Archive of Our Own ^beta

There must have been an angel by my side.

Something heavenly led me to you.

Look at the sky,

It's the color of love.

… 

Thoma loves the color blue.

No, seriously— he loved dipping his feet in the ice-cold river water of Starfell Lake. He loved looking past its blue ripples, feeling jagged rocks at his soles and heels, the blue fins of crystal fish scurrying past his ankles. He liked the sight of his mother’s baby blue dress against verdant green grass, hand-woven picnic basket in her grasp as she revealed the blue of their picnic blanket. 

He loved the blue of his best tuxedo. It made him look charming— it was a size too large for him, his body drowning in fabric and his shoulders appearing clunky, but his mother used to smile as she carefully cuffed its sleeves to his wrist. “You’ll grow into it.” She had said, as Thoma trailed his eyes down the blue veins scaling his mother’s thin, nimble fingers to her wrist. “Always growing, always growing.” A faint tune followed her voice, smoothing the imaginary folds at his collar. His suit matched the blue gem of her silver earrings. 

Even when he rested the ribbon-tied bouquet of blue hydrangeas before a lonely grey headstone, glossy eyes tracing over the ingrained letters of his mother’s name, Thoma still loved the color blue. Her blue earrings rest in their home in a special box. 

When Thoma sailed out to sea, he loved the floral blues of the sky above him— vast and endless, hugging the valleys and mountain tops that pierce it, decorated with thin strips of white cloud. And upon the blue waves that would occasionally lap onto his boat, there would be an array of different shades sparkling in the summer sun— like jewels of sapphire and blue diamond. 

It was only until he experienced a crash too severe that Thoma learned what it was like to despise the color blue. When blue contorted into a variegated, muddy grey murk of crashing thunder and a promise of rain, swallowing him, his boat, and his dreams. 

It was revolting how it consumed his vision and his lungs, and how suddenly all he could see was blue. Each breath he took was a gulp of seawater, his eyes burning even as he desperately clenched them shut. How sunlight grew dimmer and his flailing turned pointless against the weight of an ocean. He vividly remembers the prayer he chanted in his head. Please, he begs. Not yet. 

He remembers how, even as he desperately reached towards the dull sky above him, he thought of a lonely gravestone beneath the tall oak tree beside their cabin home. Blue earrings. Always growing, always growing. Cotton blue dresses. Hydrangeas. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. 

And instead of blue, there was darkness. Immeasurable darkness— a black void, a visual halt of sound, sitting in a soundless space where even his voice is a victim to such silence. 

“...Up!”

“...ake…” 

“Up! Pl…” 

Something muffled and incoherent, but it’s a voice. Thoma distinctly remembers how his heartbeat raced violently against his chest, the murky haze that made his eyelids heavy, and the overwhelming wave of nausea that washed over him after he gained a semblance of consciousness. 

Gagging while hacking up an obscene amount of swallowed seawater wasn’t his best first impression, but when he felt a hand pounding the shit out of his back— as if the person wasn’t aware of their strength — he thought this entire first meeting had been skewed. 

 “Are you okay?”

But oh. As he whipped his head around, Thoma was met with a kaleidoscope of blues in the depths of a boy’s eyes. 

His eyes encompassed the crashing blue tides of the sea to the endless blue skies of every season, or the blue of hydrangeas and forget-me-nots he would pick. There is security and reassurance in the grip he has on his shoulder. And suddenly Thoma loves the color blue with every inch of him. From the tingling numbness in his fingertips to his wet toes, he loves blue. 

“Take slow breaths. Yes, that’s it… You’re okay.” The boy’s frantic voice had shifted into something softer, concern oozing in his gaze.

Thoma wasn’t sure if he was “okay”, as he stupidly stared at the boy’s hair. White, silky, loose strands sticking to his flushed, wet-slick face, droplets trickling past his cheeks toward his chin. Even in a state of disarray, Thoma believed that this would be the prettiest boy he would ever meet. 

“Did you save me?” A  stupid question.

“You were floating at sea, so I…” The boy trailed off, following Thoma’s gaze and looking down at his own wet garbs. “I got a bit wet, though.” He sheepishly chuckles. He’s soaked, actually. He can only be a few years older than him, still a child nonetheless. To carry another person out of an ocean… 

“Where… Am I?” Thoma hesitantly asked, and it resembled a croak rather than something coherent.

“The shore just beside our estate.” The boy’s hand hadn’t moved from Thoma’s back, and he’s painfully aware of it. It felt like a searing brand that melted past his wet clothes onto bare skin.

“You saved me?” Thoma’s eyes widened. “But you’re…” A child. Just a boy. A stranger. It’s becoming hard to string words together, his tongue resembling mush in his mouth with bricks weighing his lungs down.

“A kid?” The boy laughed, hand barely obscuring the wide, open-mouthed smile on his face. “Well, I am fifteen…” He murmured to himself rather than Thoma. “This is the Kamisato Estate. Do you know where that is?” He’s patient, willing to guide Thoma toward his eventual realization.

Kamisato… Thoma allowed the words to settle in his muddied brain. Kamisato… Inazuma… The wet kimono hanging off the boy’s body… 

“Young Master Ayato!” A distant voice yelled, and Ayato briefly looked up at the jagged cliff above them with a sigh before looking back down at Thoma, who is still piecing the jumbled puzzle that his brain together.

And then he realized oh, he did make it to Inazuma. 

He didn’t die.

Thank God.

As Thoma’s eyes grew impossibly heavy and he heard the distant hey! beside him, Thoma thinks about the name Kamisato Ayato. Ka-mi-sa-to A-ya-to. 

Even to this day, Thoma has the feeling of arms encircling him with a squeeze ingrained to his memory. His body was lifted into the air with ease, a hand carefully cradling his neck, handling him with so much care that he felt like precious jade. 

Thoma remembered thinking he wanted to drown in the smell of sea salt, lotus flowers, and wet silk. 

…

“Brother is coming home tonight,” Ayaka mentions over a cup of matcha tea. 

Thoma flinches, and he hopes it isn’t too obvious how his whole body rises just at the mention of Ayato. It had been months since he’d last seen him. Months. 

The teahouse is quiet besides the occasional barking of Taroumaru or the muted chatter past the paper sheets of shoji doors. Her finger is circling the circumference of her teacup in quiet contemplation, eyes glued to the oakwood table. Thoma can see the gears turning in her head, how she nibbles at her bottom lip. 

“That’s great!” Thoma says. “But you seem distracted.” He pries just a bit. Ayaka has a hard time voicing her thoughts.

The finger pauses in its movement, and Ayaka looks up, a distressed expression written across her face. “There’s just been some discussion of courting.”

Thoma hums at that. Yeah, as Inazuma’s turbulence slows down, topics that were temporarily placed on the backburner are gradually making their way into word-of-the-mouth discussions. Arranged marriages weren’t uncommon, and although Ayaka has the option of participating in such a practice, Thoma can already imagine the pink embarrassment flushing her cheeks past her fan. Ayato would be in charge of these affairs, as well. It must be stressful.

“Is Young Master having discussions about that?” Thoma smiles, taking another slow, long sip of his tea. Matcha is a flavor he’s learned to adjust to, as with many light, airy Inazuman flavors that sharply contrast with Mondstadt’s deep, heavy undertones. Its bitter-sweet taste lingers on his tongue with each gulp he takes. “You should tell him you’re not ready.”

“It’s…” Ayaka pauses helplessly, before she lets out a soft sigh. “Brother might be courted.”

Courted?

Courted?

Courted?!?!

Matcha has never tasted so awful in such a small time frame.

Thoma sputters, slamming the cup down with a heaving cough because tea is stuck in his throat and he can’t think straight and Brother might be courted is running laps around his head in an endless loop. 

“But Young Master has a say in it!” Thoma shouts with ferocity, and doesn't realize he’s risen to his knees until he notices Ayaka’s wince, and he settles into his seat. “Won’t he say no?” He has to say no. The possibility of him saying yes is unfathomable. There isn’t a single person on this planet that would ever deserve Ayato— not even himself. 

(It hurts, but Thoma has accepted that.)

Ayaka frowns. “It’s up to him.” She begins, and Thoma watches her teeth gnaw at the inside of her cheek. “There’s a growing concern in strengthening the presence of the Yashiro Commission by binding with other high-ranking government officials.” She explains eloquently as ever, because Ayaka is well-versed in political issues just as her brother is, but there’s still an uneasiness in her voice. 

“But we have plenty of influence,” Thoma counters, and he must sound desperate or deranged— or both. Because Ayato being courted makes his heart twist uncomfortably. “Must he go through with it?”

A few moments of silence weigh on them, and Thoma takes the time to study himself. How sweaty his palms are, how his heart races, how his stomach wraps around itself. 

“If a situation where a foreign entity endangers Inazuma arises once again,” Ayaka begins after a moment. “And we were uninvolved due to our position, what could we do?”

Thoma deflates, looking down at the droplets of tea on the table with clenched fists. The reality is becoming more apparent, and it makes him feel nauseous. “I understand, My Lady.” He says, unfortunately. “I apologize. I stepped out of line.” He’s not sure if he means it.

Ayaka purses her lips, as if she’s carefully picking the correct words in her brain. “Thoma, You’re my dearest friend.” She says after a moment. “There’s no need to apologize,” Ayaka says. “We both care for Ayato deeply, I also feel conflicted…” 

But we care for him in two very different ways. Thoma thinks, but he keeps that to himself. “Will you talk to him?”

