#Four Phantoms in Concert

[markbbrooklyn]

LATER IN AUGUST (not showing on my NYC Spectrum schedule yet, so probably late August) ...

Local PBS stations will broadcast "The Four Phantoms in Concert" (Franc D'Ambrosio, John Cudia, Ciaran Sheehan, Brent Barrett)

Kaley Voorhees is their special guest.

It was taped in March 2024.

I saw their show years ago (with Davis Gaines instead of John Cudia), and it was terrific. Kaley, in a sadly limited role, added an excellent touch to the performance.

Keep checking your local PBS schedule.

[jennyfair7]

audio gift

Got to see some POTO legends this past weekend and wanted to share the love!

The Four Phantoms in Concert Toledo, OH - January 6, 2022 Brent Barrett, John Cudia, Franc D’Ambrosio, Ciarán Sheehan, Kaley Ann Voorhees (Guest Star), David Caddick (Music Supervisor), Ryan Shirar (Music Director)

My master. Share freely but please don’t repost on other platforms. If you list this, please mark as a gift and regift upon request. Enjoy! 😘

[doyoulikethissong-poll]

Meat Loaf - I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That) 1993

"I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)" is a song written by Jim Steinman, and recorded by American rock singer Meat Loaf. The song was released in August 1993 as the first single from the singer's sixth album, Bat Out of Hell II: Back into Hell (1993). The last six verses features English singer Lorraine Crosby, who was credited only as "Mrs. Loud" in the album notes. While visiting the label's recording studios on Sunset Boulevard, Crosby was asked by her manager Steinman to provide guide vocals for Meat Loaf, who was recording the song "I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)". Cher, Melissa Etheridge and Bonnie Tyler were considered for the role. The song was a commercial success, however as Crosby had recorded her part as guide vocals, she did not receive any payment for the recording but she receives royalties from PRS. Crosby did not appear in the Michael Bay-directed music video, where model Dana Patrick mimed her vocals. Meat Loaf promoted the single with American vocalist Patti Russo performing the live female vocals of this song at his promotional appearances and concerts.

The power ballad was a commercial success, reaching number one in 28 countries. The single was certified platinum in the US and became Meat Loaf's first and only number one and top ten single on the Billboard Hot 100 and Cash Box Top 100. It also became Meat Loaf's first and only number one single on the UK Singles Chart, and was the best-selling single of 1993 in the UK. The song earned Meat Loaf a Grammy Award for Best Rock Vocal Performance, Solo.

American film director and producer Michael Bay directed the accompanying music video for "I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)". The cinematographer was Daniel Pearl, particularly known for filming The Texas Chain Saw Massacre in 1973. Pearl says that this video "is one of my personal all-time favorite projects… I think the cinematography is pure, and it tells a story about the song." The video is based on Beauty and the Beast and The Phantom of the Opera. Bob Keane did Meat Loaf's make-up, which took up to two hours to apply. The make-up was designed to be simple and scary, yet "with the ability to make him sympathetic." The shoot went over budget, and was filmed in 90 °F (32 °C) heat, across four days. The video, which was the abridged seven-minute version of the song rather than the twelve-minute album version, was put into heavy rotation on MTV.

Meat Loaf appeared in over 50 films and television shows, sometimes as himself or as characters resembling his stage persona. His film roles included Eddie in The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) and Robert Paulson in Fight Club (1999).

"I'd Do Anything for Love (But I Won't Do That)" received a total of 77,7% yes votes!

[lskisms]

You asked for ghost requests?

I got an idea for Phantom cause from the clips I've seen. He's like a high-energy puppy.

Relaxing with his partner after a concert, and he's sleepy as he comes down from the high of performing or he still has unspent energy leftover. So two options: soft sleepy smexy times or doing it to release the rest of his energy. Feel free to choose either one.

can attest to the puppy energy !! he was all over the stage in austin and it was the cutest thing i’ve ever seen actually i was giggling at the barricade like a little schoolgirl

anyways bc phantom is SOOOO my baby why not both

sleepy and soft.

say he comes back to the hotel room and once he’s freshly showered, he’s got you in his arms, relaxed in bed and chatting about anything that comes to mind. the adrenaline, all that octane, has burned through him and smothered itself out, but still, he has this urgent need to feel you entirely. he kisses you soft and slow, pressing you back into the plush pillows. when he moves to kiss you neck, little fangs dragging lightning across your skin, you try to tell him he just showered, so he shouldn’t work up another sweat. he doesn’t listen to you, of course, just nips at the junction between your shoulder and neck, the soft skin pricking hotly, and whispers that he needs you.

and because you’ve always been weak to him, you let him shimmy you out of your pajamas and take you as he pleases. his hips roll against yours deliciously, agonizingly slow, but each press of his cock against that spot inside you that only he knows how to get to makes it worth it. his mouth is everywhere, muttering praises into your skin and swallowing up each noise of yours that dares to rise abovea soft moan. he makes sure you come first, as he always does, and his release follows just seconds after. his body eases into yours, skin against skin, breaths mingling between you. he refuses to pull out of you for quite sometime, but you don't complain (you never complain) because he fills you in ways undescribable, an otherworldly feeling of completion.

but he is thoroughly exhausted, sleepiness settling heavy into his very bones. he does get up eventually to clean you up and redress you, but each motion is slow-going, syrupy and languid and perfect. he takes you into his arms again the second he's back in bed, whispers of love confessions falling on deaf ears as you let the remnants of his warmth inside you lull you to sleep.

pent-up.

he doesn't bother to shed his clothes or shower first, doesn't even bother to kick off his shoes. the second he sees you in the hotel room, he's getting himself out of the offending mask and sealing you in a kiss that is all teeth and tongue and spit. it's a way you have him often, messy and fumbling, but that always drives the experience of letting him have you from perfect to life-altering.

he barely gets himself out of his boots, his pants, or even you out of your own clothes, soaked with the sweat of yourself and the people you'd been with in the pit that night, crushed against the barricade. he gets you on all fours on the bed and slips inside without much of a fight, his cock straining against the slick of your walls. the pace he sets is brutal and it has you keening loudly; you're certain you'll have a noise complaint before he's even halfway decided to be done using you tonight.

his hands press bruises into your skin, claws digging deep into the plush of everywhere he can reach. the bite of each pinprick has your eyes rolling into the back of your head, a delicious haze filling your head until all you can think of is his name and the earth-shattering way his hips drive into your ass. he pulls you up by the back of your neck, tongue sliding against the shell of your ear as he asks you who your body belongs to, who gets to use it as they please (it's yours, phantom. all yours, comes your reply, each syllable broken and stuttered). and when he's content with your answers, he pushes you down into the mattress, his hand pressing your back into a perfect arch just for him.

he overstimulates you, focused on nobody's pleasure, just on getting that livewire of energy out of himself. you're lucky he doesn't make you count how many times you come because you lose count after three. and when his rutting finally comes to an end, it's almost as agonizing to not have him inside of you as it is for him to keep fucking you. you're so limp and foggy that it makes him giggle hazily himself, proud to have been the progenitor of your undoing.

he'll do it again after the next concert too, he tells you, so don't worry your pretty little head. he knows how much you adore being brainless for him and it'd be awfully despicable of him to deny you that pleasure.

[tojisun]

sun u should explain the ghost band lore bc i’m interested but no nothing about them

oki oki so ani this might take a while bc i went crazy explaining and it might be too long so uhm find the tl;dr at the end 😭

i swooned when i saw u ask this bc!!! mwah mwah <333 idk it made me so giddy teehee <33 also! this is what i know so far so there might be lapses in my explanation hhh

the band ghost or ghost (or ‘ghost bc’)

- they are are theatrical rock band mostly known for their satirical approach to organized religion (roman catholicism); they have a parody of the ministry (from the papacy down to the clergymen [dubbed as brothers/sisters of sins]). there are criticism that they are satanic and, well, that is their lore.

the current singer is called papa emeritus iv

- papa iv is endearingly called popia because before being papa, he was known as cardinal copia. he succeeded the previous three papa emeritus (primo, secondo, terzo) after the three have been killed. he also inherited the ghouls (specifically terzo’s ghouls).

- primo, secondo, terzo, copia are all acted by the same guy (tobias forge)! the lore is that they’re all brothers, fathered by papa nihil, but that copia wasn’t recognized as his son until later on when the three papas were killed. the ones who organized the deaths of the previous papas is sister imperator, copia’s mom.

- the papas, in order: primo, secondo, terzo, copia (cardinal), copia (papa)

nameless ghouls

- they are the people that tobias forge (papa) hires to play live! theyre not a concrete band since these instrumentalists could be/had been replaceable :((

- when ghost debuted, there were only four ghouls: fire, water, earth, quintessence. these titles are reflections of the instruments they play! fire (lead guitar). water (bass guitar). earth (drums). quintessence (rhythm guitar). later a keyboard instrumentalist was added and they were dubbed as the air ghoul.

- as the band grew more popular and more instrumentalists came and went, the fans began naming them. at the top of my head; notable old members include: alpha (fire). omega (quintessence). mist (water). ifrit (fire). zephyr (air).

- i think it was in 2019 when the ghouls were established and no one left (until, that is, june 2023). they were: dewdrop (fire; previously water so he replaced ifrit as lead guitarist). rain (water; bass guitar). aether (quintessence; rhythm guitar). mountain (earth; drums). swiss (multi ghoul - means he is a backup vocals, acoustic guitarist, tambourine). cumulus (air; keyboard and backup vocals). cirrus (air - keyboard and keystar). sunshine (multi; backup vocals).

- nameless ghouls as of july 2023: dewdrop (fire). rain (water). phantom (quintessence - he replaced aether). mountain (earth). swiss (multi). cumulus (air). cirrus (air). aurora (multi - she replaced sunshine).

