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The day has not been going well for you. Nothing has even happened, it's just—something has pushed you over the edge and turned a regular old day into a regular old anxiety attack.
You feel a little foolish to be so worked up over essentially nothing, but you can’t help it. You just feel scared.
Helpless.
Tears slip past your eyelids as you screw up your face, trying to fight them.
It doesn’t work. You knew it wouldn’t, but you always hope maybe one of these times it will. No such luck today.
You’re hiding in the little prep tent that was assigned to you as a performer. You stand in the middle of your preparations for the next day. There are a few foldout tables before you with your things laid out—your glittery top hat and tailcoat, your decks of cards, your scarves; even your doves share the tent with your items, though you yourself sleep with the rest of the performers in a hotel when you get the chance. They coo sleepily under their blanket, tucked safely away in a big, portable cage for the night.
You bite back a strangled sob and cover your face, feeling a little hysterical that you’re so upset for absolutely no reason at all on such a normal day. No luck with that either—a little wounded noise escapes you.
Outside, Luke is done for the day. He walks at a leisurely pace through the rows of tents, away from the rides. He’s idly enjoying the sound of the gravel path crunching under his boots and the now distant cheers of carnival-going children when the sound of a small, desperate cry floats toward him in the air.
He pauses in his path back to his own setup area and looks around, concerned.
Another low whimper emerges from a nearby preparation tent that he remembers being assigned to the new stage magician. He furrows his brow and approaches the tent flap, crunching over gravel, then goes ahead and pushes it open without warning. (His impulse control has never been the strongest, and he’s got a protective streak a mile wide—later, you’ll think that it’s no wonder at all that he stepped in so fast.)
When he sees you standing unmoving in the middle, shoulders tense and shivering, he whistles shortly to get your attention. Maybe you’re the one upset? Either that, or you heard it too and could help him find whoever it was.
You startle and look up at him with teary, nervous eyes. His own dark eyes widen with concern at the sight. You're definitely the upset one. He steps through the flap fully, letting it fall closed again as he quickly comes to stand by your side.
"Hey, hey," he says softly. "What happened? You okay?" He looks into your eyes searchingly, scanning for hurt.
You duck your head and hastily wipe away a few new tears, embarrassed to have been caught in such a state. You know Luke vaguely, but you haven’t spoken much thus far. Not much opportunity for a motorcycle performer on a magician’s stage, usually, and your off hours don’t always align.
"I'm okay. I'm sorry, I just—I don't know. I'm just freaked out for some reason. There's nothing even happening," you gesture frustratedly around you, then tuck your arms around yourself stiffly, seeking some form of stability.
He tilts his head and frowns.
"S'there anything I can do?" he asks. You give a small, humorless laugh.
"I mean, if you could kinda turn off the world for a few minutes that would be great. Not sure how you'd do that though."
He looks at you assessingly for a moment, then seems to decide something. He moves closer and raises his arms to indicate a hug.
"Can I—?"
You blink at him, not really sure what he could possibly get out of this, but you'll take any comfort you can get right this second. You shrug and nod.
Instantly, he's stepping into your personal space and wrapping his arms around you.
One strong arm snakes around your shoulders and holds you firmly, steadily, like an iron bar.
His other hand cradles the base of your skull and he gently guides your face toward his chest. You tuck your face into his soft shirt—has it been inside out this whole time? He rests his chin atop your head, careful.
You bring your arms up to your chest to curl tightly in front of you, hands grasping at the fabric of Luke’s shirt and balling up into fists. The only thing you can think to do is to sink into his hold. It barely requires any conscious thought to let him hold you.
Your eyes prickle with tears again and you swallow a helpless whimper. Somehow, you feel that Luke heard it anyway.
As you settle, the hand on the back of your head meanders carefully toward your face, and finally curves just over your eyes, where he can reach.
He’s covering any part of your vision that might be exposed to the world, hiding you away. You close your eyes underneath his big, warm hand and careful encouragement.
The world is muffled like this. Luke’s solid presence and warmth are all-encompassing. You register that he’s shushing you softly, now, whispering to you:
“I got you. It’s okay.”
A few stray tears slip from your eyes as his words find your conscious mind; you sag further into his touch at the soft assurances falling from his lips straight to your chest.
"It's okay."
