Chapter Text
Thoma shakes violently, staring down at the body at his feet. There is blood on his clothes, on his face, in the water of the unfamiliar shores he’s been washed up upon.
A man is dead, by his own hands. He bites back a scream. Thoma’s entire body aches, and the countless scratches upon his arms sting as he falls to his knees, waves crashing into him.
“What have I done?” He whispers, his grip on the stolen spear tightening with terror. “Oh what have I done…”
Lightning flashes above him and Thoma whimpers, a pathetic sound that he curses himself for. He feels foolish, so foolish, for thinking that he could sneak into a nation so powerful. So closed off. He feels so very, very foolish.
“Oh dear, this is quite the mess now isn’t it?”
Thoma stands and whips around, flipping the spear and turning its tip towards the voice. Instead of another soldier he’s met with a young man, blue eyes wide, but not with fear.
Embarrassment hits him first. Then anger, and finally terror. The boy’s face is stoic, not an inch of emotion sneaking through the cracks. He’s seen the body, there’s no way he hasn’t. It’s not hard to tell that Thoma’s a foreigner anyways.
Worse yet, he definitely comes from some sort of nobility. His long pale blue hair is pulled back into a firm ponytail, revealing the ornate family crest upon the front of his robes. Thoma prays that he doesn’t hail from the Tenryou Commission.
I’m dead, Thoma thinks, meeting his gaze head on. He’ll take me right to the authorities.
“Are you alright?” The boy asks, a gloved hand reaching out and gently pointing the spear towards the ground.
Thoma cautiously lets him move the weapon, eyes tracking his movements incessantly. Blood begins to seep through the fabric of the gloves, staining them red. Even so the boy’s eyes grow soft, kind, and slowly Thoma loosens his grip and drops the spear, arms heavy with exhaustion. His head is pounding and his mouth is dry with the taste of salt.
Another crack of thunder sounds from the sky and he startles, shrinking in on himself. He feels he ought to have been prepared for the storms of Inazuma, but he’d never fully understood how volatile they truly were.
Not until they’d fallen upon his ship and swept him out to sea.
“I’m… not injured. Are you going to arrest me?” He blurts out, his voice cracking and scraping at his ragged throat.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to be arrested, Thoma thinks. He ponders his father. If he’d find him in a jail cell or in a high grade prison. Maybe he’d see him at the gallows, when it’s too late to make amends.
“To be frank,” the boy says, and Thoma’s head snaps up. “I ought to have you executed, seeing as you’ve felled one of my men, but-”
“But?” Thoma chest alights with hope.
“I may have an offer for you.”
_____
“So, Ayato, was it? What sort of work will I be doing?”
Thoma asks the question hesitantly, afraid to break the silence that had been permeating between them. The boy, heir to the Yashiro Commission, regards him stoically. His face betrays nothing, no mercy nor hatred. It gives Thoma the heebie-jeebies.
“I shall teach you. First, I must ask that you get washed up and then rest. It seems you’ve had quite the ordeal.”
His voice is like velvet, is what Thoma thinks. It’s smooth and deep, and his words are so mature for his age. His accent gives it a gentle edge, so unlike that of Thoma’s own unrefined Springvale dialect.
“Are you… are you not mad?” Thoma asks, fists clenched at his sides.
“Of course not,” Ayato responds, entirely nonchalant. “I am not fond of the Sakoku Decree and, upon taking the seat of commissioner, have no intentions of enforcing it.”
He turns to Thoma, eyebrows raised.
“I would prefer if you did not repeat that though.”
Thoma nods, confusion clouding his mind as a veil of silence falls back over them. Ayato seems cold and so disconnected, yet he has been so merciful… so kind.
Thoma steels himself. He cannot feel grateful yet… for all he knows he may have fallen into some sort of trap. His fathers stories come to mind…
“You’re not a bake-danuki, right?”
“Excuse me?”
_____
The Kamisato Estate is huge. Thoma gapes at it as Ayato walks to the door, gesturing coolly inside as if he doesn’t live in a mansion to rival the Ragnvindrs’.
“You live here ?” Thoma asks daftly.
He slips off his shoes outside, remembering his father’s instructions. Thoma’s heart aches. He’d wanted so terribly to bring his son to his home country. Now Thoma was there, and his father was nowhere in sight.
“I see you’re at least somewhat familiar with our culture,” Ayato says as he hands Thoma a pair of slippers. “You also don’t look entirely Mondstatian.”
“My father hailed from Inazuma,” Thoma replies, taking the shoes gratefully. “I came here in search of him.”
Ayato’s gaze turns solemn, and he nods in understanding. Then, just like that, his skin smooths out, his eyes grow bright, and that practiced smile is plastered right back on.
“I see. I’ll see to it that you have the time to search for him. You are an employee, not a slave. You are free to leave when you wish.”