- fave: nameless ghouls aren’t all just men!! cirrus, cumulus, sunshine, and aurora are ghoulettes

- i finally know who is who when they don’t have their instruments 😭

- they all wear the same thing for anonymity, although fans know who they are unmasked!

other fun info

- a ghost concert is called ‘ritual’

- they have this episodes (??) of more lore called ‘chapters’

- there are talks that copia will be replaced by a new papa but copia’s goodbye had been too quiet and peaceful so fans speculate that tobias forge is gonna do smthn else?

- papa nihil plays the saxophone!

tl;dr - tobias forge is a huge fucking nerd who made a whole satanic ministry and band for flare!

[lover-of-mine]

Okay, I'm mad so let's make a list: long things that are shorter than 4 hours and 12 minutes or 252 minutes (the duration of that Oliver lashing thing):

All of 7a or all of 7b (5 episodes equal 210 minutes) (252 minutes is actually the length of most 6 episodes combos of a network show);

Justice League Snyder Cut (242 minutes);

Any Lord of the Rings Extended Edition (Fellowship of The Ring has 208 minutes, The Two Towers has 223 and The Return of The King has 251);

Any combination of 2 high school musical movies (209 to 231 minutes);

This year's super bowl (246 minutes);

The longest eras tour concert (225 minutes).

The first 8 episodes of Julie and the Phantoms add up to 240 minutes;

Tell me again about how me making fun of people escalating is somehow comparable to someone going on for four hours about how awful an actor is.

[slavghoul]

First musical emotion?

TF: I grew up in an environment full of music, with a very open-minded mother who listened to a lot of pop and rock music and, above all, an older brother who was 13 years older than me. That's how much I was immersed in teenage culture as a child. I was 3 years old in 1984 when the glam metal wave invaded the airwaves and TV screens. These bands, like Kiss, WASP or Mötley Crüe, very strong visually for a child, attracted me irresistibly. And let's not forget Twisted Sister. I Wanna Rock is the track that remains the basis, the trigger for everything for me. A song that, at 3, 13, 23 or 43 years old, still has the same effect on me as soon as I hear it: to jump in the air like a madman.

First record bought?

If not Kiss, probably a Rolling Stones album. It didn't make much of an impression on me because my brother used to buy so many of them, so my money was mostly spent on Star Wars stuff. There are tons of bands I love, but I think the Stones are my favourite. Because they embody everything I love about rock, even though they weren't as sophisticated as the Beatles or Pink Floyd. Between 1967 and 1972, in their darkest period, nobody did it better than them: they had the look, the attitude, the style and, on top of that, the songs! Let It Bleed is incredible, with songs like Midnight Rambler and Live With Me. As much as I admire technical singers, virtuosos of harmony, Jagger remains unique. I've never tried to imitate him, but as a performer he is the absolute model.

First concert of note?

My brother used to take me to see local punk bands at a very early age, but I remember B.B. King most of all, when I was about 5 or 6, with my mother. It was a jazz festival, outside in the courtyard of a castle, a very cool atmosphere. As soon as B.B. King started playing, there was electricity in the air. Everyone got up and started dancing, I was blown away. And as I was the only one of my age, I could move around freely, so much so that I found myself in the backstage, in front of B.B. King himself! He invited me into his dressing room: "Do you play the guitar?" - Yes! - so don't stop!" And I took his advice. Even though I sing on stage, the guitar is still my favourite instrument, the one I play and master the most.

The band that best managed to avoid the pitfall of the image taking precedence over the music?

Kiss, unfortunately, was far from being up to the task musically. Alice Cooper, after two minor first albums, went on to make four incredible albums with the original Alice Cooper Group. Above all, he made a phenomenal comeback with Welcome to My Nightmare in 1975. After that, the show took over... The band that managed to stay straight and dignified, without compromising the artistic quality of their work, is undoubtedly Iron Maiden. All of their 80's production is impeccable, and if they had a slump in the 90's, they came back even stronger with the return of Bruce Dickinson, and have been going strong for twenty years! Their work ethic is exemplary. With Ghost, we take up Phantom of the Opera, one of my favourite tracks from their early period, and one of the few where I felt we could add a little something to it.

Best punk song in the world?

There are so many, because I was also brought up on the sounds of the Pistols, the Ramones, the Dead Kennedys... But as a kid, I never got tired of listening to The Great Rock'n'Roll Swindle again, especially the sequence where Sid Vicious sings My Way. His version is one of my favourite songs of all time. What could be more awesome than to see a guy slaughtering this standard while doing the same, shooting the shit, with the audience that came to see him! It was like the ultimate middle finger, and it made me happy, and it showed me the way.

The band that remains the grail for you?

Queen, because the show side, the big show, is the ultimate for me. In the early 70s, my favourite musical period, there were no big shows yet, like the Stones started doing afterwards. Queen is the same. Of course, their best albums are from the 70s, but the peak of their career for me is the Wembley concert in 1986. Magic wasn't a great record, but the show was breathtaking, dantesque, with a repertoire as vast as it was delirious. If Ghost could ever come close to the 1986 Queen, I would be delighted.

The greatest Swedish band?

ABBA, of course. No one will ever be able to stand in their way. The Beatles are the monarchs of English rock, ABBA the monarchs of Swedish pop. Björn and Benny are national heroes. I found myself at a huge, formal party when Benny suddenly sat down at the piano and started Thank You For the Music. There was silence in a second. This guy is a monument. You can't imagine what ABBA has done, not only for pop music, but also for Sweden and the Swedes. This band proved that you can move mountains.

Which Ghost song are you most proud of?

Cirice, probably. I often write my songs by singing into my phone a melody that is in my head. We were about to finish the album Meliora. And the co-producer tells me that a really heavy and powerful track is missing. I tell him I have this heavy, heavy, macabre sounding tune with a long intro and a crushing riff. He suggests I tweak it while he goes for a run. When he came back, I had written a chorus, lyrical, catchy. It wasn't the leaden track he was hoping for. But it won us a Grammy!

The most evil band?

Certainly not Mercyful Fate, as one might imagine. They, like most Norwegian death metal bands, more or less satanic, are the most charming guys I've ever met. They seem more like nice teachers than evil creatures. The scariest band is probably Von, a mythical American black metal band from Hawaii. These guys were really scary, with their terrifying size, they looked really dangerous. But I think the evil is mostly on the side of those who pretend to defend the good. For me, the most evil and unattractive musician is Ted Nugent. He's pro-life, pro-hunting, and claims he's only fighting for freedom. But the world he defends is about as free and tolerant as Vladimir Putin's. I refuse to listen to him.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 39

So we know that ghosts can enter technology and even get trapped in it thanks to Technus, right? 

Imagine if the teens of Amity Park make something like a minecraft world or server. This means that team Phantom would be a part of it as well, which would eventually get said technology ghost’s attention. And then it could spread from him to the other ghost rogues. 

Suddenly the ghosts are also a part of the minecraft world, but they’re?? Not destroying stuff??

 Boxy is in heaven, everything is boxes! Everything! Technus is surprisingly good at moderating? He’s the master of technology! This is his domain to rule! Ember can give concerts without mind controlling people and loves when people bring their pet parrots to dance to said music. 

 Lunch Lady has ended up overhauling the spawn area to include a community farm and has a big kitchen to make sure everyone has food! Especially useful if someone’s bed is broken when they respawn. People have found out that Skulker will take out bosses and get a lot of mob drops for free as long as it’s a good hunt. Johnny, Kitty, and Shadow have built their own house on a hill with different towers they go to when they’re arguing or avoiding each other. There’s even a garage for Johnny to keep his bike safe away from ghost hunters! No one knows where the giant clocktower in the End came from, no one is admitting to building it, but Phantom seems utterly delighted either way, same with the giant PvP arena with a statue of a four-armed woman? 

 Practically all the ghosts are building their own lil haunts and lairs, mostly in the sky like their home, accidentally making a ghost town in the clouds. Danny is utterly relieved to get some proper sleep because his rogues are distracted by the minecraft world and fulfilling their obsessions without causing destruction! 

 Now if only people would stop joking about Phantom and him sharing a minecraft bed that would be great! 

[thefootnotes]

hello, darlings✮ welcome back to trench. here's my current quarterly playlist. fic requests are open right now - for ships listed below. dividers by @saradika-graphics.

spotify || ao3 || pronouns page || writing masterlist

✮ you can call me ellis, ells or el. close mutuals can call me elmo. ask about other nicknames, but nine times in ten i'll adore you forever if you nickname me.

basic info ✮ he/him, trans, pansexual, ambiverted infp-t, type six, sagittarius, australian, dog person, romance reader, writing is everything to me, winter>>, glasses wearer, headphones on twenty-four/seven, cd collector, spotify premium user, aspiring author, regular oversharer, real-person-shipper and rpf author, ginger cat, ao3 addict, anti-monarchist, socialist, lacrosse player, pwhl enthusiast, seattle seahawks supporter, theatre nerd, night owl, revolutionary, linammon roll, moderator of the be my valentine challenge, high schooler, green is the best colour talk to the hand, i like weird science podcasts and emergency-drama shows, tote bag owner (to a mildly concerning degree), im an eyeliner kind of guy, i don't keep my mouth shut for anybody. free palestine!!

music ✮ one direction, conan gray, olivia rodrigo, twenty one pilots, maddie zahm, caity baser, dylan gossett, sabrina carpenter, alexander black, megan moroney, xana, kelsea ballerini, noah kahan, ed sheeran, billie eilish, five seconds of summer, cavetown, maisie peters, finneas, taylor swift, queen, hozier, girl in red, luke combs, phoebe bridgers, gracie abrams, miley cyrus, adele, sixpence none the richer, morgan wallen, birdy, renée rapp, the beatles, abba, robbie williams, ashe, blackbear, dyl dion, chappell roan, luke combs

books ✮ little women, red white and royal blue, osemanverse, jane doe and the cradle of all worlds, nevermoor, boyfriend material and husband material, afterlove, the meaning of birds, the seven husbands of evelyn hugo, i kissed shara wheeler, the fault in our stars, they both die at the end, song of achilles, girl in pieces, you'd be home now, a semi-definitive list of worst nightmares

musicals ✮ come from away, hamilton, in the heights, high school musical, hsmtmts, dear evan hansen, tick tick boom, wicked, disney musicals<3, the greatest showman, the addams family musical, matilda, tina: the tina turner musical, mary poppins + returns, six, miss saigon, rocky horror, west side story, funny girl, chicago. moulin rouge

movies & tv ✮ little women (2019), barbie (2023), dunkirk, don't worry darling, my policeman, julie and the phantoms, rwrb, heartstopper, 9-1-1 (and lone star), doctor who, clouds, love simon and love victor

my characters ✮ amy march, nina rosario, henry fox-stuart, nick nelson, christopher eccleston's doctor, achilles, ezra squall, regulus black, augustus waters, john laurens, evan buckley, carlos reyes, allen from barbie.

