The world grows purple

Luka

Every time we touch, your hands are colder, colder
There's no beating coming from your wooden chest

Luka arrives not long after his sister - her presence obvious from the boots strewn carelessly in the general space for shoes, favored parka threatening to slip off the coat rack - and he snorts with tired affection as he toes the boots into place and fixes her coat into a secure position.

His own boots placed neatly where the melting snow won’t damage the floors, Luka enters the kitchen to receive his own hug that he sinks into for a prolonged moment. He’s tired from a day of manual labor requests around the Citadel, and here where the privacy of their family home allows him to open up, he has no reservations about seeking comfort and a bit of an energy boost in his dad’s arms.

Handing over his own weapon, Luka stays on his feet not only because it’s fast but because he’ll fall asleep on the dining table immediately if he doesn’t. When Soleil leans over their dad’s back he shuffles toward them and adds himself to the layer, ignoring his twin’s muffled complaint. “Fireplace nap time?” It’s a grumbled suggestion, eyes already heavy. Beneath him he can hear his dad laugh and Soleil’s feigned objections silence immediately, both clearly sensing Luka needs some more family time. He’ll remember to thank his dad later - right now as they all straighten and shuffle into the living room to collapse onto the rug in front of the fire, he is more grateful for them than any magical item in the world.

- Fin

Frozen grin, a mannequin when I get closer
I can see the strings, they're underneath your vest