[spilling lines] lukas + roksana
Red, purple, and white blotched his skin as Lukas' hand buried itself wrist-deep in the powdery snow. It had fallen thick the night before, all two feet of it, but his trousers remained dry and his bones warm as he sat with his legs crossed in front of him. It was a charm they had learned early in second year, when winter had perished the school and it was possible to develop frostbite between classes, but he only kept warm what he needed to; the cold felt nice on his hands.
He had written a letter when his fingers could move, one that contained more words than he had spoken in two weeks, but came down to a simple request that was simply written out to have something to do. It was a saturday, he thought, she always visited on saturdays, so an invitation wasn't necessary. But he was a creature of habit, their time together usually fell into place like a perfectly planned ritual. Which was why Lukas sat in the snow, hidden between blades of frozen grass; his hands unmoveable with the chill, because she would warm them up. She always did.