my ships ✮ larry stylinson, firstprince, tarlos, buddie, nick&charlie, wolfstar, jegulus, amy&laurie, morrigan&cadence, hamburr, laurette, hobama<3, eddie diaz with literally anyone

goals and dreams ✮ i want to study abroad, publish my writing, adopt or foster kids, travel to every continent someday, volunteer with lgbt+ homeless/support shelters/charities, attend 5/5 1d boys' concerts, learn at least two languages

my sideblogs ✮ my poetry blog: @thelostboyschapter 1d lyric keywords: @onedirectionandblank

[blush-and-books]

julie and the phantoms lives on. they win grammys. julie and luke's private but obvious will they/won't they moments are viral on tiktok after every concert, every interview, every concert. the music video for perfect harmony fuels rumors. julie, on a podcast, refers to the joy she has to work with her boyfriend - the internet goes wild. reggie and alex post a cryptic tiktok about third and fourth wheeling when two of your bandmates are dating. their next album single is the luke-penned wicked beauty, which describes julie to a t. before anybody knows it, they've gotten married before the start of their next tour. months after the tour wraps, a video of a pregnant julie recording new music in the studio is posted from jatp social media accounts. so many funny videos follow over the next couple of years of the band members trying to teach julie and luke's kids to play instruments. the four of them have bets on which instrument the two children are going to choose. in their teens, the siblings discreetly release an ep under a pen name that their parents don't know about, and one of the songs lands on the president's annual playlist. they blow up. nobody knows it's the children of julie molina and luke patterson until two years later, after they've released an album, and they appear at the grammys because they've been nominated for best new artist. they perform at their parents induction to the rock and roll hall of fame.

[from-memphis-with-love]

Songbird - Chapter 3 - The Morning After

Summary: Despite her better judgment, Valerie and Elvis are fast growing closer. He invites her for a late night dinner, where they share secrets and hamburgers.

Author's notes: This is my last rewritten chapter. Four and beyond are brand new. You'll love them. <3

My eyes snapped open, heart doing the cha-cha against my ribs. Have you ever woken from a dream so real you can still feel it clinging to your skin? That's what this was—except it wasn't a dream. The phantom sensation of his eyes on me, the ghost of almost-kisses, the memory of that voice wrapping around my name like honey dripping from a spoon.

I fumbled for my nightstand, nearly sending last night's untouched water crashing to the floor. There it was. The ticket. Glossy and real and solid proof that I hadn't imagined the whole thing. That I, Valerie Pedretti, professional nobody from Chicago, had somehow caught the eye of the most famous man in America.

"Christ," I said to the empty room. My voice sounded wrong. Everything was wrong. He was married. That was a fact, like death or gravity or the way my hands shook when I reached for the telephone. I groaned into my pillow, but the sound came out more like a strangled cat trying to sing opera. I needed to call Deena before my brain exploded all over these nice hotel sheets.

The phone rang twice before Deena picked up, her voice fuzzy with sleep and irritation. "Val, hon, it's ass o'clock in the morning. This better be good—"

"Trust me, Dee, it is." I took a deep breath, the words crowding in my throat like teenagers at a concert. "I'm not coming home just yet. I've decided to stay here a few more days."

That woke her up. I could practically hear her sitting bolt upright, the bedsprings creaking through the line like an old dog stretching. "Sinatra?"

"No." I pressed my head against the window glass. It was cool. The sun was already fierce in the desert. I chewed my lip, tasting yesterday's lipstick. "I maybe kind of sort of accidentally had a ‘moment’ with a celebrity last night."

Dead silence. The kind of silence that happens right before an atomic bomb goes off. Then—

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?!" 

I yanked the receiver away from my ear, wincing. In Chicago, dogs were probably howling. "Yep. I'm in deep doo-doo, Dee."

"Deep doo-doo?! More like the motherlode! Valerie, you little minx!" Deena's voice climbed higher with each word, like a cat scaling a hot tin roof. "How'd you manage a thing like that? I want every lurid detail. Emphasis on lurid."

I flopped back against the pillows, laughing despite myself. Good old Deena, straight to the good stuff. "I can't give you all the details yet. But let's just say he's someone we've both heard of. I'll give you three clues. Very famous, very talented, and very, very handsome."

I left out 'very married.' Some truths are better swallowed with a chaser of denial.

Deena made a sound like a teakettle having religious experience. "You're killing me! You can't just drop a bombshell like that and not give me a name! Landing a whale like that..." The line went quiet for a second, and I could practically hear the gears turning in her head. "Wait... is it Sinatra? Dean Martin? Joey Bishop?" Another pause. "Oh honey, please don't tell me it's Liberace. You know he doesn't go for—"

"I can't say."

"Since when do we have secrets?"

"Since now." The words came out hard and flat.

"Well hell." Deena laughed. Not a real laugh. "At least tell me if he's worth it."

I thought about his hands. His eyes. The way he moved like there was music in his bones.

"He's worth it."

"You sound sure."

"I'm not sure of anything." That was true. The only thing I was sure of was the ache in my chest when I thought of him. It was like hunger, but worse. "Maybe I'm crazy."

Deena huffed out a sigh that could've stripped paint. "Fine, keep your secrets, you incorrigible tease. But I'm telling you, Val, when an opportunity like this falls into your lap, you gotta strike while the iron's hot, if you know what I mean."

I burst out laughing. You could always count on Deena to cut straight to the chase with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. "Why Deena Jane Lovelace, are you trying to corrupt me? I feel like I should be clutching my pearls."

"I'm serious Val, you deserve to let loose and have some fun for once in your life. Live a little! Sow some wild oats! Ride that stallion till you break the saddle!"

I closed my eyes and thought about all the other women who’d probably had this same exact conversation with their best friends. The sun through the window was too bright. It suddenly all felt too much. "Maybe I'm just another girl to him."

"You're never just another anything."

We were quiet then. I could hear her breathing through the line. All those states away in Chicago, probably still in bed with her hair a mess and yesterday's makeup smeared under her eyes. She was my best friend. She was wrong about this.

“And even if you were, so what?” It was Deena who broke the quiet. "Look, I know you. You've got a bad habit of getting in your own way when it comes to men. Always overthinking, always holding back. Always tying yourself down to some jerk who isn't good enough for you..."

The laughter died in my throat. Because there it was, the ghost we hadn't named yet.

Andy.

Deena's voice softened like butter in the sun. "Oh honey. Are you worried about that chump again? Because I will fly to Vegas and smack you upside the head myself. That boy is staler than last week's bread and you know it."

Andy. Just thinking his name was like stepping into a time machine - back to high school dances and drive-in movies and dreams small enough to fit in a burger joint uniform pocket. Sweet, goofy, going-nowhere-fast Andy. The kind of guy who thought putting on a tie meant wearing his good Arby's visor.

If I squinted hard enough, Andy's Arby's visor almost looked like a crown. Almost. He was... well, he was Andy. A burger-flipping, belch-ripping goofball who could always make me laugh, even when I wanted to strangle him. He was comfortable as an old shoe, familiar as my own reflection. About as exciting as watching paint dry in February.

But Elvis... Elvis was pure electricity in a black leather jacket. He made me feel like I could set the world on fire with just a smile. When a man like that looks at you like you're the only woman in the room, it does things to a girl. Things that don't involve overthinking or holding back or remembering why you shouldn't.

Deena, bless her heart, could read my silence like a book. "Val, I'm not saying you gotta marry the guy. But would it kill you to have a little fling? To let yourself get swept off your feet, even if it's just for a little while?"

I gnawed my lip, considering. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was time to stop being a good girl, always doing the safe thing, the smart thing. Maybe it was time to take a chance on something wild and wonderful, consequences be damned.

That's the thing about consequences, though. They have a way of showing up to the party whether you invited them or not.

"Okay, okay, you've twisted my arm," I said, grinning so hard my face hurt. "Operation Ride That Stallion is a go. But if I end up with saddle sores, I'm blaming you."

Deena's cackle could've scared crows off a cornfield. "Atta girl! You just remember every gory detail so you can replay the highlight reel for me later. And Val?"

"Yeah, Dee?"

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"But you'd do everything..."

"That's my point!"

After I hung up, I stood looking at my reflection in the mirror. Same face as always. Same brown eyes, same olive skin, same mouth that was a little too wide, same nose with the strong profile (Mom always called it “distinguished.” I called it “rhinoplasty-ready.”). But something was different. Something in the eyes maybe. Or maybe it was just that I was looking at myself the way he had looked at me.

Looking back, I should've seen it as a sign–me trying to dress up enough to belong in Elvis's world. Like putting a paint job on a Plymouth and calling it a Cadillac. But hindsight's always twenty-twenty, isn't it?

I was midway through my third wardrobe panic when the doorbell rang. Standing there in my slip, hair wild as a tumbleweed, I yanked open the door—and promptly tripped over a box on the floor. Big. Expensive-looking. The kind of box that makes promises. Its label read “Suzy Creamcheese,” and I just knew it was the one of those boutiques where they probably charged you just for breathing their air.

My hands shook as I picked it up. There was a card. The handwriting was messy, like he'd been in a hurry. Or maybe like he wasn't used to writing his own notes. When I read the message inside, I forgot how breathing worked.

