, guiding him through each ragged breath until the coughing subsided.

"I... I thought..." Elvis struggled to find words, his eyes searching hers for reassurance.

"You're going to be okay, Elvis. You're strong," she assured him, her voice unwavering.

He nodded weakly, trusting in her words as he had always done. Through the long nights and the endless days of recovery, Priscilla was his rock. She nursed him back to health with tender care, her love a beacon in the darkness of his illness.

And as the days turned into weeks, Elvis found his voice again. It was rough at first, the notes hesitant and shaky. But with each passing day, his strength returned, fueled by the love that surrounded him.

One evening, as they sat together on the porch, the sun setting in hues of orange and gold, Elvis took her hand in his. "Thank you, Pris," he murmured, his eyes reflecting the depth of his gratitude.

She smiled, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Always, Elvis. Always."

In that moment, they knew that together, they could weather any storm. And as Elvis sang softly into the twilight, his voice carried the promise of a love that would endure through all eternity.