Elvis lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Nngh,” he opens an eye after a long night of exhaustion. “‘the hell?” he looks down at himself: disheveled hair, five-o-clock shadow adorning his chiseled cheeks, long lashes casting shadows over his face. His shirt had been pulled open—probably a product of the many insane fans of last night’s performance—and the buttons had quite literally been pulled off.

Elvis groans softly and lays his head back down on the couch pillow, letting the warmth from the morning sun soak into his skin. Echoes of the previous night’s crazies echo in his head, the laughs of his Memphis Mafia and closest friends. He pulls a nearby cowboy hat over his eyes, huffing out a laugh.