Work Text:
“Stop breathing for a second and just listen to the salt,” Luke whispers, though there is no salt here—only the bone-dry hunger of the Mojave.
The heat is a physical weight, pressing the oxygen out of Michael’s lungs until his chest feels like a collapsed accordion. He is shaking, not from the cold, but from a sudden, violent surge of adrenaline that has nowhere to go. The camera crew is a blur of white linens and reflective shields, but to Michael, the horizon is closing in like a vice. He drops his guitar, the instrument hitting the sand with a muffled thud that vibrates through his soles.
His breath comes in jagged, shallow hitches that burn his throat. He feels the panic as a raw, caustic heat climbing his spine, stealing the air before it can reach his alveoli.
Luke is there instantly. He doesn't ask; he just moves, his large frame blocking the blinding glare of the Joshua Tree sun. He grabs Michael’s wrist, his thumb pressing firmly into the thick, hardened callus on Michael’s fingertip—a permanent mark of years spent shredding strings. That tactile, grounding pressure snaps the tether of the spiral.
“Look at me,” Luke commands, his voice a low, grounding rumble that Michael feels in his own chest.
Michael leans into him, forehead crashing against Luke’s collarbone. He breathes in the scent of expensive sunscreen and old sweat, letting the physical reality of Luke’s heartbeat override the static of the desert.