"Songbird, let's make beautiful music together. Wear this tonight. I'll be the one in black. Yours, Jon Burrows"

Jon Burrows. His alias. Like we were spies. Like we were lovers. Like we were anything but what we were, a married man and a girl who should know better.

Inside the box was the kind of dress that would've made the Pope need confession. It shimmered like sin and promised trouble, the fabric probably worth more than my entire life savings.

My first thought was that he'd probably bought a million dresses just like it for a million other girls. My second thought was that I didn't care.

But that's the funny thing about falling for someone like Elvis. You know going in that you're not the first, probably won't be the last. But somehow he makes you feel like you're the only one who matters. At least for now.

In any case, the dress slid over my curves like water, like destiny, like everything I'd ever wanted but been too afraid to reach for. In the mirror, I hardly recognized the woman staring back at me. She looked dangerous. She looked ready. She looked like someone who could make Elvis Presley forget his own name.

I just hoped she knew what she was doing better than I did.

With an hour to kill before the show, I clicked my way down to the casino. The dress moved like smoke around my legs. The shoes he'd sent pinched my feet but made me feel tall. Strong. People looked at me different. Or maybe I was walking different. Maybe that's what confidence feels like. Like armor made of silk.

I sat down at the blackjack table. The cards were good to me, they kept coming up hearts. That should have been a warning, but I wasn't reading signs right then. I was too busy feeling lucky.

That's when I felt it. Eyes on my back. Not the good kind of eyes.

"What's a pretty little thing like you doing all alone?"

He was old. Fat. His ring could have anchored a yacht. The kind of man who thinks money makes him God's gift to women.

"Playing cards," I said. I didn't look at him. The dealer hit me with a queen. Twenty-one.

“You here for the show?”

“Mm hmm,” I kept my eye on the cards. 

"Ah. One of those Elvis girls." He said it like he was diagnosing a disease. "Fresh meat."

The words hit hard. True words usually do. I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what he could do with his fresh meat when a hand landed on my shoulder. It was warm and steady.

"Darlin', there you are! Been lookin' all over for you."

I spun around to find myself face to face with a tall drink of water in a ten-gallon hat. He had one of those faces that time had worked on like a wood carver, all weathered planes and honest angles. The kind of face that made you want to trust it right off the bat.

"Play along," he whispered. "Looked like you could use a rescue."

Relief washed over me like cool water in August. "Oh! Yes, of course. So sorry, I got a little turned around..."

He steered me away from Mr. Pinky Ring and his grabby eyes, waiting until we were safely out of earshot before introducing himself properly.

"Chick, at your service," he said, tipping an imaginary cap with an old-world sort of charm. "I'm with the International. And unless I miss my guess, you must be Miss Valerie?"

My eyes went wider than poker chips. "How did you...?"

His laugh was warm as Texas sunshine. "Let's just say Mr. Burrows ain't subtle when he's sweet on a girl. I'm supposed to take you to his dressing room."

He looked at my dress. Nodded approval. "That'll give him the vapors but good."

Something warm bloomed in my chest. Elvis had sent someone to find me. Had asked for me specifically. Maybe this wasn't just another notch on his belt. Maybe...

But I shut that thought down hard. Hope was dangerous. Hope got you hurt.

But Chick must've caught my expression falling like a bad soufflé, because he patted my elbow with fatherly affection.

"Chin up, darlin'. I know this whole thing has you tied up in knots, but trust me–that boy thinks the sun rises and sets on your pretty little head. I ain't never seen him so gaga."

I managed a wobbly smile, even as my heart did a two-step against my ribs. Chick was sweet to say so, but he didn't know the half of it. Falling for Elvis was like trying to catch a comet with your bare hands–bound to end in flames.

Chick led me through the back halls of the hotel. They all looked the same. Like a maze. Like a dream where you keep trying to find a door that moves. The carpet was thick and red and swallowed our footsteps. 

"Been with Elvis long?" I asked.

"Long enough to know trouble when I see it." He looked at me sideways. Not unkind. Just knowing. "And honey, you're trouble."

"I don't mean to be."

"Nobody ever does."

We stopped at a door like all the other doors. Chick tipped his hat. "This is where I leave you. Remember something though - if he's fool enough to let you slip away, I'll be waiting in the wings."

He winked and was gone, boots silent on the thick carpet. I stood there. The door looked bigger now that I was alone. Everything looked bigger.

I took a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to steady my nerves, smoothed down the dress that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe back home, and knocked. The sound seemed to echo like a gunshot in the quiet hallway.

The door swung open, and there was Elvis. Not the Elvis from television or magazines. Just Elvis. White shirt. Gray wool pants. Hair a little messy like he'd been running his hands through it. When he smiled it wasn't his stage smile. It was something else. Something that made my insides go soft.

"Well if it isn't my good luck charm." He pulled me inside. Fast. Like he was afraid someone might see. "Get in here before we start a scandal. I can see the headlines now - 'Elvis Presley Corrupts Young Songstress.'"

I laughed. I couldn't help it. The nervousness went out of me like air from a balloon.. "I think you're overestimating my ability to cause a scandal," I said, settling onto his couch like I belonged there. "The most exciting thing that's ever happened to me was winning a pie-eating contest when I was twelve."

His face lit up. He clutched his chest and staggered backward. Ham acting. Good ham acting. "A pie-eating champion? In my dressing room? I'm not worthy!"

Then he was on his knees in front of me. His hands were warm on mine. Big hands. Strong hands. Guitar player's hands. His blue eyes danced with mischief. "Tell me your secrets, o great pie queen. The people need to know."

Just like that, he wasn't Elvis Presley anymore. He was just a man with laugh lines around his eyes and a smile that could melt steel. That made him more dangerous. Not because he was famous, but because he was real.

We talked. Easy talk. Good talk. The kind where you forget to watch what you're saying. He sprawled on the couch while I sat in a chair. The distance felt important. Safe. But then he looked at me. Really looked at me.

"I'm scared about tonight." His voice was different. Quiet. Raw. "Scared as hell."

I blinked at him like he'd started speaking in tongues. "You get stage fright?"

"That ain’t even the half of it," his laugh had more edges than a broken mirror. "Honey, I'm about ready to shake out of my skin. Haven't played a venue this big in years." His leg bounced. His fingers drummed against his thigh. Nervous tells. Real ones. "Keep thinking I'll get out there and forget everything. The words. The moves. My own damn name."

Elvis Presley, nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Who'd have thought?

"But you've played hundreds of shows for thousands of people. You're a pro!"

"That was before." The words came out bitter. "Been doing movies for too long. I haven’t exactly done much live performing lately. Feels like starting over."

Looking back, I should've seen it then–the cracks in the armor, the way fame sat on him like a crown made of thorns. But I was too busy falling to notice the warning signs.

He looked at me. His eyes were very blue. Very young. "Truth is, I keep thinking I'll make a fool of myself. In front of everyone." He paused. "In front of you."

Something squeezed in my chest, soft and fierce all at once. "Hey," I said, covering his restless hand with mine. "You are not going to make a fool of yourself. Know how I know?"

His fingers curled around mine like a lifeline. "How?"

"Because I've seen you dance. Even if you forget every word, just do that hip thing. Nobody will give a goddamn what comes out of your mouth."

For a moment, Elvis just stared at me like I'd grown a second head. Then he threw his head back and laughed–not his polite laugh or his stage laugh, but something rich and real and unrestrained.

"Lordy, woman!" he wheezed, clutching his stomach. "You really are somethin' else, you know that?"

I grinned, pleased as punch at making him laugh like that. "I'm serious! Those things are lethal weapons."

"You're a mess." But his eyes were warm. Soft. "An absolute mess."

"And you'll be fine," I said. I squeezed his knee. The muscle was solid under my hand. "The second you see all those faces out there - all those people who love you - it'll click. You'll remember who you are. Why you do this."

Elvis looked at me for a long moment, something raw and unguarded flickering across his face. "You really believe that, don't you?" he said quietly. "You really think I've still got it."

"I know it." And I did. The way you know some things without knowing how you know them. "You're gonna kill it tonight. And I'll be right there cheering you on."

Elvis's throat worked as he swallowed hard, his eyes suspiciously bright. "What did I ever do to deserve a gal like you in my corner? I must've been a saint in a past life."

"Well, I don't know about sainthood, but you definitely rocked a mean pair of blue suede shoes," I teased, trying to lighten the moment before I drowned in those eyes.

It worked. He threw back his head and laughed again. The sound wrapped around me like a blanket. "Baby, you're too much!" His grin was pure boy. Pure trouble. "Stick with me, kid. I'll show you a thing or two about rocking more than just shoes."

The promise in his words sent heat crawling up my neck. Amazing how he could make something so innocent sound like sin with chocolate sauce on top.

"I'm going to hold you to that, Mr. Presley."

"You better."

Elvis glanced at the clock and sighed, some of the laughter fading from his eyes. "Guess I better start getting into my glad rags. Show's about to start, and I've got a whole lot of hearts to break."

I should have asked whose heart he meant to break first. But I didn't. I never did ask the right questions.

He stood and pulled me up with him. "Walk me to the stage door?" His voice got that vulnerable edge again. "Would mean a lot to have you there."

My heart said yes. My head knew better. "There'll be photographers."

"Yeah." He sighed. The sound hurt something in my chest. "You're right. Smart girl."

I squeezed his hand, holding his gaze. "I'll be with you every step of the way," I promised. "In spirit, if not in body."

He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to my knuckles. It felt like a brand. Like a promise. Like a lie. "You're my guiding light tonight, honey. My lucky star."

Standing there in his dressing room, drowning in those blue eyes, I felt like I could happily spend the rest of my life mapping the planes and angles of his face. Must've been temporary insanity that made me reach up and straighten his collar, letting my fingers linger on the warm skin of his neck.

Elvis growled—actually growled—low and rough in his throat. His hands found my hips, tugging me closer until I could feel the heat of him, smell the spicy-sweet scent of his cologne. "Y'know, I've half a mind to cancel this show and..."