“Possibly. But not tonight.” Ayaka is rising to her feet in preparation to leave, smoothing the wrinkles of her dress with a pat. “We’re both busy with our meetings.” 

Thoma looks down at his lap in thought. If Ayaka won’t see him, then he definitely shouldn’t. 

Ayaka strides towards the door before sparing a glance. “Thoma?” She speaks up.

Thoma perks his head at being called to attention. “Yes, My Lady?”

“Bring him a cup of tea.” She says, lips stretching into a bright smile. “His usual.”

Oolong tea with its leaves imported from Liyue has been Ayato’s favorite blend for the past year. It came about when the trio stumbled across a restaurant priding itself on Liyue cuisine. Thoma remembers the gleam in Ayato’s eyes as he took a sip, awed and astonished at such a rich flavor.

Thoma, despite himself, flashes a smile in return. “We just received a shipment of goods from Liyue Harbor.” 

Thoma spends the afternoon reorganizing, recounting, and reassessing their new goods before storing them away. And he carefully leaves out the porcelain jar of tea leaves for tonight. 

… 

The next few days anticipating Ayato’s arrival feels like months. In a way that he knows best, Thoma occupies himself with an endless array of tasks— Ayaka had inquiries on how many times he’ll dust the countertops within the span of an hour. He proudly announces twenty-eight, thank you very much.

Yet it’s a shame that Thoma couldn’t be there for the exact moment Ayato arrives. He thinks this as he runs across the stone pebble walkway of the Yashiro Commission, skipping steps with a stretch of his legs and jar of tea leaves secured in his grasp, nearly fumbling on his own two feet. His work outside had taken longer than he expected— a public dispute between two prominent figures whom he successfully redirected into his growing list of contacts. He hopes Ayato will praise him for it— just the thought makes him beam. Just as he’s about to run past the estate’s entrance doors, he’s stopped by a pair of familiar faces.

“Thoma!” One of the two watchmen greets, cheerful as he waves. “Are you here to see Sir Kamisato?” There are lines of old age in the crinkle of his eyes but holds a soft expression, regardless. He is one of their older guards, and one of the few that don’t openly scorn Thoma’s presence. Thoma remembers when his grey-streaked hair was instead a full bundle of chestnut and the winks they would share as Thoma and Ayato would sneak out as a pair. 

Yet this isn’t the time for fond memories. Thoma smiles, and it’s strained, because Ayato is right past the doors and he can’t see him. “Yep! I brought some tea with me, too.”

“Perhaps you should come tomorrow?” The second guard recommends with a sympathetic sigh, scratching at his gruff mustache. He’s newer to the estate, and he was openly baffled at how Thoma could be so close to the Kamisato leaders. “He looked rather…  stressed when he first arrived.” 

Thoma’s smile falters. Has something happened to Ayato? Did it relate to the courting? “Don’t worry,” The words are forced out as he tries his best to suppress his aching worry. “I’ll be in and out.” 

The guard briefly considers before shrugging. “Well, you are closest to Sir Ayato,” He raises a hand to his chin. “He’d be overjoyed to see you, I’m sure.” There’s a lilt of sarcasm. Thoma ignores it. 

The older man nods in agreement. “He seemed to be looking for someone, I’m certain it was you.” 

Ayato… looking for him? A burning sensation tingles Thoma’s cheeks and he prays it isn’t too obvious. “I’ll head inside, then.” He mumbles, uncharacteristically bashful. 

“Take care of him, Thoma.” The older guard chuckles, a hearty push to his shoulder forcefully nudges Thoma past the entrance doors. I always do. He responds to no one except his own conscience. 

It’s instinctual how Thoma’s feet automatically take him to Ayato’s study room, a familiar path that he has walked for over a decade. His feet, much smaller and lighter, would pace to the sliding doors. And Ayato, ink dripping from the brush in his grasp, looked dreadfully charming with a black smudge smeared at the corner of his mouth. Various attempts at calligraphy scattered around him with his hair freely cascading past his shoulders, he’d greet Thoma with a giggle, who would spend just a few seconds too long staring at the mole beneath his bottom lip. 

Even when he slides open the doors, he still does take those extra few seconds to take in the full appearance of Ayato, who looks up with a jolt. And oh, he looks so pretty. Thoma’s heart stops and restarts at how Ayato’s pinched expression morphs into something softer— gentler, as if he’s genuinely happy to see him. Like there’s no one else in the world he would rather see. 

“And since when do you not knock?” Ayato teases with a lilt in his tone, and Thoma laughs just a bit too loudly.  “You’re getting too comfortable, Thoma.”

“Forgive me, Young Master.” Thoma apologizes, and there is earnestly behind it despite the stupid smile on his face— he’s grinning like a child who’s meeting their idol for the first time. It’s embarrassing, it’s elating, it’s Ayato. “But I come bearing gifts: tea!”

Ayato raises a brow with a smirk. “And the flavor?”

“Your favorite, of course. Just imported today.”

“Excellent.” Ayato is pleased. Good, great, excellent. “Let’s clear the table.” 

Thoma asks, anyway. “Young Master, are you sure you’re not busy? If you are, I'd hate to impose.” He doesn’t want to stop talking to him and he dreads leaving this room. But just seeing Ayato gives him the strength to conquer even the highest Inazuman mountain tops. 

( Besides, Thoma thinks offhandedly. I can probably wait for him in the next room. ) 

Ayato places his pen back in the yatate’s holder before looking up at Thoma, who suddenly feels like he’s in the middle of Natsui’s Beach with tides washing him deeper into its depths and overwhelmed with the sight of blue. 

“I could be the busiest man on this Earth,” He begins, slowly. “And I’d still make time for you.” 

Thoma hates how his heart stops at the words, his grip momentarily slackening on the porcelain jar. “Young Master, you’re teasing me again…”

“When have I ever teased you about this?” Ayato says, and he’s serious this time. Thoma can tell from how his voice drops an octave and his easygoing smile turns into a tight-lipped line. “I’m being quite serious. No matter where I am, I think of you.”

Thoma hates this. He loves it so much that he hates it. Ayato couldn’t even begin to comprehend the depth of his love. Young Master , he recites in the dreams he tells naught. Asleep or awake, I dream of you. I long for you and I miss you. I love you . It will always only be you. And it has been for more than ten years. Then he wakes up. 

Thoma doesn’t say this, however. He just continues to take in the cerulean blue of Ayato’s eyes, noticing how it flickers downward for just a moment, then he realizes they’ve been staring for too long. 

“I feel honored to mean so much to Young Master.” Thoma smiles; a sheepish and boyish smile. “Would you like your tea now?”

Ayato seems briefly taken aback by something, his eyebrows scrunching together. But it leaves just as quickly as it came, replaced with something more casual and less intimate. “Papers, Thoma. Let me clear them.” Ayato begins shuffling through the multiple files of paper that rest on his desk. 

Selfishly, Thoma lets himself study Ayato. His hair is tied into a ponytail today, though those silver bangs frame his face as it always does. He protrudes his tongue to lick his bottom lip in thought, mindlessly brushing over the mole Thoma stares at often. He’s wearing his indoor clothing, the thick layers of his kimono still not hiding the slither of skin at his collarbone. And under further inspection, Ayato does look tired. There’s a languid drag to his movements, and although he’s as precise as usual, there are small, intricate inconsistencies that only someone like Ayaka or Thoma would notice. Like how he tied his hair into a ponytail instead of a bun, or how his bangs fall to his face because he’s forgotten to use hairpins. Or how instead of carefully filing his papers away into their respective compartments, he settles for resting it on the ground beside his lap. Or how his smile doesn’t reach his eyes all the time. 

Thoma begins placing their tea set down, its design a lotus flower in bloom. Ayato and Ayaka especially like the pink of its petals against the cup’s cream-colored background.

“So,” Ayato starts when a cup of steaming oolong tea is served to him. “What’s wrong?”

Thoma tilts his head, feigning stupidity. “Whatever do you mean, Young Master?”

Ayato grins at the dramatics. “You very rarely come into my room without knocking. Either you especially missed me this time, or something happened. Both can coexist, though.” He remarks and God, he is too perceptive despite his tiredness. Thoma has always knocked on Ayato’s door, a practice that he taught himself from young when he became aware of their difference in titles. The one time Thoma didn’t knock had been the time where he failed at finding his father and he was just so tired all he could do was go to Ayato. 

“Courting?” Thoma doesn’t bother wording it properly, and he does feel a mix of satisfaction and anxiousness at how Ayato flinches— just barely. 

“So sister has mentioned that to you…” He trails off, continuing to take a sip of his tea as if the topic of marriage is nothing to him. “What of it?”

How cruel, Young Master. There are many things to it. Including me. 

“Is there a lucky lady you’ve set your eyes on?” The words sound foreign on his tongue, but he forces them out, anyways. He can’t even process a woman who is gorgeous enough to catch the eyes of Ayato, who is the most handsome person that Thoma has ever seen. 

Ayato pauses, as if genuinely considering it, and it makes the Oolong tea taste rancid on Thoma’s taste buds. “I suppose not…” He trails off. Suppose? That’s not exactly a ‘No’. Oh my god, he’s going to get married. 

“Do you even want to get married?” Thoma can’t even hide the bitterness in his tone, but he tries anyway, masking it with a teasing smile. 

