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“Hey, Koushuu!”
The stranger traipses into the palace like he’s here for weekly afternoon tea, dusting snow off his coat and kicking it off the tips of his boots. Like Koushuu was expecting him to claw his way up the sheer, frosted cliffside, dodging the wolves and climbing the spiral of ice steps one by one, and he’s late to their appointment.
Koushuu has never seen him before.
The stranger is dressed in an all but elfin ensemble with his dark green coat and curl-tipped boots, a pointed hat perched on top of his head. He has long, strangely graceful limbs and a face that’s mostly grin, the rest of it a contradiction of soft angles and coy openness. If Koushuu had built the entrance lower when he wove together the crystals of the palace, the top of his head might have grazed the doorway.
“Who are you,” Koushuu demands.
“Why, they sent me to bring you back,” the boy says, like it’s obvious, blinking his wide eyes.
“Who is ‘they,’” Koushuu asks in a deadpan. He hasn’t even mustered the energy to narrow his eyes into their usual glower. A few days alone will do that to you, will freeze the expressions right off your face. Koushuu wants to forget even more things, like how to be a human being and how not to fade directly into the ice and snow until he becomes another shard, sharp and relentless, in the background around him. “I don’t have anyone.”
The boy’s smile widens. “Aw, come on, don’t be so dramatic now,” he cajoles, oddly gentle. “You know Taku is worried sick about you.”
“You…” That makes him freeze. “You know Taku?”
“Who do you think sent me?”
The frown finds its way back onto his face, tight and fractured. “Then why didn’t he come here himself?”
The boy lets out a laugh, and Koushuu watches as he shrugs the pointed hat off his head and perches himself on a protruding from the ice. His hair is a warm shade of auburn underneath it, ludicrously out of place in the slate-blue hues of the palace. The laugh lasts several seconds too long, and Koushuu tenses at the sound—it reminds him too much of his old falconry teacher, with the horrible, awful grin and the twisted sense of humor. He had hated Miyuki.
“Taku’s a great friend, but even he can’t do everything, Koushuu! You’ve gotta think about it from his perspective—the crown prince of the kingdom disappears without warning and accidentally launches an eternal winter, and he’s the one who’s left behind to pick up the pieces and try to keep the entire country from falling apart.” The boy raises one conversational hand, twirling it in the air. “He’s doing his best, you know? No one knows you better than he does.”
“Then I’ll ask again.” Koushuu tries not to clench his teeth, his fingers curling into fists at the barbed reminders of his old life. It has nothing to do with him anymore. “Who. Are. You.”
“Akamatsu Shinji at your service.” Koushuu can swear the boy—Shinji—actually winks when he introduces himself. “I’d tip my hat, but sadly I already took it off.”
Koushuu just stares.
“I’m no Taku, but I guess I’ll have to do for second best,” Shinji continues cheerily. “I live nearby, actually,” he says, by way of explanation. “Taku sent out a cry for help over the entire countryside, rallying anyone who was willing to help search for you. And, well, it was hard to miss you running by my tiny little hut back there when you did. Hard for anyone to go anywhere in weather like this.”
Koushuu doesn’t say anything, but he nods in acknowledgement. It makes enough sense. He wonders what it had been like, Taku and this strange boy, under what circumstances they had met. He ignores the temporary flare of warmth in his chest at the thought of Taku, sending search parties out to look for him.
“Anyway, I brought you some hot soup. Well,” Shinji amends, “more like lukewarm by now, but it’s probably still warmer than this place is. No offense meant.”
“The cold doesn’t bother me,” Koushuu cuts in tersely.
“Great! Soup won’t bother you either, I hope!”
Shinji smiles brightly and slides off his perch, lowering a bundle over his shoulder and onto the icy floor. Koushuu takes a step forward and watches him unpack a well-wrapped container, unraveling layers and layers of canvas and fleece. His fingers aren’t clumsy even within the thickness of his gloves, a contrast to Koushuu’s bare skin, the ice crystals that cling to his torso in a shift and swathe his legs in breeches. He rolls and unrolls his fists, skin cool and smooth, feet tense against the ground.
“Do you know,” he says after a moment, “that I could freeze you with a single well-aimed icy blast to the chest.”
“Oh, yup!” Shinji lifts his head, his hands pausing temporarily, offering Koushuu a glancing view of his smile. “Though now you’ve given me warning, so it might be tougher to pull off. Not”—he holds up a finger as Koushuu’s glare darkens—“that I’m underestimating you, not at all! I promise I wouldn’t even dodge too hard.” He winks again, his voice lilting playfully. “You haven’t, though, have you? Look, Koushuu—”
“Why do you even call me that? I’m the prince—”
“Koushuu~” Shinji singsongs over him. “That’s what Taku calls you, so I started too.” He dips his head, and Koushuu watches a few more snowflakes drift from his auburn mop down to the floor. Orange casts a novel light on its unforgiving translucence. “I’m very sorry for my presumptuousness. I can call you ‘Your Highness’ or whatever you would like me to instead if you would prefer that.”
His politeness is almost frighteningly earnest, the corners of his eyes softening with a tender light Koushuu knows better than to trust. He bites his tongue, exasperation hardening into irritation. Koushuu won’t give him the satisfaction.
“It’s fine.”
“Great!” Shinji raises one glove and beckons toward him. “Then come sit down, Koushuu, the soup’s almost ready.”
There’s nowhere else to go, so Koushuu does, not knowing why. But he doesn’t sit; he gets down on one knee and then the other and holds himself stiffly in position. Shinji pulls out two more bowls from his bundle, these ones empty, and spreads them out on the ice. Part of Koushuu is surprised that the soup doesn’t freeze on contact with the air when Shinji spoons it into the bowls. The sound of running liquid almost disorients him, breaks him out of some inertia.
“Oh, and Koushuu—what I was going to say was, I figured you’d need some company, too.” Shinji’s eyes meet his over the rim of the ladel at its zenith; Koushuu looks away first. “You don’t have to go back,” he says, “I’m not gonna make you. I one to talk about that, out here by myself.”
“But I thought—” Koushuu stops. It’s not like he wants the stranger to drag him back to the palace, or to open unwanted topics of conversation himself.
But Shinji seems to understand. This time he doesn’t smile all the way, only a quirk at the corners of his lips.
“Like I said,” he repeats, voice high and lilting again, like he’s laughing at a joke no one but he knows but has full confidence that everyone around him will find funny anyway, “I’m not Taku.”
Still braced on his knees, Koushuu settles back on his heels and drinks his soup. Shinji sits cross-legged and does the same. The air is quiet between them, leaving only the sound of the wind whistling outside. The soup is lukewarm, which, if Koushuu is honest, is warmer than he would have liked. But he can’t exactly say that it bothers him, either.