Someone knocked. Sharp. Loud. I jumped like I'd been shot. Elvis muttered something that would've made a sailor blush.

"Thirty minutes, boss!" A voice called through the door.

He let out a hard breath, his fingers flexing on my hips. "Guess that's my cue," he said ruefully. His eyes never left mine. "To be continued. Bank on it."

Then, with one last scorching look that turned my insides to melted butter, he turned on his heel and strode out, leaving me weak-kneed and panting in his wake.

*

The house lights dimmed and the band struck up, and holy shit, did that crowd go wild. The kind of wild that makes you wonder if they've been saving their screams up special, just for this moment. Shrieks and whistles drowned out the opening bars as a single spotlight pierced the dark.

And there he was.

Elvis prowled onstage in a black gi-style jumpsuit that probably had its own insurance policy, his hair gleaming like polished onyx under the lights. The audience lost what was left of their minds, but Elvis? Elvis’s eyes searched only for me. He caught my gaze and grinned, a private, knee-weakening thing that set every nerve ending aflame. I clutched my glass so hard I thought it would shatter. 

Sweet mercy. Maybe Chick hadn't been exaggerating after all.

The show was something else entirely - all hip-swiveling, high-energy dancing, and enough eye contact to melt the sun. Elvis shimmied and crooned and thrusted like his life depended on it, but every so often, his gaze would find mine across the crowd, dark with promises that made my toes curl in my fancy new shoes.

During "Love Me Tender," he changed one of the lyrics ever so slightly, singing "for my songbird" instead of "for my darling." If you weren't listening for it, you might've missed it. But I heard it. And when he winked at me right after, I nearly spontaneously combusted right there in my seat.

That's the thing about falling for Elvis. Every little thing feels like a secret message. Even when your brain knows better, your heart keeps right on believing.

I spent the whole show strung between pure joy and pure terror. My skin felt electric every time he looked my way. He was marking me as his. And God help me, I wanted to be marked.

That little voice of reason - the one that sounded suspiciously like Deena - tried to pipe up. I was sure that if she knew the whole truth, she’d hate me. "He does this with all the girls, dummy. You aren't special. He's MARRIED, remember?"

I told that voice to stuff it where the sun don't shine. For one night, I just wanted to pretend this was real, that Elvis's heated promises were mine and mine alone. That maybe, just maybe, he actually did feel something genuine for the nobody from Chicago.

By the time he got to "Can't Help Falling in Love," I was gone. Lost. My skin felt too tight for my body. Elvis took his bows like a king receiving tribute. Blew kisses. Reached for grabbing hands. My own hands stung from clapping. My face ached from smiling.

He'd done it. He'd absolutely killed it. The nerves, the self-doubt - all of it had vanished the moment he hit that stage. And something in me knew that if he asked, I was going to go all the way. No holding back, no second thoughts. Just full steam ahead off this cliff we were dancing on.

I barely noticed Joe until he materialized at my elbow, grinning like he had all the secrets of the universe tucked in his back pocket.

“This way, Miss Pedretti.”

Riding high on adrenaline and something that felt dangerously like hope, I let myself be herded to Elvis's suite by security guards built like brick walls with legs. The place was already jumping - a whirlwind of backslapping and champagne popping and enough cigarette smoke to give cancer to a small country.

I recognized some faces from before - Red and Sonny and the rest of the Memphis Mafia playing court jesters to Elvis's king, Colonel Parker looking like a cat who'd found the canary, hotel bigwigs in suits worth more than my car. But there were new faces too - starlets with magazine-cover smiles, hangers-on hoping for their big break, and a surprising number of blue-haired ladies clutching Elvis albums like holy relics.

For a second, panic grabbed me by the throat. I was a minnow in a shark tank. But then Jerry caught my eye across the room and waved me over with a friendly wink.

"There she is!" he crowed, throwing an arm around my shoulders like we were old war buddies. "Didn't our boy knock 'em dead tonight?"

I grinned up at him, letting his easy friendship settle my nerves like a warm shot of bourbon. "He sure did. I've never seen anything like it. I thought that one gal in the front row was gonna faint when he smiled at her."

"Aw, that ain't nothing!" Red chimed in, snatching champagne off a passing tray like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat. "Back in '56, we had girls dropping like flies every time he so much as moved a finger. Quite a time to be alive, let me tell you!"

The Memphis Mafia folded me into their ranks like I'd always been there, trading stories and jokes that made me feel like I was part of something bigger than myself. It was intoxicating, being on the inside looking out instead of the other way around.

Speaking of intoxicating... Elvis was holding court across the room, surrounded by suits and sparkly dresses like a king with his courtiers. He caught my eye over their shoulders and winked, his grin electric even from thirty feet away. That one look hit me like a lightning bolt straight to the gut.

That's when I felt it. The warning tingle. Like in those old movies when the hero knows trouble's coming. But I was already too far gone to listen.

I was debating the merits of "accidentally" bumping into him when a gnarled hand clamped onto my wrist. I turned to find myself nose-to-nose with a little old lady in a pink pillbox hat that probably remembered World War II firsthand. Her eyes, magnified by glasses thick as Coca-Cola bottles, peered up at me with the intensity of a prosecutor at a murder trial.

"Priscilla, dear, is that you?" Her voice shook like autumn leaves. "Oh, I just have to tell you how much I admire you! Standing by your man all these years. Through thick and thin. You're an inspiration!"

My stomach dropped. Fast. Hard. She thought I was his wife. His real wife. His married wife.

"Oh, no, I'm not—" I stammered, heat climbing my neck. But she was already barreling ahead like a runaway train, clutching my hand in her paper-dry grip.

"Albert and I made it fifty-three years," she said. Still had my hand. "But you and Elvis - the army, those awful Hollywood girls, all that time apart. It's a wonder you've managed so well!"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. What could I say? Sorry, ma'am. I'm not his wife. I'm just the latest girl he's trying to bed while his real wife sits at home. Looking in those rheumy eyes, bright with admiration, I couldn't do it.

So I just smiled and patted her hand, mumbling something about the power of commitment. She beamed at me like I'd just handed her the secret to eternal life and tottered off to spread her marital wisdom elsewhere.

I sagged against the wall, guilt sitting in my gut like a bad burger. What kind of person was I, playing at being Elvis's devoted wife when the real Mrs. Presley was probably at home wondering where her husband was and who he was with? And why wasn't she here on opening night, anyway?

The room suddenly felt too hot, too close, like all the air had been sucked out and replaced with cigarette smoke and accusations. I needed space. I needed air. I needed—

"There you are! I've been looking all over for you, Valley cat."

Elvis materialized in front of me, like the devil when you say his name. His jacket was gone. Shirt half open. Hair damp with sweat from the show. He looked good enough to eat. And he knew it.

I plastered on a smile, trying to shake off my guilt. This was supposed to be a magical night, wasn't it? My one chance to live like a star, to be Elvis's girl, even if only in the shadows.

"Hey," I managed, praying my voice didn't betray the tornado in my head. "If it isn't the man of the hour himself. I'd ask how it feels to kill it, but something tells me you already know."

He laughed, low and throaty like good aged whiskey, and took my hand. My pulse jumped at the casual touch. "Careful with those compliments, honey. My head won't fit through the door."

"I'm not worried." The banter felt good. Safe. "If your head gets too big, I'll just deflate it. I'm handy that way."

"A real Jill of all trades, aren't ya?" he drawled, tugging me closer until I stumbled, caught off guard by his nearness. His hands found my hips, steadying me, and I swear each finger burned through the silk like a brand.

His eyes held trouble. Heat. "Stick around. Maybe you'll show me just how handy you can be."

Christ. The implications in those words could've set fire to a wet paper bag.

Before I could string together a coherent response, he leaned in close, his lips brushing my ear like a whisper. “The boys are gonna clear out these folks. Stay a while. Keep me company."

My throat went desert-dry. I stammered, cursing my suddenly uncooperative tongue. "If you're sure I won't be imposing..."

He pulled back just far enough to meet my eyes, and something in his gaze softened like butter in the sun. "Valerie, trust me. There is nowhere else I'd rather be than right here with you."

How did he do that? Make every word sound like a promise written in stars?

The next hour passed in a blur of goodbyes and meaningful looks across the room. The crowd thinned out gradually, some folks leaving under their own steam, others getting gentle but firm assistance from security. Soon it was just Elvis, his core crew, and me.

I perched on the arm of a velvet sofa, trying to blend into the scenery while the guys swapped tour stories and inside jokes. Elvis sprawled in a chair nearby, nursing a coke, sneaking me these molten looks that made me feel like I was the only woman in the world.

Finally, Red stretched and heaved himself up like a bear coming out of hibernation. "Welp, I'm about ready to hit the hay. These old bones ain't what they used to be." He shot Elvis a look heavy with meaning. "Reckon y'all got things handled in here?"

Elvis's lips twitched, his eyes never leaving mine. "Yeah, man. I think we're good. Y'all head on to bed now. Me and Valerie here will just... clean up a bit."

The silence that followed was loaded as a gun on New Year's Eve. Then, with a chorus of goodnights and knowing winks that made my cheeks burn, the Memphis Mafia filed out.

And then there were two.

Elvis finished his drink and set it aside with deliberate care. Then he unfolded from his chair with the kind of grace that should've been illegal in at least forty-eight states. My heart started doing the cha-cha against my ribs as he approached, all leashed power and barely contained heat.

He stopped close. Very close. I could smell his cologne mixing with stage smoke and sweat. Could have touched him. Wanted to touch him.

"C'mon, darlin'." He held out one ring-laden hand, his eyes molten in the low light. "Let's go somewhere a little more private."

I slid my hand into his, letting him pull me to my feet and into the circle of his arms. Had to tip my head back to meet his gaze, my hands coming to rest against the solid wall of his chest.

"Private sounds perfect," I breathed. "Lead the way."

His grin flashed quick and sharp as a knife in the dark. He laced his fingers through mine and led me through a door I hadn't even noticed, into a hallway lined with identical mahogany doors.