Ayato stares at Thoma, wordless. “Do you think I should get married?” 

“Why ask me?” 

“Because your opinion matters. Is that so surprising?”

It isn’t surprising because Ayato has given Thoma nothing but love for more than ten years. So much love that Thoma can do nothing to return it back except present his naked, vulnerable and still-beating heart to Ayato with a smile if it meant his happiness. If Ayato lost his voice, Thoma would give him his without a second thought. And what a privilege it is to have your opinion matter to the Head of the Kamisato clan. So why does Thoma have to wrap his grotesque feelings under many layers inside him? No, you shouldn’t get married at all! The Kamisato Head doesn’t need to be courted right now. He should marry me, though. Just a thought.

“I believe that Young Master should do what makes him happiest,” Thoma says after taking another sip of tea. 

Ayato makes a noise of contemplation behind his throat. “I am expected to bring a partner with me to the banquet arriving—”

“The Winter Banquet this Friday, yes,” Thoma says.

“And I have received a prospective list of high-ranking officials that could accompany me,”

Dread stacks itself in the pits of Thoma’s stomach. “Then why aren’t you—” 

“None of them catches my interest.” He sighs dramatically with a helpless shrug. “Beautiful women, truly. May they find partners to take care of them.” He says, as if he wouldn’t be the perfect partner to take care of them.

Thoma carefully doesn’t show how ecstatic he is at those words. He has no interest in them. Good, good. This is good. “But then, Young Master, who will you go with?”

Ayato looks up and oh dear, he holds a mischievous glint in the azure blue of his irises, a lift at the corner of his lips into a sly smirk. He’s plotting something, Thoma realizes. He wears that look just before planning something so intricately awful— like the fabricated turmoil he stews between the Tri-Commission with ease, or how he easily serves a disfigured pot of food to Thoma, a victim.

“Would you like to accompany me, Thoma?”

And then all the neuron pathways leading to Thoma’s brain come to a stuttering stop. 

The harsh sound of glass shattering causes them to restart once again, and when he looks down the cup in his grasp had, at some point, slipped and crashed onto the table. Tea is now dripping onto his lap, seeping past the fabric of his pants, but Thoma can barely register its heat. 

“Thoma!” Ayato clatters to his feet, shuffling toward Thoma with concern written over his face. “Are you okay?” He’s sliding off the outer layer of his kimono.

“Ah.” Thoma says belatedly. “I broke the lotus flower tea set… Many apologies, Young Master—” The apology dies on his throat when he realizes Ayato is pushing the bundle of fabric onto his lap with both hands, trying to soak up as much fallen tea as possible. 

“The tea set is definitely not the issue, Thoma…!” Ayato trails off when he looks up and their eyes meet. The silence that weighs on them is immeasurable, and Thoma has no fucking clue what his face looks like right now. But he prays Ayato can’t see the want in his eyes, or the blush he knows has spread from the base of his neck past his cheeks and to his ears. He prays his master doesn’t hear the uncontrollable racing of his heart and how it beats against his rib cage with angry fervor. 

Then Ayato is pulling away, damp kimono still in his grasp. “I couldn’t clean all of it.” He says with a soft smile, and Thoma must imagine the hint of pink at his ears— he doesn’t get a chance to verify, because rogue strands of silk hair obscure the sight of it. 

Thoma remembers his manners. “Young Master!” He exclaims, incredulous. ‘This is improper!” He scolds, hands moving to snatch the kimono out of Ayato’s hands and begin folding it. Laundry day is soon, anyway.

“What is?” Ayato asks, and he hasn’t moved from Thoma’s side yet. “Asking you to the banquet, or cleaning you?”

“Both!”

Ayato laughs— it’s loud yet smooth to the ears. Thoma shivers. “You would be my date. It wouldn’t be real if that’s where your concern lies.”

Thoma winces at how easily it’s said. It wouldn’t be real. Their love will never be reciprocated and it hurts to admit that. Yet to support Ayato is all he’s ever wanted, so he looks up with a smile as he speaks again. “I understand…” He trails off. “If this is what will please you, I’ll gladly use this opportunity.” 

Appropriately pleased, Ayato nods. “We’ll have to act like a couple, though.”

Why?! Thoma knows why— if he tags along and they don’t act like a couple, the assumption would rise that Thoma is just a servant following his master. And that’s not completely wrong, but they don’t need to know that. “Like… how much?” 

Ayato plays with a strand of hair nonchalantly. “Hand-holding, sweet nicknames—”

“The kind of nicknames we made fun of when we were kids?”

“Yes, dear.” 

“No, I was thinking more like… Sweet red bean, how are you today?”

That earns Thoma another huff of a snicker from Ayato. “I’m just fine, my honey plum.” 

They both laugh together, and Thoma laughs a bit too loudly but he can’t help it because Ayato just does that to him. 

“Oh, and kissing.” Ayato adds with a snap of his finger, as if just remembering.

Thoma’s jaw slackens. A prayer. He needs a prayer. “Kissing?!” 

Kissing Ayato. Oh, God. Kissing Ayato. Then suddenly he’s staring too hard at the pink of Ayato’s lips and the mole just beneath it. How soft it would feel against his. How overwhelming the smell of cherry blossom and sea salt from sailing across Teyvat would be to his senses. “Are you sure that’s appropriate?”

“Well,” Ayato shrugs. “You are my lover for the time being. Truthfully, I should be doing more. Had it been a real lover, I would…” He pauses to press a finger to the junction between Thoma’s shoulder and neck. “I would have to leave plenty of love marks, wouldn’t I? Here, and here.” With each word, he pokes at a different spot of Thoma’s neck, who fights the urge of leaning into the touch. He wants to explode into a thousand miniature pieces. Love marks. Lips on Thoma’s neck, a body looming over him.

“You’re teasing again.” Thoma playfully pushes Ayato’s touch away. “You couldn’t do that if you tried.”

“Wanna bet?” Ayato quirks a brow at the challenge. He’s so stubborn it hurts.

“No.” Thoma deadpans before releasing a long, tired sigh. “I understand my duties, Young Master, but it’s getting late.” The room is suffocating and Thoma wants to drop dead on his bed instead of replaying his thoughts of Ayato touching him anywhere and everywhere. Maybe both. “How about you retire for the night?”

Ayato pouts. He can be rather childish despite being older by nearly three years. It’s odd; as a child, he wore a facade of maturity, determined to submerge himself in the role of a Kamisato Heir. But with each passing year, although he’s become even more talented, he’s also more of a menace, too. Kujou Sara rattled in Thoma’s ear about it. “I suppose so. But there’s one thing I’d like to do.” Ayato taps his chin.

“And what’s that?” Thoma blinks, clueless.

“Let’s take a shower together.”

…?

Please, God. No more.

Thoma has received enough stimulation to last him a year. 

“Young Master,” Thoma begins in a strained voice. “Why?” Why must we shower? Why must you tease me? Why must you not take into consideration my unrequited love for you? So many questions yet so few answers. 

“We used to take showers together all the time,” Ayato raises a brow, as if genuinely confused at the question. “Is it so wrong to do that again? You’re soaked with tea.” 

And no, Thoma thinks to himself. It isn’t wrong. But it isn’t kind to his heart. He does remember how their tiny bodies fit into the tub, and the mess of fallen bathwater and their high-pitched screams causing servants to trip over themselves in trying to reach their chaos. 

So Thoma tells himself he has no choice when he huffs a soft sigh with a “reluctant” agreement. Even though he’s aware that if he said no, I don’t want to. We’re too grown for that , Ayato would disagree that we’re never too grown, and yet I understand. He doesn’t want that. 

Thoma continues to tell himself as he sits at the stool, a  bucket of steaming hot water being dunked on him, courtesy of Ayato. 

“Since when do you shower me?” Thoma asks, peeking back at Ayato and immediately regretting it. The thin tendrils of his milk-white hair are finally tied into a bun, although there are still rogue strands tucked behind his ear. Thoma whips his head around before he could zero in on the ripples of toned muscle or the scar that extends from Ayato’s left shoulder blade to the center. 

At the sensation of herbs being scrubbed into skin, Thoma flinches before relaxing into the touch. Ayato has slender fingers, he notes. They’re calloused and rough from his years of sword practice, but it feels good when running alongside his spine. They brush against his nape, pushing strands of blonde hair to rest on his shoulder. “I felt like it,” Ayato says. His fingers are beginning to run through his hair, massaging circles into his scalp and— 

Thoma releases a shaky breath. “I should be doing this for you, technically,” Thoma says, and his voice is hoarser than he thought. “You just came home, after all. How was your time away from the estate?” 

“Long, tiring, and rather lonely,” Ayato says. “Beautiful sights aren’t as beautiful when there isn’t anyone to share the same view as you.” 

Thoma wonders who would Ayato like to stand beside when observing such beautiful sights. Would it be the same as the times they would climb the roofs of buildings, earning them scraps and scratches on their kneecaps and palms? To watch the dark sky littered with stars, like specs of sugar scattered across black granite? To intertwine their hands and how Thoma would notice how bandaged Ayato’s fingers are? To stare at the streaks of moonlight dressing his face and reflect through his eyes? To think Sir Kamisato is so pretty repeatedly?

“Young Master should bring me along next time,” Thoma laughs. 

“Would you really?” Ayato asks.

“Really what?”