The response is flat, well practiced. As is Ayato’s expression. He’s quite good at placating, Thoma thinks, curiosity piquing within him.
It’s odd how cold Ayato is. He reminds Thoma of Crepus, or perhaps of Grandmaster Varka. Each expression of his is controlled, finely tuned. Yet he’s so young. Just barely upon the cusp of boyhood. He couldn’t be much older than Thoma himself.
Ayato leads him to the washroom while Thoma’s head swivels, vivaciously admiring the impeccable decor. Each and every wall, floorboard, or vase is entirely spotless.
“I’ll give you your privacy,” Ayato says, meeting Thoma’s eyes.
He nods in reply, the words catching in his throat. In the setting sun, Ayato looks like the light reflected from the crystalline surface of a pond. Even his skin seems to shimmer in the fading light of day.
“I- thank you!” Thoma blurts out, face burning. “If it weren’t for you I’d… I don’t know where I’d be. Thank you.”
If even for a moment, Ayato looks caught off guard. His mouth is open just the slightest inch, and his blue irises are slivers against the whites of his eyes.
Thoma finds it oddly euphoric, to have already stripped away part of his mask. Just a little. Within a moment it is back, though, and Ayato’s expression is that of a formal young socialite again.
“It is no trouble. Please, rest well.”
Then with a swish of his robes, he walks back down the hall, and Thoma watches him the whole way.
_____
Thoma grimaces as he looks in the mirror, fingers running through his blood matted hair and catching in the tangles.
“Disgusting,” he mutters, watching as flakes of dirt and sand fall onto the pristine white countertop.
He brushes them off hurriedly, and he is ever so careful as he strips off his clothes to keep the grime and dirt off of the floor. The entire house is clean from top to bottom, and he feels loath to be the one to ruin it.
The bath runs smoothly, water clear as day pouring out of the faucet. Thoma slides into the tub slowly, and he winces as the steam stings at his cuts.
There is a knocking at the door and Thoma nearly jumps out of his skin. He slides deeper into the bath, suddenly wondering if anyone else even knows he’s here. Ayato hadn’t seemed to have told anyone.
“Thoma, it’s Ayato.”
He sighs in relief, lifting his face out of the water enough to reply. He’s still hesitant, but he supposes if Ayato wanted to arrest him he would have already done so.
“Yeah?” Thoma replies, biting his tongue in sudden regret. “Um- I mean, yes sir?”
Ayato chuckles through the door, and it sends a flush of hot embarrassment down Thoma’s spine. The doorknob turns and Thoma flails to cover himself, but Ayato merely reaches in and sets down a set of fresh nightclothes before retracting his hand.
“There is no need to address me as sir,” Ayato says, tone tinged in amusement. “But I appreciate the attempt at formality. I’ll teach you all that you need to know.”
“Don’t you have better things to do?” Thoma asks, his head spinning with shame. “I mean, other than picking up fugitives off the beach.”
He can practically feel Ayato’s frown through the wall, and he slides down the porcelain tube, golden hair fanning out around him.
“Yes, but you are a foreigner and will need to understand Inazuman culture to properly work here.” Ayato says, “If you are uncomfortable with me, then I could have someone else oversee your studies.”
Thoma internally curses his father for not teaching him more. He supposes it makes sense though. He’s fairly sure his father would have never let him come to Inazuma in good conscience.
“If you don’t mind…”
“Yes, Thoma?”
“I’d prefer you, if that’s alright.”
There’s a pause, and the silence feels thick. The steam doesn’t help, making Thoma’s breaths come faster and his body settle closer to sleep. His words grow loose as his limbs grow heavy.
“… that would be amicable. I’ll rouse you when it is best time to start.”
Thoma wonders what it is that makes his chest feel so hot and his brain so fuzzy. It must be gratitude, that is all. For if it weren’t for Ayato, he would be dead at the Shogun’s feet. So that must be it. After all, he owes him his life.
_____
Thoma was used to waking at the first light of the sun. As golden rays tumbled over the horizon Thoma would drag himself from the warm clutches of his bed, and slowly get himself dressed.
The air would always be cool, and the chirps of the birds and crickets would greet him as he’d walk down the road towards Mondstadt.
His biggest concern would always be finishing work early so that he could go play with his friends. Thoughts of frog catching and gliding off of Diluc’s roof would circle through his head as he’d dust and sweep.
Instead Thoma awakes to the sound of distant thunder and a sharp rapping at his door. He rolls over, yet instead of finding the crisp edge of a mattress he is met with the floor.
Futon. Tatami mats. Inazuma. His brain sluggishly flails to catch up as the rapping at the door gets more frantic.
He stands, opening the door with his brain only half functional. He supposes he may have flung it too harshly, as the sheer force of it whisks Ayato’s hair across his face.
His impassive expression remains, but Thoma is not oblivious to the restrained quirking of his lips.
“I see you are not a morning person.”