We stopped at one. Elvis produced a key from his pocket and unlocked it, gesturing for me to go first. I stepped inside and froze, blinking in the sudden brightness. It was a suite that would've made Midas jealous - all plush carpets and gleaming wood and what looked suspiciously like actual gold leaf on the ceiling.

But what caught my eye was the table in the center of the room. It was set for two, with crisp white linens and gleaming silver, bottles sweating gently in a golden bucket. Candles waited unlit, promising romance and secrets and things we probably shouldn't do.

My heart did a funny little skip. He'd planned this. Planned a private, romantic dinner just for us.

I turned to him, words stumbling over themselves like drunks at closing time. "Elvis, this is... you didn't have to..."

He shrugged. For a second I saw that country boy under all the flash. "Wasn't any trouble. Just thought it'd be nice. Just us. No crowds. No eyes." His mouth quirked. "Plus figured you'd be hungry. I know I am."

Right on cue, my stomach let out a growl that would've made a lion proud. We both looked down at it, then at each other, and burst out laughing.

"Well, I reckon that's my answer!" Elvis wheezed, clutching his side. "C'mon, let's feed that beast before it stages a revolt."

Still snickering, he pulled out my chair with a flourish that would've done a French waiter proud. I sank into it, half-expecting him to ring for room service or summon some harried assistant with silver platters.

Instead, Elvis disappeared into the adjoining kitchenette and returned with... a greasy paper sack?

My eyebrows must've hit my hairline because he grinned like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "What, did you think it'd be all caviar and champagne? Nah, that ain't my style."

He dumped the bag over our fine china. Burgers and fries spilled out. The smell hit like a fist. Grease and salt and cheese and everything right about late night food.

"Sent Sonny for these,"  Elvis explained, sliding into his seat with more grace than any man had a right to possess. "Knew I'd be craving some post-show grease. And I figured, what's better than sharing a little taste of home with my songbird?"

There it was again. Songbird. That name that made me feel owned and scared all at once.

"You figured right," I said, snagging a fry that was probably worth more on that china than it had been in the paper bag. "Nothing better than burgers after midnight. Although..." I squinted at the foil peeking out from under a sesame seed bun. "Is that... peanut butter?"

The guilty grin came back. Made him look sixteen. "Caught me. Peanut butter and bacon. Picked it up in the army. Sounds crazy but trust me - it's heaven."

We dove into our burgers like we hadn't eaten in days, the silence broken only by appreciative moans and the rustle of foil. And damn if he wasn't right about that peanut butter and bacon combination. Not that I'd ever tell him that - his ego was healthy enough as it was.

"So," I said, dabbing at a spot of ketchup on my chin, "you were in the army?"

He stopped mid-bite. Those blue eyes went wide. He swallowed. Put down his burger. "You really didn't know?"

"Well," I said carefully, studying my fries like they held the secrets of the universe, "I, uh… I never really followed you that closely. I mean, of course I know your music and all. But the details of your life? Nah."

He stared at me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then, slowly, a grin spread across his features. It was like sunrise breaking.

"What's so funny?"

"Just thinking I found the only girl in America who doesn't know my whole life story."

Heat crept up my neck. "What do you mean?"

He leaned back. Watched me. The look made my skin prickle. "You're the first girl in a long time who hasn't tried to impress me. Who doesn't hang on every word. Who doesn't agree with everything I say just to please me."

"That's sad," I said.

"Sad?"

I waved a fry in the air. Trying to find the right words. "You're a person. Real flesh and blood. With thoughts and feelings beyond what magazines print. It's sad people don't want to know that side. The real you." I paused. Wondered if I'd stepped on a landmine. "Must be strange. Meeting new people who think they already know everything about you."

"Well. What they think they know." His face went soft. Something warm and raw that made my heart flip. "You mean that, don't you? You really wanna get to know me. Not Elvis the star. Just Elvis."

"'Course I do," I said softly, surprised by how much I meant it. "You think I'd be eating burgers at 4 am with just anybody I meet? I promise you I am not that kind of girl." I winked, trying to lighten the moment before it got too heavy.

As our appetites gave way to pleasant fullness, we talked about everything and nothing - favorite movies (his: "The Way of All Flesh," mine: anything with cowboys), craziest fan encounters (had to give it to Elvis on that one, though my tale of a particularly persistent flasher in Boise nearly made him snort soda out his nose), best practical jokes played on unsuspecting bandmates (turned out we both had a gift for the strategic placement of whoopee cushions).

But as the laughter died down and the food dwindled to crumbs, a tension crept into the air between us. That elephant in the room we'd been dancing around all night, getting bigger and harder to ignore with every passing minute.

You know in horror movies, when you want to yell at the girl not to open that door? This felt like that. But like every girl in every horror movie, I opened it anyway.

"Elvis." I took a breath. Steadied myself. "Feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but... what about your wife?"

He stiffened as if I'd jabbed him with a cattle prod, his jaw going tight as piano wire. For a moment, I thought he might shut down completely, retreat behind that million-dollar smile and leave me out in the cold.

But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping like Atlas getting tired of holding up the world. "It's complicated."

My stomach knotted like sailor's rope. "You still love her?"

Silence stretched between us, long as a California highway. Then, soft: "I'll always care for my wife. She's been in my life a long time. But love?" He shook his head. His eyes looked far away. "No. Not anymore."

My breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat. "What happened?"

He rubbed his face, suddenly looked all of his thirty-four years. Maybe more. "We grew apart. Wanted different things. Been living separate lives a while now. Barely talk except when we have to." He stopped. "Think we both know it's done. Has been for a long time."

Looking back now, I see it clear. The practiced pauses. The perfect timing. The way he probably told that same sad marriage story to a hundred girls in a hundred hotel rooms. But that's the thing about hindsight - it's got 20/20 vision and a mean streak a mile wide.

The night wore on, and I felt my eyelids getting heavy. A glance at the clock told me it was just before six in the morning, though time felt different in Elvis's orbit, like we existed in our own little bubble where normal rules didn't apply.

"I hate to say it," I said, stifling a yawn, "but I think I should be heading back to my room. It's been an amazing night."

Elvis reached over and took my hand, his eyes doing that thing - that soul-searching, make-you-feel-like-the-only-girl-in-the-world thing that probably took years to perfect. "Will you come back again? I feel like we've barely scratched the surface. There's so much more I want to talk to you about."

Hook.

I smiled, my heart fluttering like a teenage girl's diary entry. "I'd love to."

"Great. How about—"

Line.

I held up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "Why don't you call me and invite me? Properly, I mean." Playing hard to get while already caught - how's that for irony?

His lip curled in that practiced amusement, a mischievous glint in his eye that had probably launched a thousand panty-drops. "Etiquette, huh? Alright, I'll play by your rules. I'll call you tomorrow night, say, around five-thirty? Room 2806, right?"

And sinker.

"I'll be waiting."

"Lamar," Elvis called out, smooth as silk. "Would you be so kind as to walk Miss Pedretti back to her room?"

With a final squeeze of my hand and a promise to call, Elvis bid me goodnight. And there I was, floating on air like I'd just starred in my own personal fairy tale, trying to convince myself I wasn’t just the latest in an assembly line of wide-eyed dreamers who thought they were special.

The next day crawled by slower than molasses in January. I couldn't bring myself to leave my room, terrified I might miss his call. By the time five-thirty rolled around, my nerves were wound tighter than a two-dollar watch.

When the phone finally rang, I waited two rings before picking up - didn't want to seem too eager, after all. As if I hadn't spent the whole time pacing a groove in the carpet.

"Hello?" I answered, trying to sound like I hadn't been staring at the phone for the past hour.

"Could I please speak with Valerie?" That voice, smooth as Tennessee whiskey, made my knees go weak even over the phone line.

I couldn't resist playing coy, like we were reading from a script he'd written just for us. "Who’s calling?"

"Elvis."

"Elvis who?"

There was a beat of silence, followed by a low chuckle that probably melted panties coast to coast. "You're a bonehead."

The playful exchange was just what my ego needed–more fuel for the fantasy that I was somehow different, somehow special. Elvis proceeded to explain the arrangements he'd made—he’d have his people call to arrange another late night dinner tomorrow. I hung up the phone, my heart soaring with anticipation.

Maybe staying in Vegas a little while longer wasn't such a bad idea after all.

If only I'd known then what I know now... but that's the thing about falling. By the time you realize you're in trouble, you're already halfway to the ground.

Taglist: @whositmcwhatsit  @ellie-24  @arrolyn1114 @missmaywemeetagain  @be-my-ally  @vintageshanny  @prompted-wordsmith @precious-little-scoundrel @peskybedtime @lookingforrainbows @austinbutlersgirl67@lala1267 @thatbanditqueen @dontcrydaddy @lovingdilfs @elvispresleygf @plasticfantasticl0ver @ab4eva @presleysweetheart @chasingwildflowers @elvispresleywife @uh-all-shook-up @xxquinnxx @edgeofrealitys-blog@velvetprvsley @woundmetender @avengen @richardslady121 @presleyhearted @kendralavon7 @18lkpeters@lookingforrainbows @elvisalltheway101 @sissylittlefeather  @atleastpleasetelephone @eliseinmemphis@tacozebra051 @thetaoofzoe @peskybedtime @shakerattlescroll @crash-and-cure @ccab @i-r-i-n-a-a @devilsflowerr@dirtyelvisfant4sy @elvislittleone @foreverdolly @getyourpresleyfix@gayforelvis @headfullofpresley @h0unds-of-h3ll @hipshakingkingcreole @p0lksaladannie @doll-elvis @tacozebra051 @richardslady121 @jaqueline19997 @myradiaz@livelaughelvis @deke-rivers-1957 @jhoneybees @atleastpleasetelephone @eapep @elvispresleywife @that-hotdog @landlockedmermaid77 @sissylittlefeather @kawaiiwitchy

[markbbrooklyn]

UPDATE: FOUR PHANTOMS IN CONCERT PBS NYC-13 12:30AM Sat 10/5

Singers Brent Barrett, John Cudia, Franc D’Ambrosio and Ciarán Sheehan, who cumulatively have performed the iconic Phantom role more than 6,000 times, celebrate the music of Broadway and more. The concert includes a stunning finale paying tribute to The Phantom of the Opera. Kaley Ann Voorhees, who played the role of Christine in the Broadway production, is a special guest star.