“Come with me?” There’s something oddly resembling hope in how Ayato’s voice heightens in pitch. 

Thoma falls silent. “I’d definitely burden Young Master.” He softly shakes his head. “But if I did, why don’t we sail to Mondstadt?”

The fingers in his hair hitch in its movement. “Your birthplace, yes?” 

Thoma nods. “Mm. You could meet my mother.” And his mother could see the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Perhaps their bloodline is bound to fall for Inazuman men that are too far from their grasp. He chuckles at the thought.

“Your mother…” Ayato echoes in a soft, uncharacteristic murmur. “I’d like that.” The happiness is subtle, but Thoma can recognize it easily. He tucks it away into the corner of his heart. The conversation ends there.

After a few long minutes, the two of them are sinking their bodies into the steaming hot bathwater in a way that mimics their childhood. They’re a bit (understatement) too large for the tub, their legs becoming a tangle of limbs as they face each other. The room smells of incense and jasmine flowers, a pleasant tingle to his nose.

“Your face still gets red in hot water,” Ayato snickers, elbow resting on the tub’s rim with a palm to his cheek. “Red as a dendrobium.” 

“It’s really not my fault that you like your baths piping hot. I feel like I’m in a sauna.” Thoma whines. 

“Hot baths soothe sore muscles, especially when paired with essential oils such as lavender. Don’t you feel more relaxed?”

No, not at all. But Ayato’s heart is in the right place, so Thoma appreciates that he’s trying. “Did I look not relaxed?”

Ayato blinks, unamused. “You looked like you were going to die at any given moment.” He says. “Is the thought of being with me that appalling?”

“No!” Thoma jerks up before simmering down again, and he hopes Ayato doesn’t notice how his face deepens in its red color by two shades. “No, it’s just like… I don’t think I’m worthy of that?” He makes vague hand gestures as if they could properly express his point. “Young Master is up here—” He lifts himself just slightly aiming for the ceilings and something even beyond that. “And I’m here.” His hand sinks into the water with a loud splash.

Ayato bursts into a fit of laughter, amusement written across his face. “Thoma, you’re so… How long have we known each other?”

“Eleven years, five months, two weeks, and three days.” Thoma recites with ease. The memory is ingrained in his brain. The smell of sea salt and the sensation of wet fabric against his cheek. Strong arms encompassing all of him. The overwhelming flood of blue. 

“So why wouldn’t it be you?” Ayato asks. It’s such a simple question yet it weighs on Thoma like a ton of bricks. 

“Young Master…” It’s all he can say, and the dangerous feeling of hope arises in his thrumming chest. “It’s an honor.”

Thoma doesn’t know how long they talk. They talk about Kujou Sara frowning at Ayato with displeasure when he visited their territory, and if the Watasumi Island seas are as vast as books say. Ayato talks a lot when he’s tired, Thoma knows. Words are spilling out of his mouth like a guzzling faucet, and Thoma latches onto them with an overbearing amount of intensity. He doesn’t even realize when his own eyelids start to flutter shut and the bath steam allows his body to slacken with relaxation. He just remembers how nice it feels to hear Ayato’s voice, and how much he missed him. And the day Ayato is courted, he’ll be in so much pain he won’t be able to breathe straight. He’d die, surely, if someone else gets to experience this simple pleasure.

Thoma just barely registers the wet body lifting him out of water. Put me down , he tries to say. But it comes out as an incoherent jumble of words. 

“Just sleep for a little, why don’t you?” 

So Thoma sleeps, relishing in the smell of jasmine flowers. What a beautiful sleep it was.

… 

That night, Thoma dreams of a distant Summer Festival from ten years ago. 

It took place in the months following the Kamisato family’s major loss. Thoma had dragged Ayato and Ayaka out of their chambers, two hands latched to their wrists as they navigated the bustling streets and brightly lit vendors. And although the two boys were familiar with sneaking out, Ayaka stumbled and stuttered in her steps, anxiousness evident in her trembling lips. 

Ayato was different that day, Thoma recalls in the dream. 

“Why are we here?” He had asked, his voice oozing with annoyance and an exasperated face. Thoma didn’t take it to heart— The past few months left the Kamisato Clan embroiled in neverending conflict, and after weeks of deliberation, Ayato would be proclaimed their new heir. As if he had the opportunity to grieve over the first one.

“Because you two deserve some relaxation!” Thoma cheered, a stupid grin on his face. Before Ayato could counter, he’s skipping towards a stand with a handful of coins in his hand. He could only afford two masks for the siblings, but that’s alright. He handed it to them with a beaming face. “Put it on!”

Ayaka looks at the kitsune mask with raised brows, fascination gleaming in her eyes even as it obscures her face. “Does it look okay?” Her voice was quieter due to the mask, but it’s so endearing Thoma can’t help but grin. 

“Very cute, Milady!” He clapped before looking towards Ayato. Instead of his sister’s fascination, he only glowers at the mask. That hurt just a bit. “You don’t have to wear it,” Thoma quickly added. 

Ayato settled for resting the mask at his side, though. That was a win. But it wasn’t enough. 

The dream warps and morphs into something less coherent— akin to a nightmare rather than a recollection of less-than-pleasant memories. But the pain is sickeningly real. The sensation of his body tumbling into dirt and mud, twigs protruding into his skin, and the sound of his yukata being ripped with a sharp tear. He was bleeding, surely. The uncomfortable wetness at the back of his head said so. 

A voice cried. “You can’t ever leave me.” They hiccuped. Ayato was crying so violently his voice was hoarse from the strain. Thoma had never seen him cry until that day. He hadn’t even cried at the memorial service. Snot oozed from his nose into his lips, tears streaming down his cheeks, and for once, Ayato resembled the fifteen-year-old he really was. It hurt that Thoma was the cause. Don’t cry, Young Master. I’ve made it my dream to follow you. I can’t leave you.  

“You can’t— You just can’t. I forbid it under my name! You can’t leave me, too. If you do, I’ll…” 

The dream ends. 

… 

Ayaka is in the midst of practicing her calligraphy when Thoma clears his throat before her doors. 

“Thoma?” Her voice raises in confusion. “Come in.” 

Thoma slides the doors open and he’s met with long scrolls of calligraphy that recounts different forms of poetry about nature or inner peace. Ironic considering Ayaka hasn’t known peace in years. 

“My Lady,” Thoma begins. “I’m in love with your brother.”

The ink pen makes an unsightly splotch of black next to the character for Love. Ayaka herself, however, doesn’t seem fazed. Thoma’s eyes widened at the sight. 

“You knew?  You knew?! ” Thoma sputters, dropping to the ground with crisscrossed legs. 

“Was I not supposed to?!” Ayaka whines in a pained voice. “Where is this coming from, Thoma?” 

“He wants me to be his date to the banquet!” Thoma runs a hand through his hair. “He wants to pretend he’s with me !” 

Now Ayaka seems alerted. “Date? Date?!”

“Date!”

Ayaka and Thoma share an expression of momentary distress. 

“Did you say yes…?” 

“Yes…?” 

“Thoma…” 

Thoma ignores the pity in Ayaka’s voice. “I couldn’t say no…” He murmurs, when he knows he could have said no but decided not to. He’d never say no to Ayato.

Ayaka places her calligraphy brush to the side, pinning Thoma down with a particular stare. “It’s not my place to say what Brother has to say,” She begins carefully, intertwining her fingers together on her lap. “I do, however, think you should give him more credit.” Her head tilts to the side. “He does care for you, I promise that.”

But it’s not the same way. Thoma smiles, anyways. “I understand. I care for him, as well.” He says, his cheeks flushing a shade of pink. “But that isn’t why I’m here, My Lady!” Scratching at his nape, he looks down at his lap rather than Ayaka’s curious stare. “What does Ayato like?”

Ayaka scrunches her face in mild confusion. “Brother’s taste?” She presses a finger to the side of her head in thought. “I’d argue you know just as much as I do...”

Thoma frowns and brings out the sappiest puppy eyes he could muster, and Ayaka frowns at the sight.

“Thoma… Don’t make such a face.” She sighs. “I’m not sure what he could possibly like.”

“My Lady…” 

“Thoma…” 

A silence begins, and Ayaka is not immune to Thoma’s pleading gaze. “He does like sweets?” She shrugs. “Served with tea, especially.”

Ayato does enjoy sweets. Thoma remembers the reluctant smile on his face during the summer festival at the sight of candied apples, and how his expression lifted when Thoma spent his last coin on it. It’s a shame the apple was discarded in piles of dirt after that incident. 

“I’ll try and find the best mochi in all of Inazuma!” Thoma pumps a fist in the air with newfound determination. His goal had been to present Ayato with a gift after the banquet, because the man becomes quite agitated after mingling with two-faced government officials for longer than two hours straight. 

Ayaka smiles, pleased with Thoma and herself. “Do your best!” And Thoma always does. 

… 

The Winter Banquet is a celebration that consists of the Tri-Commissions of Inazuma, government officials, and esteemed generals— the most prominent figures in their land just beside their Archon. It’s an honorary get-together that allows any conflicts to be resolved over an obnoxious amount of sake, sushi and fried fish served with rice. It takes place in one of the largest banquet halls in Inazuma, and the most talented of performers strum the strings of their shamisen. It is an honor and privilege to attend and an excellent way of establishing connections in various realms.

So why is Thoma so fucking distracted?

