"Father, look at him, he needs attention!" Shouto begged, gesturing harriedly to the form lying upon what was supposed to be the accounting desk, the salt of the sea beginning to crystallize in his hair, unmistakably and impossibly green.
"What he needs is to explain how he managed to wash up on a shore that has no neighboring shores for fifteen leagues!"
Enji gave all the reason he should need to to his son, who so rarely questioned anything, so why would he be so insistent that this young man built like a gladiator would be in such desperate need of help?
"Please," Shouto begged, and suddenly Enji saw it, the glint of panic in his son's eyes, usually so flat. "He needs help, let me help him, if something goes wrong I can handle myself!"
Suddenly, it made sense.
"Shouto." Enji began, but found that he was so flooded with relief to see his son caring about another person at all that he didn't have the strength to ignore it. "Fine. But the moment he speaks, you bring him to me."
"Of course." Shouto promised, but he didn't really listen to what his father demanded, he didn't really care.
With a curious, calm look, Enji stepped out of the doorway and into the hall, no longer blocking Shouto.
He watched for only a moment, to see his son's hands nervously feather across this strange man's skin before lifting him again with ease, eyes trained painstakingly onto the young man's face.
Shouto heard his father hesitate before leaving, but so focused upon any signs of pain as Shouto was, it served only as a marker for what direction to avoid.
He didn't want to see anyone. He didn't want to pass the responsibility of this young man -older boy, really— to anyone else. Shouto had been the one to find him, and somehow Shouto knew he had to be the one to care for him.
He carried the still-unconscious form to the secondary bathhouse, the one that was only remotely connected to the main house by the same hallway Shouto's chambers resided upon. To call it a house, Shouto supposed as he wandered through its halls, would be an understatement. The palace of his father was built like a half sundial; a throne room, glorious and imposing, looked out across the fields of his people and the quarters of his champion fighters. From that one room several other rooms branched, and where there were not doors to other rooms, there were hallways like rays of sunlight. It was a maze that, had Shouto not been raised there, would have made this trek to the important rooms near impossible in a single trip. He stopped through the storeroom, taking with him several medicines that might serve useful, through the records, finding only a single scroll on human-ish miscolorings, through his own chambers for a spare set of robes, and finally to the smaller bathing chamber that, ironically, was open to the ocean, and if Shouto bothered to go to the windows and look, he would have been able to see the exact spot where the man had washed ashore.
He laid the body delicately across a cushioned bench, one of the two that faced each other from either side of the door, and turned quickly to the washbasin itself, which was a stone rectangle, deeper and smaller rectangles set into it.
Shouto began the spout and simply hoped the water was not too cold; he was too numbly hastened to concern himself with lighting the coals.
He turned back again to the form on the bench and forced himself to breathe deeply, take a moment, close his eyes, remind himself that the young man would still be there when he opened them again.
Shouto opened his eyes, still relieved to find the young man there, and approached slowly, forcing every jittering nerve in his body to stall.
His form, lying so limply as this, looked to be carved of marble, a beauty and perfection anyone else would have claimed a gift from the gods. His head had flopped to one side and was leaned against his shoulder, and one of his hands had clutched weakly at his own chest.
Shouto then saw scars where piercings would have lived across the young man's nipples, further confirming his father's suspicion. This young man was a warrior of some kind.
So was Shouto, though, so there was still a great likelihood that this man was not an escaped slave.
He knelt carefully and wiped some of the salt from the teen's cheeks, clearing the corners of his eyes, hoping they would open again.
But they didn't, and unconscious, there really was very little Shouto could do to help.
He didn't know what was wrong, so his best choice was to simply try to bring as much comfort as possible.
He lifted the young man again, painstakingly lowering him onto one of the shelves created by the rectangular basin, and turned the spout off. The water reached just above his ankles, and it was marginally warmer than the ocean outside.
He knelt before the body again, wetting his knees, and carefully began to unwrap the seaweed from its limbs.
It might have had spikes, Shouto told himself, so he unraveled seaweed from flesh where it was wrapped, rather than just tug it free.
He found, as he lifted the young man's leg, kelp curled around it, that his flesh was soft, very soft, even though muscle so clearly lived below its surface.
He had begun with the larger strands of seaweed, and his hands were at the young man's thigh before he realized what he was doing, the limp form twitching away from Shouto's hands sensitively.
Shouto slowed, ensuring that the young man's skin was not irritated by the plants.
At least, that was what he told himself.
The young man was exceptionally attractive; did Shouto really have to say anything in his defense other than that? Shouto swallowed heavily as his hands passed over the young man's pelvis, eyes on the elegant curve of his iliac crest, and the dip that immediately followed it.
Finally, he freed the kelp from the young man's hip and set it at the top of the basin, leaning across his body for other tendrils of seaweed. They didn't seem in any way connected to the young man, something that had briefly crossed Shouto's mind upon seeing his hair, but Shouto was still delicate with both them and him.
Just in case, or something.