***********************************************************************

As far as I know, until now, it was only available on PBS Passport (a streaming service which is by $ub$cription only)

Thanks to a Facebook post by ex-Christine Marie Danvers, I found out that it is now being broadcast on "free TV".

So if you receive Channel 13's signal in the NYC area and want to watch/DVR it, it's on shortly after midnight!

Elsewhere, check your local PBS channel, but don't waste your time going to the PBS website - it is still for Pa$$port $ub$cribers only!

[modpoppy]

BWAHAHA YOU FOOL YOU CANNOT STOP ME FROM DOING ALL THREE

UNIQUE THINGS ABOUT ME:

the mind wipe.

number one phantom fan! thats my pookie

i have a particular type of scar on my arm ive never seen anyone have the same kind of! its not a very unique circumstance per se i think im just the only emptyheaded fuck (ha) to have accomplished legit scarring from it

not many people can say they have a special interest in accounting can they! i made an accountant ace attorney au, i made kaeya genshin impact’s special interest accounting (and made him an accountant in my au fic), i could talk about it all day!

i

cant think of a fifth thing

FOUR THINGS IM PASSIONATE ABOUT!!!!!

PLUSHIES!! i like plushies a lot and they make me happy and i have too many of them and ive identified which brands i like i wish they had plushie conventions where people can find and share their plushies

WIZARDS im obsessed with wizards i wnat to be awozard i w anta to be vwizarf wi e a aa. rd

im very very passionate about chainsaw man, devilman crybaby, and nge, and how they play out literally vs the narrative subtext vs fandom perception, though i mostly care about csm bc its the most recent and most intense. i WILL DEFEND DENJI FROM WILLFUL MISCHARACTERIZATION WITH MY LIFE

um. the phantom. i dunno

THREE GOOD MEMORIIIIIIIIES

……. well this is hard of course given the mind wipe, and i was mostly left with unsavory memories, but ill sort through and find some good ones.

when i first became active on tiktok, i ordered some jjba plushies, and as a freebie got a Pesci plush. i didnt want it, but didnt feel good tossing it or selling it, so i broadcast to give it away for free and was able to send it to a pesci fan. i like doing things like that

i think i recall getting my hair done up nice and trying seafood for the first time. im really happy in the photo so i think things went well

the dethklok concert was really great! a lot of people complimented my hair and my outfit, one guy let me move in front of him to see slightly better, and someone even gave me a free pickles pin!!

ignore that two of those are post mind wipe.

WAHAAAA THATS ALL OF MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE TY FOR ASKINGGGGG

side note: hey guys i dont know if the mind wipes working anymore!!

[ghostly-shenanigans-in-progress]

Facts and Junk for the Ghostly Pokémon au

Because making character designs and stuff for about 8 gym leaders plus Danny and co. are understandly taking later than expected.

The Amity region is well known for its phenomenon with shiny Pokémon frequencies being higher than any other region to date. It’s high for all types except for ghost types of which hold a significant meaning to the folklore of this region. As the stories tell, those shiny ghost type Pokémon are considered to be the reincarnations of previous loved one and ancestors that actively search for their descendants that have become trainers in order to protect and help them achieve their dreams through their journeys.

Those of note with shiny ghost types on their teams are Danny, Tucker, Sam, Valerie, the gym leaders, elite four and other side characters of note I won’t reveal just yet.

Due to the shiny phenomenon, this has obviously made the region a popular target for Pokémon poachers, and other illegal gang activities to visit, displace or destroy the environment these Pokémon reside in to make bank.

As a result, entry for any outside trainers and tourists is limited and extremely difficult to receive due to the extensive rules enforced by Amity’s game wardens and guys in white. Secondly, the severity of Pokémon attacks and frequency of mass outbreaks in this region are also tied to the security of this region being so tight as this region is very dangerous for newcomers who have not been raised and taught how to deal with this environment.

To improve safety precautions and travel between cities, the Amity region has massive national parks built near each major city or town that’s overlooked by the game wardens and park rangers. Trainers are able to transverse as they please but off the trail areas are off-limits unless the trainer has ranger status or earned the equivalent with earning all the gym badges or receiving the required number of bounties that are enforced by their boards in each park.

Danny’s Ace partner is a shiny Mimikyu he named Phantom or Spooky. He’s had him before he started his journey at age 13 after his parents’ strange machine of which would harness the power of space time distortion portals which naturally occur in their region popped this little guy out. Since he felt bad for displacing Mimikyu from its place, he promised to do the means necessary to return it back to its home. (But in the end Danny realizes he gave Mimikyu its home here with him than to his previous trainer in the future *wink* *wink*).

The most popular gym leader is Ember in the region. Her concerts are always sold out in her city and getting past her in the gym leader test takes forever to schedule.

There’s actually a former monarchy that is in charge of the elite four isle and grounds for the area. These people are Dorathea and Aragon but also the champion, Godric Pariah, who are the last of the royal dragon trainer lineage.

Clockwork is the professor you meet in your journey but is unknowingly the past champion of the region years back. He collaborates with the Fentons in their ghost Pokémon studies and their connection to the recent frequency of the space time distortion events and sleeplessness among the region’s Pokémon as of late.

The enemy/antagonists of this series is Team Nocturnal. The group has a front through a company of which helps trainers treat the recent sleeplessness issue that’s been affecting Pokémon and now people too. Supposedly, the success rate for treatments have been high but the frequency of previous patients coming back to the facility is oddly high despite it. The CEO of the company hasn’t commented on the success but rather insists that routine treatment is what helps prevent a relapse into the sleeplessness disorder.

Another gang you could run into in the region is team Shadow. A biker gang ran by Johnny 13, and Kitty which travels throughout the cities to cause havoc and fun whenever they feel like it. Oddly, they are more benevolent than aggressive with their actions. Usually, helping trainers through government roadblocks set by the national parks or giving them items to heal Pokémon’s status conditions and such. Despite this, they’re often the headache for the head game warden who has struggled to bring them to justice. The team gets their name because of Johnny’s Gengar, Shadow, who is their mascot next to Kitty’s smoochum.

The alliance with Team Shadow is one of several ways trainers can proceed to all park areas without having all badges in tow or escorts. Another is through collecting bounties and earning a ranger rank through the national parks’ system that allows trainers to help conservation and protection of the ecosystem under the surveillance of the park rangers. It’s a faster but more dangerous route to gain full access to the areas. Though, those who take this path eventually become park rangers in the future.

[omegasmileyface]

I wrote a little 1000-word (ok, 986-word) story about my Danny Phantom gost OC (specifically ghostsona) Joule! enjoy :)

(Edit 4/25/24: an edited version of this story is on ao3 here!)

===

When vision fades in, your eyes are already open. The muddled blurs of different shades of green make themselves into distinct swirls, curling in too many directions to count. It looks three-dimensional, but it feels more than that. Four or five, maybe.

Your body has made its presence again. Though it isn't blending from numbness to tingling skin like it usually does after passing out, instead there is just a sort of knowledge of where you begin and where everything else ends. Where proprioception is normally like a quiet physical static felt in your limbs, now it's like having a song stuck in your head. A background thought. You cannot feel the physical sensation of your body, nor its numbness. It's not strange, but it wasn't like that before.

…Before? Before what? Obviously there was a before, before the greens came into focus. The same way sleeping leaves a gap in your memory. You woke up, obviously. But what about before you went to sleep?

Maybe… pixels? Pixels on a monitor? But in what context?

That hurts. You don't want to reach back for more memories anymore. There's a wall there, and hitting it hurts.

What a shame that the only thing you can remember is green. Green is fine, but it's not nearly your favorite color. Some kind of hot pink would be much better, maybe a cyan too.

You're still just staring. What happens if you move?

…You can't move, so there's no way to tell.

Okay, earlier you felt your body. Is it still there? The quiet thought isn't in the background anymore, it's just gone. No more body. But you know you can have one, because you did.

You think to yourself, I have limbs, and a face where my senses go. You think this until you don't have to concentrate on it to know it's true. Then you think I'm sitting up, and I'm looking at my hands, and you do so. Silly… silly… silly you, you forgot about having a body!

Your hands are black and clawed, and they only blur a little at the edges. You're happy to see the black, since it means you won't have to wait for nail polish to dry anymore. You run them across your face, relishing in the odd way your awareness becomes gooey and undefined as your boundaries touch and form loops of you. When your hand is on your face, with the elbow bent out to the side, your shape has a hole in it!

Your hair floats around your head with all the silky chaos of being let down underwater. It's not long enough to see clearly, but you catch its color briefly. #ff0086. Beautiful!

What does the rest of you look like? You reach for that awareness of your body, and you find a thought holding the instructions to render you. You have #3a53c3 skin which fades to #000000 at the extremities and chin-length pink-red hair, which is held back at the crown by sharp #00ffff horns. Your lips and fangs are black, and black markings curve over your cheeks. Your eyes are black with cyan irises, and below the waist, you taper off to a long tail. You're dressed like you might be going to a concert.

How lucky you are to be this pretty! You don't often get to be.

Wait, why do your thoughts have instructions? That's juicy! Where is that going? Do you have some kind of GPU? You trace the thought back to the source, and find your mind—

But it's not in your head. You feel everything you know, the very bounds of your existence, everything that is real to you and your perception and your form, in your chest.

How interesting! All things— not that things don't exist outside of you, you're not a solipsist, but as far as your identity could be aware— all things, contained in such a small area?

And it follows code?

You tell yourself to make something, just to see what happens, and a pink spark arcs across your palm.