“Don’t look too excited,” Ayato snickers after a slow sip of sake. Clan leaders and war generals are conversing with each other on the importance of maintaining Inazuma’s barrier while Thoma is thinking about how fantastic it feels for Ayato’s hand to be intertwined with his. It’s so painfully intimate how Ayato’s thumb massages circles into his own in reassurance. Like Thoma deserves to be cared for. “You definitely look like you want to be here.”

“I’m ecstatic.” Thoma deadpans with a flat face before breaking into a fit of giggles. And truthfully he is is ecstatic because he gets to see Ayato out of his regular clothes into something more traditional. The layered fabrics of his kimono are blue and white in color and pattern, its grandeur a sign of status as the Kamisato Heir. His hair looks impossibly attractive tied into a low ponytail and adorned with decorative ornaments. “Jumping for joy, really.” 

Some people had already become tipsy, the pink flushing their cheeks a telltale sign. But it takes a lot of willpower to get Ayato anything close to tipsy. In fact, Thoma thinks he’s never seen the man drunk. The time they sneaked a bottle of alcohol into Ayato’s room doesn’t count because they were kids, no shit they’d get drunk. 

“At least I got to dress you up,” Ayato chuckles. 

“After you gave me so many different options, I don’t think I had a choice…” The custom-made kimono that Thoma wears makes him feel elegant. His eyes had scaled the red cherry blossom design decorating its black sleeves. It felt nice to be dressed up like Ayato’s doll— but he’d never admit that to him aloud.

“Don’t worry.” Ayato squeezes Thoma’s hand, who holds back a squeak. “We’ll be heading back to the estate in the next hour. Courtesy calls for us not to leave any sooner than that.” With his free hand, he raises the sashimi dipped in soy sauce to Thoma’s lips. “Try some food, it’s polite.”

Thoma, despite his embarrassment, pliantly opens his mouth for the food to be placed on his tongue. It tastes good, but… “I prefer your cooking, Young Master.” He says after a few slow seconds of chewing. 

“Young Master?” Ayato parrots, and he has an evil glimmer in his eyes, a reminder of the dreadful promise they made. 

(“You can’t call me Young Master there.” Ayato had said with their arms interlocked, despite being in the privacy of their horse-driven carriage. 

“Then what should I call you?”

“Any obnoxiously romantic nickname you could possibly think of.”

A tiny piece of Thoma died.) 

“I mean…” Thoma stutters. “I prefer your cooking, my love.” It’s not obnoxiously romantic. In fact, it’s particularly intimate and leaves Thoma’s heart thumping. But from the smile on Ayato’s face, it pleases him nonetheless. 

“Don’t ask for more than you can handle,” Ayato warns devilishly. “I just happened to come up with a delectable recipe I’ve been dying to try on you.” His voice drops in pitch, resembling a purr that vibrates every cell in Thoma’s body. It shouldn’t, because Ayato isn’t saying anything inherently romantic at all. But God, his voice is so attractive he could explode right here and be content.

“You’re making fun of me again…” Thoma huffs with a pout, and Ayato chuckles. 

A woman beside them giggles, and their heads turn to find the source. She’s slightly older than them, lines ingrained to her face yet looks at them with fondness in her eyes. Thoma blushes with embarrassment. 

“Lady Nakajima,” Ayato greets with a smile. “It’s been quite a while.”

Lady Nakajima is a family friend and business associate. She participates in the silk trade, yet Thoma never had the chance to meet her. “You’re always out and about, Young Master.” She playfully swats Ayato’s shoulder, and Thoma stares at the jade ring on her thin fingers. She’s married, Thoma thinks fondly. He wonders what kind of ring Ayato would like to wear, the expression he would wear as it’s slipped onto his finger. “But you came back with a pretty boy at your side, didn’t you?” 

Thoma flushes at the title. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lady Nakajima.” Thoma bows in respect, and this time he means it. “I’m—” 

“Thoma, the Kamisato fixer and housekeeper.” Nakajima shakes her head, encouraging casualness in their conversation that makes Thoma’s shoulders slacken with a long sigh. “And now the Kamisato’s partner .” 

Ayato lets out a breath of laughter. “He’s the love of my life. I love him so dearly, I had to let him accompany me today.” And then Ayato is moving, turning his head to face Thoma. His eyes are fluttering shut and oh shit, oh shit, oh shit— 

“Oh, and kissing.” Ayato’s voice sings in his ear, echoing the words he had said a few days prior.

A hand is cupping his face, and Thoma instinctively melts into the touch. The overwhelming smell of cherry blossoms is just as he imagined. Even better, actually. 

And then Ayato is kissing him, and once Thoma has had a taste he couldn’t possibly get enough. His lips are soft and his hands are gentle. Is this what it would be like to kiss Ayato every day? Is he always this delicate? Thoma wants to die with these lips on his, he decides. 

It’s quick and rushed; they’re already separating, but Thoma is quickly chasing Ayato’s touch. Desperate and keening, he feels like a stupid high school boy that just had his lucky break with the love of his life. 

Ayato makes a noise of surprise that vibrates between their connected mouths, and Thoma is immediately grounded to reality at his own actions. He pulls himself away so quickly that he nearly knocks over the jar of sake beside him. 

“Young Master!” He says instinctively, slapping a hand over his mouth. “I’m so sorry. That was so inappropriate, I can’t—” 

“Thoma?” Ayato says, and his voice cracks. He never hears his voice like that. In fact he’s never seen Ayato like this at all; lips wet and eyes wide with surprise and something else that Thoma can’t distinguish. 

“Y-yes?”

“It’s okay.”

Nakajima bursts into a fit of laughter, a hand resting on her stomach. She’s laughing so much that Thoma’s embarrassment has increased tenfold, and suddenly he desperately wants to sink into the tatami mats beneath them. “You two are like little kids. It’s rather endearing.” With a flick of her wrist, her fan opens. “Young Master, take care of your partner.” She says rather lovingly, and Thoma thinks that if Ayato’s mother was alive, she would be like this.

“Keep him happy, keep him company.” She fans herself while standing, bidding them farewell, failing to offer them a chance at a rebuttal. 

The silence that washes over them is deafening. 

“That was my first kiss.” Thoma states blankly, and Ayato whips his head around with wide eyes. 

“Your… first?” He says slowly, and there isn’t any sign of his usual teasing tone. 

“Yeah.” Thoma gulps. 

Ayato looks like he wants to say something, and there’s a sick sense of pride Thoma feels in rendering the cool, composed and collected Kamisato heir speechless. But their conversation is interrupted once more.

“Young Kamisato!” A man appears before them, sitting across the table with a large smile on his face. They both simultaneously straighten in their seats at his arrival. His thin grey hair is tied into a tight bun— tight enough to pull his even thinner eyebrows up. Thoma knows he doesn’t like him. But a fixer doesn’t have to like everyone he talks to. 

“Sir Seto!” Thoma cheers with his brightest smile, bowing in courtesy. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Hiroto Seto. Age 43. His mother is from Inazuma while his father is a prominent business figure in Mondstadt’s alcohol industry. Nothing compares to the Ragnvindr’s family business, but Mondstadt liquor is much harsher of a taste compared to Inazuman’s sake. Some people enjoy the difference in flavor. As the leader of a minor clan that’s gaining popularity in being the first to resume trade between Mondstadt and Inazuma following the rise of the Vision Hunt Decree, Hiroto Seto is a businessman through and through.

For the better or the worse.

“Sir Thoma, I remember when you were just a little boy,” Seto says with a hearty laugh. “You were one of the few Mondstadt kids around Inazuma, and you stood out like a sore thumb! With that blonde hair of yours, no one could miss you!” He’s pouring a cup of sake for Thoma, Ayato, and himself. “Cheers?”

“Cheers.” Ayato says before Thoma could respond, and their glass dishes lift in the air together before they down their sake. “How has your business been, Sir Sato?”

The boring and tedious discussions of trade and tax are tiring, but both Ayato and Thoma have been involved with it for the vast majority of their lives, so the smile on their faces refuses to falter. 

“Sir Thoma, come out to the engawa with me!” He says, lighthearted but precise.

Ayato’s smile has faltered.

Thoma pretends not to notice it, deciding to instead point at himself incredulously. “Me?” He blinks. He expected Ayato to be pulled away from him multiple times in the name of politics and had mentally prepared to fend for himself as Ayato’s partner, but he hadn’t prepared for this. 

“Yes! From one Mondstadt native to the other, right?” He chuckles, and he’s already beginning to rise to his feet in preparation to leave. 

Thoma spares a glance at Ayato, whose face is pinched. He’s directing his piercing gaze to the empty sake dish instead of anyone around them, an act of kindness in Thoma’s opinion. And he’s not sure why he looks so strained— perhaps he’s worried about Thoma accidentally saying the wrong thing and unintentionally exposing their ruse. 

With a soft sigh, Thoma leans into Ayato’s space. He tries to bring his lips close to Ayato’s ear. “Young Master,” He begins, and Ayato visibly flinches. “I’ll be alright. I won’t mess things up, alright?” 

Ayato faces Thoma with furrowed brows. “You’re going?” 

Thoma knits his own brows together. “Yes?” He tilts his head. “It would be rude of me to decline. That wouldn’t look good on you as your partner.” He couldn’t care less what other people said about him, but he’d do anything for the Kamisato Clan. 