He allowed himself the small misgiving of feeling the flesh of the man's scars curiously, finding them very, very soft, silky even, but their origins were nearly indecipherable, appearing to have been amassed over a long period of mysterious injury. Some were significantly faded, years old, but some were so fresh they might as well have only just scabbed over.
There was one such scar across the back of his thigh, far closer to his torso than any of the others.
As Shouto continued to size up the young man, he found that he was a great deal smaller than Shouto first thought, perhaps a head shorter than the prince himself, and his body seemed more delicate, a duality that lived under his musculature. He seemed more boy than man.
Whatever his age, Shouto finally freed him from his kelp wrappings and set them gently at a dry step, then lifted his body once more, lowering him into the freshwater.
It was, admittedly, rather cold, and the young man made a small noise of discomfort as he was lowered into it, but as soon as he was, Shouto was sitting, too, once more resting the man's head on his thigh to lift it out of the water. Cupping water in his hands, Shouto gently rinsed through his hair, sifting through it curiously, looking for any sign at all that the seaweedy color was fake. He didn't see any, though he rinsed the salt from his hair and face with his fingers drifting in delicate circles. He took his time, enjoying the feeling of the man's skin as the salt rinsed away, leaving smooth flesh. He forced himself to move on when he realized he was just tracing circles around the most prominent patches of freckles, moving to his neck, his shoulders. Most of his scars began around his biceps, isolated to his limbs and not his torso, but as Shouto reached out for one again, the man's eyes suddenly broke open with a gasping cry.
He bolted upright before immediately groaning in self-protest, a hand at his temple, and Shouto found himself backing away slowly, up onto the top shelf of the basin before the young man turned again.
He watched his back, shaking with confusion and anxiety, the muscles under flesh flexing simply because they had nothing else to do.
The young man looked first directly ahead of himself, no doubt gathering the sight of the sea, the washbasin he was in, and slowly, that he was not alone.
He turned at his hip, breath freezing in his throat as he locked eyes with Shouto.
Shouto watched his eyes, so beautifully, entrancingly green, dangerous in how disoriented they were, and decided to speak first.
"Are you hurt?" He asked calmly.
The young man opened his mouth carefully, and though sound came out it was clearly not what he had wanted. He paused, confused, pressing his fingers to his lips, before uttering sound again. Still, he formed no words, and finally shook his head.
"Can you speak?" Shouto tried, easing down another step. Again, he tried to form words, found he could not, and shook his head, hesitantly.
Loophole.
"I am Prince Shouto. Do you know where you are? What happened to bring you here?"
Again, the young man shook his head, though he was eyeing the wet edges of Shouto's robes warily.
"Well, you're in my father's kingdom, in his palace; I found you on the beach, and brought you here. Do you know how you ended up on the beach?"
Shouto forced himself to limit to yes or no questions; this young man seemed terribly overwhelmed, but his demeanor, slight and self-contained, really made him feel like a sweet young thing, a nervous boy in need of comfort.
He looked down at himself, flexing his hand and observing the ring for a moment, before shaking his head again.
"Alright, well, it might come back. Let's get you dressed, in any case."
Shouto extended a hand, pulling the young man to his feet. He stood easily, but as soon as Shouto let go, wobbled with a cry and teetered forward. Shouto caught him against his chest, but found himself unable to look away from the young man's face as it watched his own.
His freckles were set in heavy layers, like his scars, some old and faded, some bright and new. Shouto half-imagined he could see constellations in them.
"Ah…" the young man shuddered anxiously, watching Shouto's scar.
"It's alright, you're alright. Can you stand?"
Shouto reassured gently, aware that the stranger was warm, very warm, possibly because of a fever.
Slowly, though, the young man nodded, and pulled himself out of Shouto's grip.
Shouto clambered out of the washbasin carelessly, turning back to help. He extended a hand, trying to keep himself steady, and the young man looked from his face to his hand.
His hand was small, in Shouto's, but strong, too, and as Shouto pulled him up, he inspected the ring that lived there. It was gold, polished and shaped perfectly, an insignia of a rabbit mid-jump pressed into its top. Though it was elegantly made, Shouto could see it was well-loved, a few nicks, some staining.
The young man pulled his hand out of Shouto's grip as soon as he was standing, holding it carefully in his other. Shouto saw in his eyes what it was; a test of limits. If he was planning to keep the young man here, he would act disappointed, perhaps even angry, that the young man would resist.
So he simply smiled softly, surprising himself at how easily it came to him.
"I'm glad you can stand on your own." He told him, stepping away easily.
He returned with clothes for the young man, but found he was inspecting his ring scrupulously.
"You don't recognize it?" Shouto asked, and the young man shook his head.
Shouto extended the cloth.
"It was on your hand when I found you, so it's from...wherever you are from. Do you remember where that is?"
The young man looked up, alarmed, maybe even panicked, and shook his head.
"It's alright. Like I said, it may well come back. You seem to be very overwhelmed. I can hardly blame you."
Slowly, the young man tugged the robes into place, but they were a good deal too large for him, and slipped from his shoulder, making him seem somehow more naked than he'd been before.
