Charlie, Sonny, and Red are sharing a cigarette when the two of you find them.

Charlie, dressed and ready to head onstage, smiles when he spots you, but the smile drops as he takes in your disheveled appearance.

"Y/N-"

"Elvis is sick, Jerry's locked in the conference room downstairs, and we need your help." You interrupt, desperate to get the men downstairs.

Red is the first to move, putting out the cigarette quickly.

"Well, let's go."

Sonny shrugs at Charlie, who looks back at you with wide eyes.

"We knew that Colonel was no good." He says, making a move to follow you as you've already made your way to the side stairs.

The fringe on his white jacket makes a swishing sound.

You focus on it as you take the steps two at a time, Candice right behind you.

"Hang on Y/N, let the guys go first. If those goon's of the Colonel's see you, they're bound to cause trouble." Candice says, grabbing your arm. You nod.

"We gotta find Elvis, Candy." You're frantic, letting the guys pass you down the stairs.

Sonny stops beside you.

"He was headed backstage last time we checked, you can find him there." He tells the two of you. He gives you a playful, mischievous smile. "You leave those two thugs to us, we'll handle 'em."

And with that he's dashing off down the stairs after his brother and Charlie. Candice takes your hand in hers.

"The Colonel's not gonna be happy when he sees you."

You roll your eyes, already heading off in the direction of the showroom.

"I'm not exactly tickled to see him either, but we have to get Elvis out of here."

You ignore the stares of patrons mingling in the lobby, aware you look as disheveled as you feel.

You're march past the crowd of people at the entrance of the showroom, hair falling over your forehead and into your eyes. You swipe it away quickly, zoned in on the backstage door located to the side of the stage.

Candice and you weave between tables, ducking under waiters, bumping into strangers. There's nothing that can stop you from getting to Elvis, not even God himself.

You reach the door.

Candice stands beside you as you all but throw it open, a woman on the warpath.

A few people turn to look at you, but other than them you're hardly noticed. The band is tuning their instruments, the Sweet Inspiration's warming up in the corner, your eyes moving past them to land on Vernon Presley.

The man looks gaunt with worry, hands clasped together in what looks like prayer.

You make your way to him, and at the sound of your footsteps he looks up, eyes filled with unshed tears.

"Vernon," you start, placing a hand on the man's arm. He shakes his head.

"I'm sorry, Y/N I-" he takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't know how to help him. I never have."

Your heart breaks in two.

"Y/N!"

You whip your head around, Jerry running up behind you with the rest of the boys in tow.

Besides what looks to be a bloody nose on Sonny's part, they're relatively unharmed.

The reunion is halted, however, when you notice the stage lights going up, turning just in time to see the love of your life shakily taking center stage. The orchestra begins, the Sweet Inspirations take their places, and the curtain slowly begins to rise.

Your heart sinks.

You're too late.

*

*

*

Every movement feels heavy, clumsy. The stage lights are harsh against Elvis's face, head pounding at the sounds of the orchestra behind him. The Dexedrine leaves him shaky and anxious, glancing around nervously as the curtain rises.

He raises the microphone to his lips, belting out the familiar lyrics to the end of An American Trilogy.

It's muscle memory, the lyrics something he barely has to think about. The crowd screams, applause deafening.

Elvis's heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest, pupils wide as he sweats on stage for thousands.

Among them, the Colonel sits and watches, beady eyes taking in every movement, every stumble. Like a vulture awaiting the final breath of it's prey. Elvis's eyes land on the old man as he thanks the crowd, and in a moment of manic fury, he makes his decision.

"I'd like to turn the house lights up, ladies an gentlemen." Elvis says, gesturing with one hand. "Cause now that you've seen me, I'd like to take a look at you."

The crowd murmurs with delight, the faces of upper-class men and women greeting him. The Colonel's face stands out to Elvis like a sore thumb, prideful smile painted across the older man's heavy features.

"Ladies' and gentlemen, I'd like to draw your attention to a very special guest tonight." Elvis drawls, microphone firm in his hand. He stops toward the far right of the stage, spotlight following him all the way. His brow sweats, anger swirling up in his chest like a hurricane.

"My so-called manager, Colonel Tom Parker."

The spotlight lands on the old man in the crowd, who waves merrily and naively. It makes Elvis sick.

"There he is."

The crowd applauds. Elvis looks at the man, really looks at him, and the drugs seem to make the Colonel seem miniscule in his eyes. He feels powerful, unhinged. Elvis brings the microphone back to his lips.

"But I hear rumors that Colonel is an alien."

The crowd laughs, the Colonel never wavering in his joviality.

Like a tidal wave, the anger surges up all at once, and Elvis finds himself white knuckling the microphone, eyes wild as he stares the man down.

"Somebody call the FBI and tell 'em he's abducted me, trapped me in this golden cage forever, ladies and gentleman."

There's light laughter from the crowd, but Elvis hardly notices. The stage, the band, the crowd has all melted away. Suddenly he feels as if he's back at that damned carnival where he first met the Colonel, about to sell his soul away for good.

Not this time, he thinks.

"This is the last show I'm ever gonna play here." Elvis states, ignoring the gasps from the crowd. "Fuck the International."

The Colonel's face changes from surprise to anger, and it leaves a sick sense of satisfaction in Elvis's stomach.

Elvis steps backwards, manic smile on his face as he watches the old man hobble towards the stage.

"I'm gonna take my girl, my beautiful Y/N, and I'm gonna get on that plane and I'm gonna fly away." Elvis muses, and his eyes are drawn to the ceiling, hazy as he pictures Y/N beside him.

He looks to the right, spots the Colonel angrily marching to him, and losses it.

"Oh! Security." He grabs the background singers microphone as well as his own. "Security, security!" He babbles, eyes frantic as the drugs overtake his system. He turns violently to the Colonel.

"You don't have a goddamn passport you son of a bitch!"

The crowd is in shock, women shrieking and men murmuring in disbelief.

"You are fired." He states firmly, anger crashing over him.

"You're fired!" Elvis shouts.

Feedback from the microphone splits the room.

"You're fucking fired!"

The curtain falls.

Elvis drops the microphone, taking one last glance at the Colonel before storming off stage.