“Thoma—” Ayato bites his lips, his fists clenching and unclenching, and wow, does he have that little faith in Thoma? He ignores the pain the thought evokes from his chest as he rises to his feet. 

“I’ll be back.” Thoma waves before taking long strides beside Seto. Ayato does not stop him. 

Past the sliding doors, the pair end up walking alongside the engawa. The wintry night breeze sends a chill down his spine as Thoma kneels with a soft sigh, and Seto settles beside him. It takes a few moments for either of them to break their silence.

“Inazuma nights don’t compare to Mondstadt, do they?” Seto remarks with a glassy nostalgia in his eyes. 

Thoma hums. “They’re both important to me.” The Mondstadt night sky is where he traced constellations with his mother beside him while Inazuma contained Ayato— much younger, still bright. “What did you want from me?”

Seto laughs. “Straight to the point! Alright.” He wipes the tears from his eyes. 

Thoma thinks he hears something from past the sliding doors, but it might just be his own movement. He focuses on Seto’s face morphing into something more serious. 

“If I told you there’s an opportunity to go to Mondstadt,” Seto begins. “Would you take it?”

Thoma’s eyes widen. Recreational traveling outside of Inazuma is still prohibited, and it had been eleven years since he’s seen the sight of cecilias, windwheel asters, or calla lilies. He thinks of Ayato dropping into a field of flowers with that gleaming smile on his face, or dark sauce smeared at the corner of his lips from the plate of Sticky Honey Roast. 

“But if I did, why don’t we sail to Mondstadt?”

“Your birthplace, yes?” 

“Mm. You could meet my mother.” 

“Your mother…I’d like that.” 

It’s their conversation that pushes him. “Yes!” He exclaims before he could reel himself in. This could be his chance to bring Ayato with him on a trip. Far away from two-faced officials, stacks of paper, and government affairs. Surrounded by the flower petals cascading through the air from the Windblume Festival instead of meetings to attend. But then he settles back down. “Why are you coming to me?”

“I have the perfect opportunity for you.” Seto turns his body to eagerly face Thoma. “There’s a position at our Mondstadt location. We needed someone well-versed in Inazuma and Mondstadt culture, and…” 

The disappointment and realization weighs in on Thoma slowly, and he feels himself slowly deflating at how quickly his dreams were crushed. The one experience he could have provided to Ayato is still achievable, and the pain of it simmers in the pits of his stomach. “So it would just be me?”

Seto looks momentarily taken aback. “Naturally.”

“Young Master Ayato wouldn’t come?”

“Of course not!” Seto scoffs, as if the idea of Ayato coming is incredulous. “A man as conniving and backhanded as him could never understand the traditions of Mondstadt’s nature.”

A man as what? 

Each word is a piercing jab to Thoma’s heart. 

“He’s just the same as his father. Deceitful hypocrite till the very end.” The words are laced with unhidden malice and disgust, and Thoma feels like Seto has forgotten who he’s been loyal to for over a decade. “They’ll both end up dead and forgotten—” 

Thoma thinks of Ayato sitting cross-legged before the framed photo of his parents. And how each visit he remembers to light sandalwood incense each time he comes from a long business trip. And how, when he thinks no one is around, a tear trickles past his cheek, accompanied by a soft sniffle. A child who didn’t get the chance to cry ten years ago. 

Thoma doesn’t get angry. It’s unsightly and it’s as though a never-ending stream of lava is pulsating through his veins, controlling his movements. His heart beats rapidly against his ribs, and he doesn’t realize his balled fists have made contact with bare skin until its tingling sensation lingers in his red knuckles. Seto clutters backward with a dull thump, sputtering and hissing in pain. But Thoma is still angry— he’s so fucking angry he could throw another punch. 

So he does. He straddles Seto as he does it, clutching his collar with a tug. “Don’t ever speak to him like that!” He yells, shaking Seto with each word. “Don’t speak about Ayato like that!” Ayato does too fucking much for Inazuma to earn this disrespect. He sacrifices so much for us. You can’t, you absolutely can’t— 

It earns Thoma a sweet jab to his cheek and he finds the air knocked out of him, the metallic taste of blood coating his tongue. His vision is swimming and his cheek is throbbing.

This is a shitty banquet, Thoma thinks belatedly. Old men can really throw a punch.

“Are you fucking crazy, you fucking brat?!” Seto cries, releasing a slew of foul swears and profanities toward Thoma. But Thoma is unfazed by it; so long as Seto doesn’t dare utter Ayato’s name again, he’ll take as many curses as needed. 

When Seto’s swearing gradually quiets and his stomping footsteps fade in the distance, Thoma gains some semblance of balance as he stands. He thanks God that this happened outside in a place where onlookers wouldn’t notice. He promised Ayato he wouldn’t do anything to damage their reputation, and he punched a Clan member twice . 

Ayato. He has to find him. 

When Thoma peaks inside the banquet’s main hall, it’s still filled with tipsy attendees and music being strummed. Ayato is nowhere to be seen. Ignoring the building concern in his chest, Thoma finds himself scaling the long hallways of the building, eyes frantically searching for the sight of cream-white hair and porcelain skin. 

What if Seto went to find him? No, the Young Master can handle himself. But, what if…?

The very thought makes Thoma ill.

It’s only until he stops at one of the many guest rooms at the end of the hallway that his worries are eased. A sliding door left slightly ajar with the noise of a glass bottle being set down. Carefully, Thoma creeps closer, breath caught in his throat as he quietly pulls the door open to reveal Ayato sitting at a table. He’s deep in thought, eyes staring at the cup before him as his fists clench and unclench. Even in their distance, Thoma can see how his jaw tightens in a familiar way— when he’s brimming with stress and he can’t do anything to abolish it. 

Releasing a shaky breath of air, Thoma speaks. “Young Master?”

Ayato jumps, whipping his head around. “Thoma, you—” His voice is slightly frantic, but the words die on his tongue as he takes in the full appearance of Thoma, visibly surprised. 

Well, at least Seto didn’t say anything. 

They wordlessly stare at each other, and Thoma spends those painstakingly slow moments watching as Ayato rises to his feet. 

“Thoma.” His voice is deep and commanding; it’s the tone he takes when ordering the Shuumatsuban on a new mission to gather information, and failure would result in immediate punishment. Thoma doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he clasps a hand to his arm. 

“Young Master, I—”

“Thoma, come here.” 

With a helpless squeak, Thoma inches himself forward with haste. And as the distance between them shortens, Thoma shrinks at the sight of Ayato’s face contorted with unbashful rage and detestment. His jaws clenched and his eyes glower at the red imprint on Thoma’s cheek, glaring with nothing short of murderous intent, and it’s strikingly similar to the face he wears in battle, standing in the center of the bloodstained field where dendrobium blooms at his feet. The ruthless Heir of the Kamisato Clan with the practiced swordsmanship of an executioner. 

Thoma would stare at him with starry eyes when he looked so cool and handsome. But being the subject of such a glare leaves his insides twisting uncomfortably with unparalleled fear.

Ayato lifts a hand to Thoma’s chin, a thumb brushing against the dribble of blood that the corner of his lip that he hadn’t even noticed.

“Young Master!” Thoma exclaims, despite himself. “Your gloves— They’ll get dirty. I really am sorry—”

“Thoma.” The third time his name is uttered in such a voice. With tight lips, Ayato forces his words out past gritted teeth, and his voice resembles a hissing growl. “Who did this to you?”

Thoma nervously chuckles, but it fades into nothing when he realizes Ayato is neither joking nor laughing with him. He begins to stammer instead. “It was a misunderstanding. I’ve definitely gone through worse, so just—”

“Just tell me!” Ayato yells, and Thoma flinches at the volume. He prays the main hall won’t hear them.  “Won’t you tell me that, at least?”

“At least?” Thoma’s parrots, and his expression morphs into confusion. “I…” 

“It was the man, wasn’t it?” The man in question is Seto. Ayato doesn’t wait for confirmation; perhaps the widening of Thoma’s eyes served adequately as an answer. He’s taking long strides past Thoma, his movements only halting at the hand latching onto his wrist. 

“Young Master, don’t.” Thoma pleads, and yes, Seto does deserve much more than what he was given. But the thought of hearing vile statements being spread about Ayato, his image disgraced at his violent temperament— because of him, because of Thoma. A sick, bubbling sensation climbs up his throat at the thought. “It was my fault. I got angry and he defended himself—”

“You’re lying.” The words are so definitive that Thoma doesn’t dare utter another word. Of course, the man who’s known him for eleven years can tell when he’s lying. He’s shit at lying. “You’re lying to me.”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt, Ayato!” Thoma yells. “If you hurt him, your reputation… They’ll hurt you!” 

And then Ayato just explodes, his head turns around and he’s pinning Thoma with an expression that can’t be distinguished. “I know that you’re going to leave me!” He cries, and it’s painfully raw— his eyes widen, shocked and stunned, and it matches Thoma’s. It’s so odd seeing the calm, collected, always smiling, never frowning Ayato snap in such a way. Thoma’s heart twists at the words. As quickly as it came his anger dissipates into a simmer. “But don’t ever lie to me.”

“Why on earth would I leave you?!” Thoma throws his hands out in frustrated confusion. His heart is beating so fucking fast, and he’s never felt like this before. Ayato always introduces him to such new feelings. “I’ve followed you, waited for you, took care of you for nearly eleven years!”