He tugged it back into place with a nervous giggle.
"You know, you're really rather small for being so strong." Shouto commented, and the young man made an 'offended' face playfully.
Shouto sighed. He liked this young man, he could tell, but he didn't like the feeling in his chest that lurched and bubbled and seemed to melt down into his stomach that came from interacting with him.
"In any case...you ought to see my father. He'll decide what's best." Shouto said, neglecting to mention that what his father said was best would only be what was best for the king.
The young man nodded, though he had begun fidgeting his hands nervously.
The young man seemed to still cling to some semblance of etiquette, and kneeled as soon as he saw that they were approaching a man seated on a throne.
Shouto repressed the urge to scoff, knowing his father was only sitting there waiting for them, for show.
"Who are you? How did you come to my land? What purpose is there to you being here?" He demanded, quickly and powerfully, and Shouto stiffened as the young man did.
"He can't talk." Shouto answered shortly, kneeling down too and taking the young man's shoulders in his hands, leading him to stand again, though the young man seemed terrified.
"Shouto, let him speak for—wait, what?"
"He can't speak, and doesn't seem to know how he got here or what happened to him."
Shouto was aware that his father stared knowingly at his arms, still curled around the young man protectively.
Enji stood from his throne and descended to stand near his son, watching how the new young man's trembling was steadied by the hands of the prince.
He watched his son's face, daring him to frighten the young man any more, and more pieces of his son's puzzle began to slip into place, the more he began to understand.
"You still want to care for him?" Enji asked, not much of a question.
"It's possible his memory will come back with time." Shouto said, but he was no longer looking at his father. His eyes were on the young man, who, nervous as he was, managed to maintain an excellent composure in the face of two strangers discussing his fate with no way to interject.
"Then you would want him to stay here, until he's better."
Shouto hesitated, saw the way his father looked at him knowingly, dropped his hands from the young man's shoulders, and spoke.
"Please. We don't know who he is; sending him away could be dangerous."
"Keeping him here could be even worse." Enji began again.
"I can keep an eye on him." Shouto stated calmly, confidently.
Enji understood. Or, at least, he understood something. He wondered if even Shouto himself understood it, but it hardly mattered.
"Fine. Do what you feel you must." Enji relented, and turned away. "I'll have them clear a bunk in the barr-"
"-No. No, I…" Shouto shifted his weight back and forth as he realized what he was beginning to sound like. "...I'll have a space set up in my chambers. I'm supposed to keep an eye on him, after all."
Enji looked again at the young man, who seemed equally as surprised, though he had no real way of objecting to or agreeing with anything.
"...Very well." Enji allowed, beginning to wonder why he was allowing so much recently.
Shouto resisted the urge to wrap his arm around the young man as he led him away from his father's throne, room, aware of the suspicious look on his face.
Or maybe just wary.
"What is it? You know what, that was stupid of me to ask like that. Is something not right?" Shouto rephrased, and the young man made an incredulous face, sparking a sudden bout of laughter from Shouto. "I mean, besides the obvious. Hungry? Tired? Sick? Thirsty?" The young man nodded slowly, eyes raking over all the details they could find as Shouto led him back the way they had come.
"Which of them? Probably all, I guess."
The young man laughed sweetly, easily, though he was nodding.
"Right, fair. Well, what's a higher priority?"
The young man yawned pointedly, politely.
He was a sweeter thing than his scarred body would have implied, Shouto thought as he led him into his own chambers.
The room was a mess; Shouto really had no excuse. His bed, set into the middle of the room, was scattered with sheets spilling onto the floor and far wider than he really had need of, surrounded on one side by walls, the other open air past pillars.
There was a long table at the pillars, facing out, also over the sea. Shouto's desk, sort of, a few bound books and many loose scrolls held in place by paperweights. Shouto remembered, then, the scroll he had left in the bathroom.
He turned to watch the young man, who was meticulously inspecting the room from where he stood in the doorway.
Shouto glanced across the room, to the other wall, where his large dining couch was also filled with pages and a handful of stray sparring weapons, the cushion long and overstuffed, and exceptionally messier than Shouto felt he remembered.
He led the young man up to his own bed, gathering up the mess of sheets and tossing them to the foot of the bed. The young man swung a closed hand towards it with a short sound, an ask for clarification.
"I'll be back, but you are free to rest here." Shouto spoke, watching the young man's gaze as it turned to the sea. He watched the slight glimmer of crashing waves in the moonlight, expressionless. "You'll be alright." Shouto comforted gently, a hand on the man's shoulder, who nodded remotely.
He gently eased himself into Shouto's bed, though Shouto had specifically neglected to mention that it was his bed, handing the young man a few layers of linens, which he easily brought up around himself, eyes already drooping.
Shouto prepared to leave when slim fingers closed around his wrist, catching his attention.
Thank you, the young man mouthed.
Shouto nodded carefully, and the young man released his hand, head dropping back to the pillows.
He was asleep before Shouto left the room.