[ he's out of the shelter in no time flat. small-heeled boots are not the best for running in, but he does, certain knees will give out any moment, and mutely surprised when, instead, he feels his feet hit pavement.
by the time he makes it to the garden and finds him, he skids in the dirt and grass and drops. (see? he knew they'd give.)
there's literally no thought process to it—only hands reaching out to wrap fingers around little elbows. when luca's properly tugged into his lap, thin white arms encircling too-tiny concave stomach and protruding ribs, gates burst. torrents and torrents of saltwater come pouring out of pale blue eyes, racking him, and he presses fingers tightly into little brother's shirt, tucking him in close. ]