“Because you just don’t…” Ayato’s breathing hitches, and Thoma watches as his adam’s apple bobs with a gulp of air. “You want to go back to Mondstadt.”

Thoma is thoroughly confused, but the fire pulsating his veins is making it extremely hard to think coherent thoughts. “You’re the one who’s been leaving me.” Thoma doesn’t know why he says it. Perhaps frustrated at Ayato’s hypocritical accusation. Perhaps frustrated at his own behavior in saying Yes to Seto, and the realization washing over him that Ayato heard him. “You’re so far from me that I can’t even chase after you. You just kept leaving for months at a time. And then you think I’m going to just leave?” He doesn’t mean it. He knows Ayato leaves because he has no choice, but he’s so determined to express just how fucking angry he is, Thoma can’t stop.

“But that’s exactly why you would. Why you should. ” Ayato’s cheeks flush pink when he’s angry, Thoma notes. A pretty pink against pale skin. He wants to kiss it, despite himself. “Just like them… It was going to happen again.” Suddenly, it’s as if the resentment fizzes out of him, replaced by grief and hurt. 

Them? 

Oh, Thoma thinks. His parents.

“Why I should leave?” Thoma repeats, incredulous. “You don’t want me here?” There’s a burning sensation behind his eyes, and it feels an awful lot like tears. 

“That’s not—” Ayato stammers, biting his lip before hissing a curse. He doesn’t finish his sentence right away. “That isn’t what I meant, Thoma.”

“I decided that I would never leave you because you’re you.” Thoma begins after a beat of silence. “I love you.”

It’s much easier to say it when he can’t hear how shaky his own voice sounds from the pulsating of his heart ringing in his ears.

Ayato looks dumbstruck,  his grip on the sword slackening as it clatters to the tatami-mat ground. 

“I’ve loved you for so long that I can’t think of a reality where I don’t.” He’s still going, and man, he can’t stop. It’s as if he’s spent years with a hand gripping the latched door of his feelings, and its rusty lock has finally snapped into pieces. Thoma inches himself closer to Ayato. “And I’m okay with you not loving me back. I’m okay with you belonging to someone else. Just…” He clutches onto the thick fabric of Ayato’s kimono at his chest, their foreheads thumping together. “Please don’t tell me to leave.” 

A reality without Ayato is nothing. Thoma can’t fathom a reality where Ayato doesn’t carry him from the shores of the Kamisato Estate to rest beneath the sheets of his futon, or serving sweets paired with his Oolong tea. He can’t process a world where Thoma doesn’t silently watch as Ayato lights a stick of incense in honor of his parents. Admiring Ayato for all his talents but fearing his unique trait of making the most revolting dishes, or his deep embarrassment when Ayato scrubs his back with medical herbs and carries him out of showers. Ayato, Ayato, Ayato. Kamisato Ayato. Ka-mi-sa-to A-ya-to. 

Ayato isn’t speaking, and although Thoma expected nothing in response, his heart still aches dreadfully against his chest. 

“Thoma,” He begins after a beat of silence. His voice is steady and unwavering, as if his anger had just been a figment of his imagination. “Do you remember the time you fell down that hill?”

“Must Young Master embarrass me further?” Thoma pleads.

“Won’t you listen to my tale?”

Thoma promptly falls quiet. 

“It was the night of the Summer Festival. You bought me a candy apple with your pocket change. But then you told us to stay put— that you would be right back. Then you didn’t.” The words are soft and quiet, a secret shared between just the two of them, but it sounds so loud in Thoma’s ears. “And I thought, ah, he’s left me.” 

That night, Thoma had desperately tried to bring a smile to Ayato’s face. The fireworks were to be released soon, and he frantically searched for the best spot, where two kids can watch the bright lights decorate the night sky. How amazing it would be to be the cause of their starry eyes and beaming smiles. Then he tumbled down a hill into that ditch, and it felt impossible to move any of his limbs. 

Ayato was the first to find him, and the frantic expression when he found Thoma at the bottom of the hill is permanently ingrained into his memory. 

“Please don’t come, Young Master.” His voice had gurgled, and he felt so impossibly small reaching out to Ayato who stood at the top. “Your clothes will be dirtied.” He isn’t sure if he was actually able to say those words, or if it was more akin to a low whine of pain. But Ayato’s face had become a convoluted mixture of fear and horror at the sound of it, and began frantically sliding down the muddied terrain, his yukata torn on a piece of twig and his sandal being lost.

Everything following this becomes incoherent. All Thoma remembers is the voice of a child.

“You can’t— You just can’t. I forbid it under my name! You can’t leave me, too. If you do, I’ll…” 

“I made a promise that I’d protect you. It felt as though if I don’t, you could leave. Just like…” 

A dawning realization washes over Thoma. Had Ayato been blaming himself? Ayato, the heir who spends hours a night revising documents and settling border affairs? Ayato, who leaves home for months at a time in order to strengthen the Yashiro Commission? Ayato, who repeatedly saves Thoma and carries him when sometimes it’s just too hard to walk? 

They both don’t utter a word. It’s hard to speak when there’s a growing lump in Thoma’s threat; like if he even opens his mouth, a choked whimper would replace his words. 

Instead, Ayato releases a soft sigh. “I can’t believe you said it first.” He grumbles with a pout. But despite that, it transforms into a pleased little smirk on his face. “I did say you were getting too comfortable. And what did you say? I’ve loved you for so long… ” 

“Stop, stop, stop!” Thoma exclaims, his cheeks burning a furious red. His hands still clutch onto Ayato’s clothing. His Young Master would be the death of him. “How is it fair that you just… say stuff like that?” He murmurs bashfully. “Protecting me? Leaving you? You’re so—” 

A soft sensation on his lips stupefies Thoma, and suddenly words aren’t that important. 

Instead, it's replaced with a heightened sensitivity. The hands that find his waist while the other cradles his head, holding Thoma in place while he’s helpless to the tongue that darts across his bottom lip. A soft whimper escapes him, momentarily parting his mouth in response, and he feels the full-body shiver it evokes from Ayato. The kiss suddenly deepens, and the only thing Thoma can think is how much he wants Ayato— Please kiss me, please touch me. 

Their first kiss couldn’t even begin to compare to this. What if Thoma had never confessed, and Ayato courted the daughter of a war general? A shot of possessiveness causes his hands to loosen its grip on Ayato’s clothes, instead searching and touching everything and anything in his reach. Clawing at his chest, his collarbones and neck, with a tongue gliding against teeth in a desperate attempt to receive more. To be permanently branded by Ayato would be a privilege, but to brand Ayato himself…. 

To paint his skin with blemishes that would turn a murky purple in time… 

A moan slips past his lips just at the thought.

The hand on his head snacks to his nape, and Thoma is pulled away, breaking their kiss. “What?” He breathes out, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Did I do something? Did I hurt you?” He’s sure he cut his nails, but did he cut Ayato? He feels ashamed just thinking about it. 

But when Thoma looks at Ayato, his brain turns into liquid mush. Ayato is staring at him like he’s the only person in the entire planet— eyes blown wide, chest heaving erratically and lips red with a wetness. Thoma pauses to stare at his mole, and he really, really wants to kiss it. 

“Whatever you’re thinking of doing,” Ayato stops Thoma from moving. “Don’t. Not now, not here.” He says in a husky, guttural voice that makes Thoma’s toes and fingertips tingle with an electric shock. 

“But, Young Master—”

“Nope,” A smirks plays on Ayato’s lips.

“But why? ” 

“I don’t want anyone else to hear you.”

Oh. Okay. Cool.

Ayato chuckles at whatever expression Thoma is making. “Just wait a little longer so I can take care of you. Or…” The grip on his waist tightens. “You can take care of me?” 

Thoma is nodding before he registers the words in his head. “Yes, please.” 

Ayato is pleased, flashing another smile— and this one is tender, more intimate. A private smile shared just between them. Thoma tucks it close to his heart, away from sight.

But it morphs into displeasure as his eyes fixate on the redness on Thoma’s cheek from the punch he received. “Seto, right?”

“Ayato,” Thoma uses his name this time. “Don’t hurt him. He’s not worth it. I’m fine, see?” He flashes a bright grin in response but winces at the sudden jolt of pain. This doesn’t appease Ayato based on the knowing look in his eyes. “Okay, it hurts a little. But people have never been the nicest, trust me I know. But who cares about that stuff?” As long as the Kamisato clan isn’t disrespected, Thoma strolls through town with a smile on his face. 

“I care.” Ayato answers immediately. 

“And I care about you, and the Kamisato clan.” Thoma says. “I can’t bear the thought of people trying to hurt us.” 

Ayato softly shakes his head. “They won’t.” He says. “Do you trust me?” 

“With every inch of me.”

“Then, leave Seto to me.” 

Thoma trusts Ayato, but when the man is angry he turns into a ball of raging fire with its flames licking every corner and crevice it can reach with vengeance. But with the look in Ayato’s eyes, it’s hard to counter. He’s very weak when it comes to Ayato’s blue eyes.

So Thoma nods with a soft huff. His Young Master can be so unyielding. When leading his troops or the Yashiro Commission, his stubbornness is admirable as it is frustrating on the receiving end.

Ayato presses a kiss to Thoma’s temple. It’s quick and gentle, a sharp contrast to what occurred a few moments earlier. His heart is thrumming with love and adoration, and Thoma can’t help but intertwine his hands with Ayato as they were at the banquet. A thumb rubs circles into his, and the wave of comfort it brings settles even the pain on his cheek.

