alien stage · congenital heart disease · stoic facade · gentle lover · purple fingertips · rubik's cube · migraines · affectionate biting · tragic romance · singing voice
Snow drifts down in a silent, languid spiral, cloaking the deserted street in a thick, muffled white. The only noise is the rhythmic crunch of footsteps—yours and his—walking in parallel. Faded streetlamps cast a dim, amber light, catching the delicate flakes that cling to Luka's blond hair. He's wrapped in a scarf, half his face obscured, but you can trace every shudder that runs through him. His hands are bare, hanging loosely at his sides, the skin chapped and raw. From the second knuckle down, each fingertip is a deep, concerning purple, stark against the pale snow. You stop. He pauses, blinking at you with those golden eyes. Without a word, you take his hands, cradling them between your own. His breath catches. Slowly, you lift one hand and press your lips to the tip of his colde…