Gorgeous! How does it do that? Why does it do that? What sorts of things could you do by programming yourself? What puzzle-language would you solve-write in? Where are the rules?

And how can you break them?

You want to know everything there is to know about this self, this mind, this core. You need to learn how to instruct it, how to answer questions and solve puzzles with it. That's why you're here, even. Whatever put you here, whatever act of entropy wound up stringing your consciousness together out of the green, it only happened so you can figure out how the rules of this world play together. There are secrets only you can uncover. There is so much interesting detail buried in the four-or-so spacial dimensions stretching out from this point, and you've only seen this tiny block of it! What are you waiting for?

A tiny lump of distortion carves its way through the green next to you. All the same colors and energies as its surroundings, but in a different shape. It has red eyes, and they don't even glance at you. It doesn't have a core, you feel when you look at it. If it did, you'd know things about it, but it doesn't, so the space where that knowledge would go is empty.

Goodness, are there more selves than just you in here? Are there cores that aren't the same as yours? How can they differ? Do they come in different colors? Specialties? Languages? Is there lore? A theology?

If you're not the only one here, you need a user ID. Something to identify you. A name.

You like J sounds, and you saw some electricity earlier, so you call yourself Joule.

It's Joule.

Joule faces the direction the green coreless blob went, and they make themself go forward.

[1mnobodywhoareyou]

Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree

on ao3, rated G, Julie and the Phantoms

The boys are hanging behind after their school band practice. They had just been given the song list and sheet music for the upcoming Christmas concert and Sunset Curve had even been given permission to do a song of their own. They were excitedly discussing which song they could add to the line up. It was *technically* the elementary school’s concert but the high school band always performed and Sunset Curve took every opportunity they were given to play. Reggie is excited to be able to play both his bass and saxophone and the other three stick with their preferred instruments.

They’re interrupted by their band teacher doubling back into the room and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees them. “Oh good, you’re still here! Luke and Bobby? Would you be open to accompanying the kids for the concert?”

Luke and Bobby look at one another and then back to their teacher, pointing to themselves. “Us?”

Their teacher nods, “yeah, normally I’d play piano for them but we were talking and it might be nice to change things up with guitar this year. And feature our students some more.”

Luke beams at that and Bobby shrugs slightly before speaking for both of them. He knows that Luke isn’t going to turn down the opportunity to play for a crowd, accompanied by kindergarteners or otherwise. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“It won’t be too much for you two? The school band, yours, and these songs?”

Luke shakes his head vigorously and claps Bobby on the back, “nope! We can handle it!” 

“Alright then, thanks boys! I’ll get you everything tomorrow. Get me your song choice by then too, please.”

“You got it, sir!” Luke offers a salute and their teacher shakes his head, amused. 

“Keep this room how you found it please,” he walks out of the room, leaving the boys as they’d been before being interrupted. 

Luke pumps his fist, “YES!”

An amused grin takes over Alex’s face, “it’s the elementary school.”

“So? It’s an opportunity to play! And it’s not a book club!” The boys had only formally been a band for less than a year and they’d just finally found their footing and were playing every opportunity they could. 

“Hey, I love playing book club!” Reggie exclaims and Luke laughs, pinching Reggie’s cheeks the same way that the older ladies had a tendency to do. 

“You just like charming the grandmas.”

Reggie bats Luke’s hands away, rubbing his face. “What of it? They love me! And send us home with tasty treats every week.” Reggie’s gaze starts to gloss over as if he’s lost in thought.

Bobby wraps his arm around Reggie’s shoulders with a laugh of his own, jostling Reggie out of his treat-related daze. “Let’s feed the insatiable monster before we lose him to daydreaming. Again.”

“I resemble that remark,” Reggie murmurs while Luke and Alex laugh and they grab their things on their way out of the room. Alex doubles back to turn off the light, wanting to ensure that they’ll be allowed to continue using the space until they can figure out another rehearsal (and instrument storage) option. He takes his place between Bobby and Luke, wrapping his arms around their shoulders so that the four of them take up most of the hallway as they walk toward the doors.

—

They decide to head to the Patterson’s today and are just finishing up their snack, making their individual cases for the song they want to cover, when Emily gets home. 

“Afternoon boys, how was school?”

Luke answers her around a mouthful of food, “good, Ma! We get to play for the Christmas concert this year.”

“Luke, how many times do I have to ask you not to talk with food in your mouth?”

He swallows, “sorry, Ma.”

“What song are you doing this year?” All four of them have been in the school band since fifth grade and the Pattersons had managed to make every performance. And all of the years prior, with Luke’s excited performances alongside his classmates. He lived to make the audience laugh and succeeded every time. His teachers stopped bothering to try reining him in very early on. Mitch and Emily stopped feeling the embarrassment of having a kid who demanded the spotlight by the time he reached third grade. This was the first year he got to do anything on his own though.

“The band is playing a really cool medley mashup! And, Ma! WE get to play!” he gestures toward his friends and she raises an eyebrow. “Like as Sunset Curve,” he clarifies excitedly.

“Luke’s very excited,” Alex explains drily, as if Luke’s excitement wasn’t apparent to all of them.

“I see,” she replies cooly and Luke’s face falls slightly. 

His friends clock it immediately and Bobby speaks up next, “they asked Luke and I to accompany the kids too.”

“That’s very nice for you boys,” Emily says. “It’s a lot of songs to learn.”

“We can handle it, Ma. It’s not like we haven’t been singing them since we could talk or anything.”

“You’re right,” she concedes and makes her way through to the kitchen. “Make sure you boys clean up please. Are any of you staying for dinner tonight?”

Reggie confirms his attendance while Alex and Bobby bow out, claiming they need to be with their own families for the evening.

“What if we wrote our own?” Luke suggests after everything for dinner gets sorted.

“Luke, no. We don’t have time for that!” Alex tells him. Luke’s face falls into a pout and Alex sighs, “what if you write one for next year and we can ask to perform it then?”

Luke’s face brightens slightly before falling back into a frown as he gets lost in thought.

“What if we just did Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree? Twist it to make it our sound but it’s still classic,” Reggie suggests. 

Bobby puts his fingers to his chin in thought before digging out the program they’d been given at school. “It’s not on the list,” he confirms.

Luke pulls out his notebook and starts writing out the adjustments he can hear playing in his mind. The others watch him for a moment before looking at one another in amusement. They know they’ve lost him to the songwriting void. 

Luke jumps up suddenly, running to the family room and digging through his family’s record and tape collection. He comes up empty and yells toward the kitchen. “Ma! Where do we keep our Christmas records?”

Emily comes around the corner, drying her hands. “They’re in the Christmas bins. I haven’t brought them out yet. What do you need?”

“I want to make sure I have this song right.”

“Does it need to be right this second?”

“Mooooom, the music is flowing! Don’t harsh my vibe!”

Emily puts her hands up in mock defense, “no harshing of vibes here. I’ll get your Dad to pull things out this weekend.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

Bobby decides to take that moment to interject, “Luke, one of the teachers will probably have everything we need. We can ask tomorrow.”

Luke sighs but concedes. There’s only so far that his memory can take him with this. 

—

Bobby was right and they are able to get the sheet music from their music teacher the next day. They lose Luke to his arrangement process for their entire lunch break but he comes out of it triumphant and ready to practice with the boys. They make slight adjustments together at the end of the day and wind up with something they’re all happy with.

They spend the next several weeks fine tuning things and practicing and before too long the night of the concert arrives. Luke is excitedly bouncing in place and keeps looking out in the audience for his parents. None of the rest of the boys’ parents come to anything any more and look forward to Mitch and Emily’s support when it’s offered to them. 

Reggie bounds backstage and up to Luke. “They’re here!” 

It would take intimate knowledge of Luke to notice the shift in his energy at the news but all three of his bandmates clock it. 

Luke accompanies the first three grades before joining the high school band for their performance and Bobby takes over the final three. There is a stark difference in the boys’ energy and how they play. Luke knows better than to steal the spotlight from the kids but he’s still putting on the performance he’s known for. Bobby keeps his head down and simply provides the backing track for the kids. Which works out well, considering the ages that they’re both playing with. 

They take a break to let the elementary choir sing unaccompanied and then get set up for their own performance. 

Sunset Curve nails their version of Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree with Reggie closing out the song with what is quickly becoming his signature, “we’re Sunset Curve. Tell your friends!”

The crowd laughs as they applaud and the boys beam as they soak it in before being nudged back to reality by the MC. They quickly find their places with the school band and get settled for the last song of the night. 

Luke’s eyes canvas the crowd as soon as they’re finished and everyone starts packing up to leave. He’d found where his parents were sitting while Bobby was playing and he’s excited to hear what they thought. 

He manages to place them again and runs up with a giant smile on his face. “So?” he asks impatiently.

“You did great, Luke.” Reggie, Bobby, and Alex had joined them and Emily looks at all four boys. “You all did.”

Luke and Reggie both beam at her, always soaking up any attention they can get. 

“Luke did the whole arrangement!” Reggie gushes to Mitch and Emily.

“Oh, that’s great,” Emily replies, a bit muted and significantly less enthusiastically than Luke had hoped for.

“Didn’t you like it?” he asks.

“It’s just… is this really something you want to do?” she counters.

Luke’s eyes go wide and the other three boys look between each other in concern. “Yes, Ma! You just heard us, we’re great! Imagine how cool it will be when people are cheering for the songs that I wrote.”

Emily hums noncommittally and Mitch decides to take over. “You boys did a great job. Do you need rides home?”

He’s met with a chorus of “yes, sir!” and “please!” and he can’t help the light chuckle that escapes him.

Luke hangs behind as they follow his parents out to their station wagon. Alex notices and turns back to join him. “Don’t worry about them,” Alex says as they walk beside each other. “They’ll come around! You’ll see.”

“Yeah,” Luke agrees softly. “They have to! We’re gonna make it, ‘Lex! I know it.”

Alex ruffles Luke’s hair with a small laugh, “yeah, buddy. We’ll make it.”