Thoma nods, searching for the right words. He’s not used to being so exhausted, yet his entire body feels entirely weighed down.
“I usually am,” he replies, his voice a bit smoother than yesterday. “Getting in a shipwreck will do that to you I guess.”
Ayato chuckles, his eyes forming small crescents as he grins. Thoma finds that he can’t look away, and his throat feels far too tight.
“I fear I’ll have to be lenient today,” Ayato says, gesturing for Thoma to follow. “I’m just showing you basic Inazuman for now. You’ll need to know how to read it.”
“Why is that?” Thoma asks, glancing warily at the staff that now roam the halls. He feels very out of place with his nightshirt and unbound hair. “Aren’t I just a servant or something?”
“You’re searching for your father, right? It may help you in finding him.”
Thoma is almost shocked by the consideration. He’d figured that Ayato would forget such a trivial piece of information. At least, trivial in the mind of a commissioner heir.
“Thank you,” Thoma replies, lip quivering. “I’ll do my best.”
Ayato smiles at him, and it’s lopsided, the curve of his lips favoring the right side of his face. Unpracticed. Genuine. Yet just like that it’s gone, and Thoma finds himself yearning to see it again.
“This is my room,” Ayato says, sliding open a door to reveal a simple, yet nonetheless elegant bedroom.
It’s then that Thoma realizes that Ayato is also in his nightclothes, and has been padding about on his bare feet. It had entirely slipped his notice, as Ayato seems to carry the grace and refinement of a noble no matter the clothes upon his back.
Thoma walks tentatively over the threshold, his heart pounding in his ears. He feels oddly guilty. As though he’s found himself somewhere he isn’t supposed to be.
“Are you sure this is okay?” He asks, meeting Ayato’s eyes. “I mean, you don’t even know me.”
“And how else am I supposed to get to know you, if not by us spending time together?” Ayato responds.
Thoma’s chest flutters a little at his choice of words. Spending time together. To him, it sounds more like they’re friends rather than professionals.
Sitting down, Thoma looks over the books scattered across the desk. Certain characters jump out to him, but others are made up of intricate lines and dots that make his eyes swim.
Ayato reaches over, sliding the more advanced books to his side of the table.
“Perhaps we should save those for later,” he says, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Okay,” Thoma replies, his nerves beginning to grow frayed.
As they pour over text after text, Ayato explaining the kanji and how to draw them, Thoma relaxes little by little. He finds that Ayato’s voice, although monotone, is quite soothing.
Although, that warm feeling lingers within his chest, and it feels as though it is tugging upon his very lungs. The invisible hands around his throat grow tighter whenever Ayato meets his eye, or his voice drops a tad deeper to read certain kanji.
Gratefulness, Thoma. You are just grateful. He thinks, glancing at the clock. Even its hands are beautifully crafted. Thoma thinks that it probably costs more than his cottage back home.
Nearly an hour has passed, and Thoma’s grip on the edge of the table has turned his knuckles white.
“Is this all of them?” Thoma dares to ask, his eyes burning. “I mean, this is it, right?”
Ayato’s smile turns a rare shade of sympathetic, and Thoma wants to slam his head into a wall. Especially with how the emotion candidly displayed across the other’s face makes his stomach twist.
“I am curious,” Ayato says, a soft hand lifting Thoma’s jaw to face him. “Since your father hailed from Inazuma, did he not teach you any of our culture?”
Thoma groans. He’s seen this question from a mile away, and yet it still doesn’t get any less awkward to answer.
“My father left when I was pretty young, so most of what he taught me didn’t stick,” he says quietly. “My mom wanted me to fit in with the people of Mondstadt, so she didn’t keep up my father’s lessons.”
“Do you know why he left?” Ayato asks, closing the books and setting them aside.
“From what I remember he was going to visit his parents. Then he just… never returned.”
“I’m terribly sorry.”
Thoma meets Ayato’s eyes. The words sound stale, as if Ayato’s said them a hundred times this week. Still his gaze, past that impassive mask, holds a level of understanding that catches Thoma off guard.
“Thanks,” he replies rather lamely, and internally smacks himself for it.
Ayato stands and Thoma follows suit. He feels ridiculous, walking about the halls of such a fancy estate still dressed for bed, and yet it doesn’t seem to bother Ayato in the slightest.
“Where are we going?” Thoma asks, wringing his hands.
“You’ll start your work tomorrow, after more lessons,” Ayato says, turning a corner and leaving Thoma scrambling to follow. “For now I’ll show you the basics of your job.”
Ayato comes to a sudden stop, and Thoma nearly slams into his back. In front of them is a door, which Ayato promptly flings open.
“You’ll be doing housework. Cleaning, per se.”
Thank. Barbatos.
“Is there any trouble?”
Thoma shakes his head viciously and promptly grabs a mop. Finally. Something he understands.