He keeps whispering intermittently in soothing tones, and begins to sway ever so gently in place. You nuzzle into his chest and let him guide you.
"I got you."
He rocks you both gently side to side, careful not to uncover your eyes. Your breathing steadies, and your hands relax; they’re still in the shape of fists, but not clenched tightly anymore.
"You're okay."
Over time, his whispering and gentle movements have the intended effect. You wind your way down from the panic and settle into a normal level of stressed. Exhausted, you sigh quietly. Your cheeks feel vaguely tacky from the salty tear tracks, and your eyes burn a little even closed.
“I didn’t actually mean to drag you into my freakout—sorry about that,” you whisper, tinges of shame in your voice. Luke quiets to hear your words, but keeps swaying with you.
You know he’ll say it’s okay—because he’s kind of a sweetheart beyond his abrasive look—but you wish that you could’ve handled it yourself before bothering anyone else.
“Hey, it’s fine. I’m always here if you need me,” he murmurs. His voice is a deep rumbling vibration that you can feel under your hands.
“Not literally, though. You can’t sit here and make me feel better every time I have a panic attack.”
“Well, maybe that’s what smoke breaks are for.” You can hear a smile in his voice. “I’ll come hide with you. Maybe you’re helping me, actually. Think about it that way.”
“Good plan,” you say, sarcastic.
“Thanks—thought of it myself,” he preens exaggeratedly. You smile.
He must feel it when you do, because his hand slides from your eyes carefully; you look up at him with your cheek pressed against his chest still. He looks at you with soft eyes as you sway together, the tattoo under his eye bending along as they crinkle into a smile.
“There you are.”
Your face grows hot as you duck your head again. He laughs. His hand falls to meet his other arm, now both wrapped warmly around you.
Then, all of the sudden, an absurd thought hits you—you immediately raise your head.
“Hey—did you just cover me up like putting a goddamn bird to bed?” you ask, voice teetering on the edge of incredulous.
Luke barks a laugh.
“If that’s what you wanna call it, sure.” He shrugs, grinning. “If it works for them, y’know?”
You can only blink at him, feeling vaguely appalled and yet also wanting to laugh at the objective hilarity.
“Well. I guess—it did technically work,” you squint as you reply. His grin turns impossibly cockier.
“There you go. See? I’m full of great ideas. Y’oughta listen to me more.”
You shake your head, not taking the bait that will trigger more compliments for him and his ego. You pull back slightly and flatten your hands against his chest, smoothing the fabric where you hopefully hadn’t wrinkled it too much with your grip.
Luke’s arms loosen around you until the hug ends, but he moves so that when his arms fall, his large hands each slide lightly down your own arms, ending at your wrists before he catches your hands in his grip. It sends a shiver down your spine, and your face warms again.
He doesn't let your hands go, instead moving and wiggling and playing with them, silly and joyful. You let him play and watch his amused grin as he wiggles your joined hands around, halfway dancing. His smile is infectious—you can definitely see why the kids who he meets after performances love him so much.
“Thanks for helping me feel better and, y’know. Stop freaking out,” you speak through your helpless smile, half-laughing and a little bashful.
His grin broadens, proud to have been the cause of your change in mood.
“Any time. Just let me know,” he says, with a wink. Your cheeks heat up again, but you don’t duck away this time. He looks pleased. Luke scoops your hands toward him in a quick movement, then presses a sweet kiss to the back of each one. "And I'm serious, y'know. Come get me whenever."
Then he releases your hands and backs out of your personal space. You miss the warmth instantly, but you're aware you both need sleep.
“Lookin’ forward to next time, sweetheart,” Luke murmurs, gaze meaningful.
He gives you a cocky salute and saunters his way out of your tent. The tent flap falls quietly behind him. You wave back, even knowing he can’t see you, and stand motionless to listen to the crunch of gravel underneath his boots, quieting as he leaves.
You bring your arms up around yourself in an imitation of his warm, solid hug, and sigh. You glance toward your doves, still safely nestled in their blanketed cage, and wander toward your own sleeping area with a dazed, dreamy look in your eye.
You feel so much better.
Secretly, quietly, you begin to also look forward to the next opportunity to feel Luke’s arms around you, swaying you gently, hiding you from the world.
Solid, warm, soothing.
Next time, indeed.