#SMITTY DO YOU KNOW HOW IVE YEARNED?!!

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Where the Bluebird Sings (Smitty wrote the bathtub scene)

Elvis coughed, the cold water around him - or maybe it was him, shivering, chattering with his teeth - that was the cold one. Something... something, dunno. He blew out a breath, his limp, matted hair flopping back from his brow. Elvis was in the bath, and he was going to do this. 

Without Laney. 

A sneeze, and, well, after that the tears came easy, snot dripping down to the half-grown stubble on his face he'd have to shave in the godforsaken morning just to look somewhat presentable for the next day of court. 

In this moment, alone, sweating out his own fuckin' bad decisions, the lights making his eyes go all sideways... he can't even be mad at Laney baby. Who'd want to love his sorry, drugged-up, washup ass? If she wasn't...

"Wasn't 'ttached t'... t' a goddamn mess, maybe she'd l-l-like the colour... goddamn orange." 

"Yeah, and maybe she'd like you to clean yourself up, instead." 

Elvis whipped his head round and blinked hard as he gagged with the movement. Sweat dripped down his face and stung his fool eyes but he could recognise Charlie's mug even half blind and half mad. 

"Maybe I jus' needta sink into this here bathtub an' end it all, Charlie, ever think 'bout that? Huh? Huh?" And there's the anger, the coiling snake of sin that wraps around his heart ever since he made one too many singin' movies. Ever since - since -

"God DAMN IT! Elvis thrashed in the bathtub, gripping his hair, yanking, "Cain't even say her name, Charlie! Can't, I c-c-can't!" 

Charlie'd moved closer, and Elvis felt a hand wrap around his. Warm. Elvis gripped it back too tight. "Elaine?" 

"N-n-no, fu-ck," Elvis's voice broke. "My baby, Charlie, my baby - can't say her god-given name, can't visit her grave, can't do nothin' 'bout this fuckin' divorce! Can't sing, can't get it up, can't numb it out - it all's too much." 

"Elvis - " Charlie's features swam into focus through the tears and the shakes. " - it's helpin', ain't it? Sayin' that out loud?"

"Fuck, Charlie. It hurts so... so goddamn bad. And I..." Elvis's breath hitched, lashes clumped and face pale except for the red high on his cheeks, the blue bruised around sunken eyes. It'd take a whole lotta makeup to pretend in the morning. It was taking something out of him now to stop pretending. 

"I miss my wife, Charlie."

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Hey hey heyyy I heard you could submit things! Cheers, folks!