He notices Ayato’s gaze, focused entirely on him, and Thoma squirms under the scrutiny. Then Ayato nods, seemingly satisfied and Thoma feels relief bubbling through him.
“I see you’re familiar with this line of work.”
Thoma grins, pulling out a bottle of cleaner and a rag from the closet. He used to despise the smell of soaps and the citrusy odor of bleach, but now it rings of home.
_____
The days go by quickly at the Kamisato Estate. They soon turn into weeks, and Thoma finds himself used to the turbulent weather and foreign voices.
Ayato’s presence becomes a constant in his life. Each day he awakes to a knock at his door, he dresses in the clothes provided for him, and then spends the next few hours deciphering Inazuman literature.
It’s mundane, but Thoma doesn’t mind it so much. He finds that during the hours he spends cleaning he can think through the books he’s read or the concerns Ayato shares with him.
He begins to take pride in the house, the way it sparkles when he’s finished with it. The other staff begin to respect him, some even fear him, for his cleaning prowess is like that of no other.
Even Ayato is visibly impressed.
Though generally he is still as formal and robotic as ever, taking no time for leisure. Thoma begins to understand him more as the days go by. He is ever busy, preparing constantly to one day take over his father’s helm as commissioner.
He’ll be even busier then, seeing as Thoma has never even seen the man leave his office.
“Thoma, the young master has summoned you to his room. Immediately.”
Thoma startles, dropping his wash rag and turning to face the maid. She looks frightened, skin pale and hands gripping her skirts. Apparently being comfortable around Ayato is not commonplace.
“I’ll go right away, just let me finish the floorboards.”
“He said immediately, so please let me take over,” she replies, voice wavering.
Thoma acquits, lamenting that he will have to redo that half of the hall tomorrow as he makes haste towards Ayato’s room.
He opens the door, brushing the wrinkles out of his shirt. Anyone would become wary of their appearance in the presence of a noble after all.
“You asked for me, young lord?” Thoma says, the formalities still foreign on his tongue.
“I did,” Ayato replies, silken robes swishing upon the floors as he turns around. “The formal coming up inspired your next lesson.”
“That being?”
Ayato smiles, eyes twinkling mischievously.
“Have you ever danced, Thoma?” He asks, his name rolling off of Ayato’s tongue like a poem inked delicately upon a scroll.
“No,” Thoma replies, looking about the empty expanse of the room.
Ayato had taken the furniture and shoved it off to the side. The tatami mats were all that remained in the center of the room, a lovely little dance floor.
“Is that what you’ve brought me here to do? Dance?” He asks, feeling his voice raise as mortification sets in.
“With me.”
Thoma freezes, and he feels his eyes nearly bulge out of his head. Now he understands the amusement painted across Ayato’s delicate features, which only seems to grow as the gears turn in Thoma’s head.
“I- I don’t know how to dance,” he cries out, backing up as Ayato walks towards him. “I’ve folk danced maybe once, and I wasn’t very good.”
He’s stammering now, rambling nervously as his hands gesture wildly in front of him. It doesn’t seem to bother Ayato in the slightest, who’s perfect face remains purposefully content.
“Thoma.”
Thoma stops talking, his jaw slamming shut with enough force to hurt. It’s silent between them, and Ayato’s gaze is boring into his own, those lovely cerulean eyes seeing right through him.
Ayato’s hand reaches around Thoma’s back, resting feather light upon his shoulder blades. His other twines in with Thoma’s, their palms pressed softly together. Ayato’s skin is smooth as butter, and so gentle upon Thoma’s own.
He feels his heart flutter when he looks at Ayato’s face. He has a mole, just next to the corner of his mouth, and Thoma finds himself staring at it. It’s such a small detail, yet it makes Ayato all the more dainty, so disarming. They step back, and Thoma panics, jerking their hands and hitting his own against the doorframe with a yelp.
“Calm down,” Ayato says, his own cheeks pink in the dusk light. “It’s a simple waltz. They have these back in Mondstadt too.”
“I wasn’t rich enough to ever learn,” Thoma hisses. “I’ll never use this either. Don’t you have someone else to practice with?”
“I chose you though,” Ayato replies, and Thoma thinks he sounds rather indignant. “Isn’t that quite the honor?”
Not knowing what else to say, Thoma squeezes their hands. Ayato’s eyes feel like the sun itself, burning his skin, and he casts his gaze to the ground.
With a sudden pang of mortification, Thoma hopes that Ayato can’t tell that his palms are sweating.
When have I ever been concerned about that? Thoma thinks, startling as Ayato steps to the side this time.
He follows suit, stumbling when his foot lands upon Ayato’s own. He forgets himself and looks up, and when their eyes meet Ayato spins them around. Thoma’s stomach lurches, and he lets out a small embarrassing squeak as the twirl ends and they begin to sway in the center of the room.
The hand at Thoma’s back feels like a brand, but he soon finds the weight to be an anchor as they smoothly waltz about the floor. Ayato is relaxed and steady, his feet swift and his arms slow as molasses, pulling Thoma about helplessly.
“Just follow my lead,” Ayato says. “Move as I do.”
His cheeks are rosy and his eyes are closed, and Thoma thinks he looks heavenly as the sunset’s light falls upon him. He realizes suddenly that the dance had evolved, and a rhythm had grown between the two of them that he could follow with ease.
Ayato spins him around again, his golden ponytail whipping about as they twirl together. Thoma looks away, just for a moment to glance out the window at the distant mountains, painted purple and pink with the growing night.
When he looks back, Ayato’s eyes are upon him once again, roving over his face. The blue of his irises glitter like the distant sea, or like the blue of the sky above Mondstadt.
Thoma loses himself in it, so much so that he doesn’t realize that they’ve stopped dancing. He does notice though, that Ayato looks rather sad.
“Young lo-”
“I wanted to tell you, but… I suppose I just didn’t want things to end,” Ayato says with a sigh, his hands still resting on Thoma’s back. “I won’t be able to teach you anymore.”
Ayato turns away, his eyes roving across the horizon. They are less intense now, glazed over with a gentle sheen across them. Yet still his expression is controlled, his tone flat and formal.
“My father grows sick. The doctors say he only has but a few years left.”
“I’m so sorry,” Thoma says, the sympathy welling up within him, deep and painful.
“I must double my lessons and expedite my process towards becoming commissioner.”
Thoma removes his hand from Ayato’s waist, bringing it to his shoulder, then to his cheek. His face, though his expression is mature, is still rounded with the weight of his youth.
“I understand,” Thoma says, and he knows that Ayato knows that he means it. After all, Thoma’s face always conveys all that needs to be said.
_____
The days at the Kamisato Estate are far more mundane without Ayato. Now he is holed up in an office or room as often as the Commissioner himself.
Thoma finds himself worrying, curling up in corners of the beautiful hallways and common rooms to ponder the young heir.
Sometimes he ponders himself too, or his homeland. He finds himself thinking of Mondstadt often, and without Ayato around that hole in his chest grows firmer and deeper.
That’s where he finds himself one day, months after he first arrived at the Kamisato doorstep. He had seen Ayato in the hall the night before, yet the young heir had not even met his eye.
He seemed so tired. The exhaustion deep and lining his features. He’d lost weight, and whatever boyhood was left had been ripped away from him in those few short weeks.
“Excuse me?”
Thoma jumps, unfurling himself and leaping to his feet, his hand already reaching for the dagger he’d long stopped keeping in his pocket.
He is glad for it, because before him he finds a young girl. She can’t be but eight or nine, and her big blue eyes bore into Thoma’s just like… just like Ayato’s.
“Are you okay?” The little girl asks, her hands coming up to tug at Thoma’s shirt. “You look sad.”
“No! No I’m not sad at all,” Thoma says, cooing as he scoops up the child. “What’s your name?”
“Ayaka.”
“Well hello Ayaka,” he replies, smiling as she gives him a toothy grin. “What are you up to?”
“Can you do my hair?” She asks, thrusting a red ribbon into his face. “I can’t tie it right.”
“Well sure thing,” Thoma replies, his heart swelling a little as she plops to the floor, dragging him by the hand towards her room.
It’s a slightly more juvenile mimic of Ayato’s. There are bouquets of flowers strewn about, and makeup and dresses placed about the floor. It seems as though Ayaka had gone through quite some consideration regarding today’s outfit.
“How do you want me to do it?” Thoma asks, fiddling with the ribbon.
It’s a stark shade of red, and it clashes with the blues and golds of her dress. Ayaka smiles at him, another wide grin showing a space where she’d lost a tooth. She picks up her hair and lifts it just above her ears.
“Ponytails?”
She nods vigorously, bouncing a little in her seat. Thoma vaguely remembers a little girl with a red ribbon of her own, shaped like bunny ears sticking up on top of her head back in Mondstadt.
He deftly combs her hair out, parting it and tying the ponytails. They are perfectly even, and he finishes it off with the red ribbons tied in a cute little bow.
Ayaka sits perfectly still the entire time, and Thoma is almost impressed.
“Do you like them?” He asks, holding a tiny blue hand mirror up which she gently takes from him.
She stares into it, blue eyes wide with wonder as she turns her head this way and that. Without another word she stands and hugs him tight, running out of the room the next moment.
It becomes a daily routine after that. Thoma will be busy mopping, dusting, or simply organizing when he’ll get a little tap on the leg and be led right back to Ayaka’s room.
He learns more about her each time. When he braids her hair in plaits she tells him about the mochi she had in town, and when he ties it in a bun she talks about her parents.
It’s come to the point where sometimes Thoma will sit in his quarters and mess with his own hair, planning new styles for the adorable princess.
That’s where Ayato finds him at least, golden locks clutched in his hands as he maneuvers them about his head, wondering where else he could possibly put a bun.
“I see you’ve taken quite a shining to Ayaka.”
Thoma jumps, dropping his hair with a laugh as he turns to face Ayato.
“You shouldn’t startle me like that, young lord.”
“And you shouldn’t bother with the formalities when we’re alone,” Ayato quips in reply, leaning against Thoma’s bedpost.
Ayato’s presence is rare, yet Thoma finds it comforting nonetheless. The air is always light between them, the overbearing stiffness of the estate dripping away as the heir sheds his responsibilities but for a moment.
“Do you know how to fight, Thoma?” Ayato asks suddenly.
Thoma feels an inkling of concern, enough that he cannot shrug it off as he usually does.
“Evidently, seeing that I’m here,” he replies, following it with a laugh. “Why do you ask?”
It has been months, long enough that the memory of the life he’d taken has begun to slip from his mind. The guilt that had eased from his chest has thus returned, seemingly heavier than before.
“I have practiced swordsmanship since I could walk, yet have never had the opportunity to truly spar. To fight,” he replies, the monotony at last edging from his tone. “I would like to try my hand against you. To test my limits.”
“What if I hurt you?” Thoma asks, anxiety bubbling within him.
“You won’t. I am certain I can hold my own.”
As they walk to the courtyard Thoma feels like a live wire. He fidgets with his hands, bounces on the balls of his feet, all that he can to keep the nervous ramblings from pouring out of his mouth.
“You may take your pick of any weapon,” Ayato says, drawing an elegant sword. “Although I’d prefer if you choose your best. I would like a challenge after all.”
There’s an arrogant tone to his voice, and Thoma perks up, feeling himself instinctively rise to the challenge. It sounds like Diluc or Kaeya, when they were all young and foolish and would tussle like dogs in the yard.
Thoma strides forward, false confidence straightening his spine as he plucks a spear from the weaponry. It is a bit too long for him, the heavy tip of it pulling his arm downwards, but it will do.
“I’m ready when you are,” he says, giving the spear a twirl.
Ayato nods, his posture becoming stiff and his back impossibly straight. Thoma thinks that he is like a metal rod, as spindly and tall as the steeple in Mondstadt.
It’s Ayato that rushes first. His movements are straight laced and well practiced. Predictable. Thoma dodges with ease, flipping his spear and blocking the sword that comes towards his face.
The metal meets with a clang, and Thoma ducks as Ayato pulls back, swinging the flat of the blade just above his head. He feels the whisk of the air as it glides over him, and small clipped strands of hair fall into the wind.
That was close. He thinks, his heart beginning to pound faster.
With a surge of bravery, Thoma leaps forwards, knocking Ayato off balance with a swift kick to the shins. He’s met in kind with the blunt handle of Ayato’s sword slamming into his stomach, and he falls to his knees with a lurch.
“Are you alright?” Ayato asks, and Thoma swings the handle of his spear around, catching him square in the jaw.
He stares at Ayato, now sitting upon the stone on his ass, for a solid minute before scrambling to help him up. His face is flat, and Thoma really, really wishes he could get a read on him.
“I am so sorry!” He cries, bowing as deeply as he can. “That was totally unprofessional, I’m so sorry.”
He dares to glance up, and Ayato is eyeing him with a grin. Imperfect, unpracticed, and wonderfully lopsided. That mole, near the corner of his lip, catches Thoma’s eye, and he finds himself staring once more.
“It’s quite alright,” Ayato replies, wiping a sheen of sweat from his forehead. “I said I wanted a challenge, did I not?”
“Yes… you did.”
Ayato nods then, his smile only growing further when Thoma repositions his spear. If it’s a challenge that Ayato wants, then a challenge he shall get.
_____
“Six months you have been working here, Thoma,” Ayato says, a pleasant smile upon his face. “You have acclimated shockingly well. Although I must say I am not surprised.”
Thoma stands in the center of Ayato’s bedroom, while the heir lounges leisurely on his bed. His light blue hair is tugged back from his eyes by a white clip, and he props his head upon his arms, gazing at the nervous wreck that he has made of Thoma.
“Why did you call me here, in uhm , the middle of the night, young master?” Thoma asks, voice cracking terribly.
Am I getting fired? He wonders, panic spiking. I’m definitely getting fired.
He hasn’t so much as seen Ayato’s face ever since their sparring match. He had busied himself with cleaning, scrubbing every corner of the manor until it was spotless, but a tiny void had opened up that his friend had occupied.
Even Ayaka has become more and more scarce. It was rare now that she would seek Thoma out, instead trapped with tutors or dance instructors for hours a day.
“Thoma, I’ve been thinking…” Ayato says at last, casting his eyes to the floor. “About your father, where he might be.”
“So I’m not getting canned?” Thoma blurts out, finally able to breath.
“Canned? What? Oh Thoma, no. Of course you’re not being let go,” Ayato says, pursing his lips. “What in Teyvat led you to that conclusion?”
“ Ahem, nothing. Continue.”
Ayato nods, an amused glint sparkling in his eyes. The lantern light reflects off his pale skin, and he almost appears to be glowing as he leans forward, white robes shining against the darkness.
“I have reason to theorize that your father could be stuck within Ritou,” Ayato says, expression growing serious. “Those who survive the voyage to our country in the first place will be held there until they receive a travel permit.”
Thoma nods, the wheels turning within his mind. He meets Ayato’s gaze, and his eyes are dark, like depthless pools of water underneath the moon.
“I’m sorry I did not send you sooner,” Ayato says, pulling a stack of papers from his bedside table. “It has taken a great deal of effort, but I managed to procure the proper documents. You are free to travel wherever you wish in Inazuma now.”
“Thank you,” Thoma says, breathless with disbelief.
He takes the documents with shaking hands, and their fingers brush as the papers are passed over. He thinks he hears Ayato suck in a gasp, but surely it must be his imagination.
“Oh! That’s right. I have something else for you,” Ayato says suddenly, eyes bright and cheeks rosy. “Hold on a moment.”
He stands suddenly, passing over to the dresser and rummaging through it. He pulls out a neatly folded stack of clothes and passes them to Thoma, shoving them almost excitedly into his arms.
“Are these- are these for me?” Thoma asks, staring down at them.
“As much as the servant's attire suits you,” Ayato replies, “I feel that these are more your style. I chose them for you personally.”
They make eye contact again, and Thoma looks away suddenly. Perhaps it’s that he’s his boss. Yes, that must be it. That must explain why his feelings towards Ayato are so different than with Kaeya or Diluc or anyone else.
“If you would please try them on,” Ayato says, and Thoma thinks he looks rather bashful. “I should like to see how they look.”
“Oh, of course. Right away.”
When Thoma re enters the room he does so slowly, arms wrapped firmly around his waist. The black shirt is tight, and fits well for combat. Meanwhile the jacket and pants are firm, well procured material. He supposes he should have expected nothing less from the Kamisato’s.
“What do you think?” Ayato asks, boyish satisfaction in his gaze as he stares at Thoma.
“I like it,” he replies, “I like it a lot.”
“Oh. One last thing.”
Ayato scurries away, plunging his hands excitedly back into that dresser drawer. His smile is practically glowing now, and Thoma stands suspended in shock as he waits for him to return.
He hurries back, settling some sort of headband upon Thoma’s hair before ushering him over to a mirror. Two little black horns now stick up above Thoma’s brow bone, poking out from beneath his bangs.
Ayato giggles, honest to god mischief taking over his expression. He looks so childish, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a young boy.
“You look like an oni,” he says with another laugh, as smooth as the pools at Windrise.
Thoma finds himself laughing too, regressing into a fit of giggles that only grows worse once their eyes meet. By the time he’s able to suck in a breath his sides are pinched and he’s got tears in his eyes.
He carries that memory with him all the way to Ritou. His steps are light and he feels full of air, chest bursting with the gentle lines of Ayato’s face in the moonlight, still swirling about his mind.
Though when he passes into the city, flashing his shiny new pass to the guard, his situation seems a bit more… heavy.
“Just connections,” Thoma murmurs to himself, “Just light searching for now.”
He follows those guidelines for all of two seconds before he’s power walking through the district, head swiveling left and right. His eyes catch on blonde heads and brown eyes, but none of them resemble his father in the slightest.
Of course it couldn’t be that simple, he understands that well. So instead he taps the arm of a passerby and puts on his best Trademark Ayato Smile.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” he says, looking directly into the woman’s wide green eyes. “Do you happen to know where the Information Center is? I’m having a bit of trouble finding my way around.”
“Oh! Yes it’s about two blocks over. There’s a big sign, you can’t miss it.” She says, pointing him to the right.
Thoma gives her his thanks and makes haste, weaving between person after person. That is, until he’s grabbed on the arm by a wrinkled hand.
“Young man, would you do me a favor?”
The woman is old, very old. She has a Fontaine look about her, and her white hair is pulled into a bun on top of her head. She is hunched, and the fingers clutching Thoma’s sleeve tremble.
“Well, I’m just in the middle of-”
“Please,” she croaks, her withered voice cracking with desperation. “These hooligans broke my window, and I just don’t have the strength to repair it.”
“I… uhm.”
“You’re such a strapping little boy. Can’t you please give an old grandma a-”
“Yes, sorry, I’ll handle it,” Thoma says, hanging his head as the lady drags him to her home.
It’s not a bad break, thankfully, and while he works up a bit of a sweat, Thoma is able to repair it within the hour.
“Young lad!”
Barbatos help me, Thoma thinks, turning to face a young Liyuen, leaning upon a crutch.
“What do you need fixed?”
_____
The sun sets and rises again, and the city of Ritou is shining with new vigor. Meanwhile, Thoma is a pile of limp limbs and sweat as he rests upon the stairs of the Information Center.
“Sir? Are you alright? Sir?”
Thoma shoots up, gasping at the sharp pain in his neck and back.
“I’m awake! Sorry! I’m up!”
The woman in front of him, dressed in what he can presume is Inazuman professional, smiles sympathetically.
“You’re Thoma aren’t you? Word has it you’re good at fixing things,” she says, eyebrows raising.
“What do you need?” Thoma asks, accepting his fate.
“Actually, I suppose that’s what I should be asking you.”
Thoma grins, leaping to his feet. He regrets it as soon as his body begins to protest, soreness permeating throughout his muscles.
“I’m looking for someone,” he says, hoping his expression is as serious as he feels. “My father.”
“Come right on in. If he’s here and registered, I’ll be able to find him.”
Thoma follows the woman inside, hope filling his chest with its warm embrace. He can just barely remember his father’s smile, his voice as he would read him stories, and as the years go by his visage fades more and more.
The woman spends near an hour sifting through papers and documents, brows furrowed and lips pursed before she solemnly shakes her head.
Refusal to feel disappointment was always what Thoma’s mother loved most about him, and so he holds his head high and thanks the kind woman for her efforts. Then he leaves the center, and spends the next week fixing, and fixing, and fixing.
_____
He returns to the Kamisato Estate with his head held high, and is knocked right on his ass when Ayaka barrels out the door and right into him. He goes down with a loud oof, and he ruffles her hair when he sees tears streaming down her cheeks.
“You were gone so long,” she cries, arms squeezing shockingly tight around his middle. “I thought you weren’t coming back!”
Thoma laughs, swooping her into his arms and twirling her around in the air.
“Of course I came back,” Thoma says, “Who would do your hair if I were gone?”
Ayaka giggles, wrapping her arms around his neck and sniffling into his collar. Thoma finds that he had missed her during his time away, and the thought almost draws tears to his eyes.
He looks over her tiny head, and his eyes catch on white robes in the doorway. Blue eyes meet his own, curved into smiling crescents. Ayato’s hair is unbound, furling about his shoulders in soft rivulets, and Thoma is yet again entranced by him.
“Any luck?” Ayato asks, coming down the steps and stopping at Thoma’s side, snapping him out of his stupor.
Thoma shakes his head, but smiles all the same when he meets Ayato’s gaze. He seems relieved, and Thoma wonders if he had worried that he wouldn’t return as well.
“No, I’m afraid not,” Thoma answers, hoping he can’t see through to his disappointment.
Ayaka sniffles into his shoulder.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t find your daddy,” she says woefully, small fingers tangling into his ponytail. “Does that mean you’re going to leave again?”
Ayato raises his eyebrows, seeming to ask the same question. Thoma finds that his stomach feels all tied up in knots, his own body unsure of which choice to make.
He has full documentation. He could leave now and never return, traveling the lands to search for his father, and yet…
It would be nice to have a home to return to.
“Not for a while,” Thoma says, and Ayato’s returning smile has him knowing that he’s made the right choice.
“Oh, I have something for you,” Ayato says suddenly, “hold on for just a moment.”
He darts into the estate, robes flowing at his heels. Thoma sets Ayaka down who goes dashing after her brother, tiny feet padding rapidly across the floor.
Ayato returns, holding a decadent box within his hands. It’s red with a lovely white ribbon tied into a bow at the top.
“Here,” he says, gently placing it into Thoma’s hands. “Please, do go ahead and open it.”
Needless to say, Thoma’s curiosity is piqued. He slides the silky ribbon out of its bow, and gingerly lifts the lid off of the box. Within lies a duster. An incredibly fancy one at that.
Before Thoma can even question the nature of the gift, Ayato picks it up, tapping it upon each of Thoma’s shoulders before wrapping his hand around its handle. His fingers are warm on Thoma’s own, his soft hands lingering for a little too long.
“I declare you, officially, the Head Kamisato Housekeeper and the Retainer of the Yashiro Commission.”
“I… what?”
Thoma feels a bit like a gasping fish, his jaw nearly hitting the floor. Ayato’s eyes are kind, a hint of mischief glinting within his serious gaze.
“I want you to have an official position here,” Ayato says, “You are one of the most capable people I have ever met. It would not do to have anyone other than yourself leading the rest of the staff and caring for the estate. If you accept, that is.”
His expression is vulnerable, and Thoma swears to commit it to memory. The downturn of his lips, the furrowing of his brows, and the rarest hint of insecurity that paints across his pale face.
“Of course I accept,” Thoma says. “Erm- well, yes, I formally accept this prestigious position.”
When Ayato laughs, Thoma is sure that it is the most beautiful sound he has ever heard.