“I could never leave you, Ayato.” Thoma feels the faint flinch between their shared touch. It’s vulnerable. “I didn’t know you had such fears.” Ayato is composed of Earth and Heaven, his lungs and the air it takes in from the atmosphere— but never Hell. Something so far and uncertain couldn’t be Ayato. That’s what Thoma thought. He was wrong.

“You and Sister are important to me,” Ayato says carefully. “So important you couldn’t even comprehend.” The grip on his tighten with newfound strength, and it’s so strong that it hurts. But Thoma doesn’t dare to relinquish his hand.  “My emotions bested me. I apologize.”

It feels wrong hearing Ayato apologize. An ache in his chest causes Thoma to crack a reassuring quirk of his lip. “It feels a bit weird hearing you apologize, Young Master…” Thoma murmurs before releasing a long, exaggerated sigh. “Especially over this.” 

“Do I…” Ayato’s voice is quiet. “Seem weak?”

With a hand to his chin, Thoma guides Ayato’s face closer to his, allowing their eyes to stare at each other in fixation. “Never. Your weakness is strength. You are my strength.” He says, and he prays that these words from his soul are enough— that they write themselves onto Ayato’s bare skin, so he may never forget. “Please don’t regret telling me this. Please.”

Ayato silently gazes at Thoma, wide-eyed and mouth agape, as if he couldn’t fathom the man standing before him. Yet suddenly his hand tightens once more, and this time it’s on purpose. “Of course, I don’t regret it.”

“Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch… Okay, okay! Don’t be too mean!”

Ayato’s lips stretch into a wide smile, cheeks tinted pink with unfiltered happiness, a song of laughter spilling past his glossy lips, and Thoma’s heart flies into the blue skies.

(As they sit in the carriage home, Thoma speaks. “There’s mochi waiting for you at the estate. Would you like to have some?”

“No,” Ayato says. “I’d much rather have all of you.”

Kamisato Ayato is going to be the death of him.)

…

The minor clan led by Seto fell into ruin the next morning. 

It’s the circulating news throughout Inazuma City that Thoma’s head perked up at the sound of while strolling its streets. Older women speaking in hushed voices that stop to wave at Thoma with bagged goods in his hand, or slurred conversations from drunken officials as Thoma mediated their agreement. Something along the lines of their trade route being blocked by a rival clan that Thoma had heard of due to their growing prominence, and their Mondstadt business being bought out by an unknown buyer— things of that nature. 

(“You could be a fixer too, Young Master!” Thoma teased with a grin on his face. 

Ayato pinches his cheeks with a soft giggle of amusement. “Certainly not. How could I compare to the esteemed fixer and housekeeper of the Kamisato Clan?”)

Thoma doesn’t focus on it too much, though. Tonight, his priorities lie completely in Ayato’s hands. 

At night, the Komore Teahouse lacks its usual visitors. It feels different from his visits with Ayaka or Traveler, and Thoma has an inkling suspicion it has to do with the man sitting before him. 

Ayato is pouring a generous amount of sake for the two of them, a smile stretched across his face as he pushes the clay dish with a finger. It makes Thoma anxious seeing his elder pour their drinks, but Ayato made it clear that when it’s just the two of them, formalities can be lessened. He whispered it into his ear one night, a smirk playing on his lips and breath tickling Thoma’s neck. He nearly died.

Milky tendrils of hair carelessly shift against Ayato’s shoulder, a few rogue strands tucked behind his ear and icy blue eyes zeroing on Thoma with an unnerving intensity. 

“Young Master,” Thoma lets out a breath of laughter. “I’m concerned.”

“About?” Ayato raises a brow of confusion. 

“You haven’t explained why we’re here. I’m somewhat… Confused?” 

Ayato chuckles, raising his cup just slightly to signal drinks first. Thoma mimics his action, relishing in the slight burn and fruitiness of the sake coating his tongue after his first sip. 

Ayato sighs with content. “This sake was brewed by the Ashikaga clan. They’ve specialized in the art of fermentation for decades, possibly centuries.” His finger traces the blue floral design of the cup before him. “Do you like it?”

Thoma hums in consideration. “It has a slightly nutty flavor with a hint of fruit. It’s wonderfully made.” He nods, taking another sip. Ayato and Ayaka are similar at times— they mimic a special kind of facial expression when they intend to say something, but are unsure on how to communicate it. Ayaka bites her cheek, Ayato licks his lip. 

“How does it compare to dandelion wine?” Ayato asks, and oh, Thoma couldn’t hide his flinch of surprise at the mention of Mondstadt’s pride. His eyes blink in confusion. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Thoma says softly after a moment of thought. “I was too young to try it. My mother fancied it though.” His mother adored dandelion wine. Perhaps it was due to the friendship she shared with Dawn Winery’s original founder, or the feasts she would host for the city. She had offered Thoma a sip of wine that he frantically denied, fearful of getting in trouble for underage drinking. His mother keeps an aged bottle sitting at the basement of their cabin, unopened and coated in dust, Thoma’s sure.

 There had been a time where she even wanted to make it herself, and that she had learned from her friend.

“I want to make a bottle for you!” His mother had said with a beaming smile. “And your father when he comes back.” 

The basket full of yellow dandelions sat at her desk for weeks after she died.

A tongue darts past Ayato’s lip for a moment. “Then…” He begins, eyes glancing at the cup before looking up at Thoma with a small smile. “Would you like to try it together?”

Thoma blinks, clueless before a burst of laughter escapes his mouth.

Ayato scrunches his eyebrows together. “You’re… laughing?”

 “Is that what you were nervous about, Young Master?” Thoma continues to giggle, and he hopes it isn’t too disrespectful. But Ayato is so cute it makes his chest ache. “Of course, we can try it together. I’ve always wanted to. With you.”

Pink dusts Ayato’s cheeks at that, and Thoma giggles even more. He had always dreamt of Ayato eating, drinking, seeing, and doing many things in the land of Mondstadt. Just the thought of it makes his heart thrum with excitement. “One day, let’s visit Mondstadt together, alright?”

Clearing his throat, Ayato’s hand searches for something beneath his kimono. “What if ‘one day’ turns out to be next week?”

The smile immediately falls from Thoma’s lips. 

“What?” He asks, doltishly. Another stupid question. That hasn’t changed from ten years ago, has it?

Two tickets are situated at the center of the table. Thoma can barely make out the Mondstadt, the date for next week Monday, and their names printed on the thin piece of paper. It’s a bit hard to see properly when tears are bubbling in the corner of his eyes.

“I happened to earn a week off, and that rival of Seto offered me these.” Ayato smiles, his eyes focused on the tickets rather than Thoma. “So I… Thoma?!” With a jolt, Ayato makes a noise behind his throat as he looks up. He scoots next to Thoma and immediately, the warmth of a hand cupping his wet cheeks envelops him. “You’re crying.”

Thoma desperately wipes his face with the back of his hand, yet the fat teardrops trickle down his face, onto his chin, onto his lap, and even onto Ayato’s hand. “This is embarrassing, Young Master!” He sniffles with a chuckle, trying to pull his face away. The sight of his crying appearance makes him burn with self-consciousness— Ayato shouldn’t have to see him like that. “You always…”

Yet with a firm yet gentle tug, Thoma is forced to drown in the aquatic blue of Ayato’s eyes, pinning him down with so much intensity it leaves him breathless. 

“Look at me, Thoma.” Ayato says quietly. “Did I do okay? Was all this okay?” He asks, carefully considerate of Thoma that reminds him of eleven years ago— like he’s a precious jewel to be cared for. “You have to talk to me so I understand.”

This was more than okay. Every crevice of Thoma’s stomach is filled with the fluttering of butterfly wings, and every corner of Thoma’s heart is full of unfiltered, unending love. It’s so much love that he doesn’t know what to do with himself except latch his Ayato’s neck and slam their lips together with so much force their teeth knock into each other. It sends Ayato toppling down with a dull thump, a soft muffle of confusion vibrating between them, but Thoma doesn’t care if he smothers Ayato with too much love. In their kisses is all he can do to  communicate his love appropriately in this very moment. 

“I love you, Ayato—” Thoma breathes out, littering Ayato’s neck with a flurry of open-mouthed kisses, starting from the edge of his jawline to his pink collarbone.  “I love you, I love you,  I—”

“Okay, okay!” Ayato laughs— a light, airy yet childish laugh. “You’re tickling me!” His hands find their place at the base of Thoma’s neck, a spot that he’s rather grown fond of, and he intertwines his fingers with strands of blonde hair.

Their limbs tangle together like a ball of yarn and Thoma takes in the smell of lotus flower and silk like it’s his only source of oxygen. He loves Ayato, he loves Ayato so much that it hurts. He could die like this. 

Drowning in the smell of lotus and silk alongside the sound of giggles and soft sighs, Thoma’s heart burns endlessly. 

… 

Thoma loves the color blue. 

No, seriously— he loves the boundless blue that surrounds him, peering into its depth with arms crossed on the ship’s ledge, the tides crashing against its side in a slow, steady rhythm. He loves the neverending blue of the sky expanding above him, decorated with soft accents of white. 

A body bumps into his, followed by a weight on his shoulder. Thoma peaks at the face it belongs to and finds that Ayato had already been staring at him.

“You’re thinking about something,” Ayato hums. 

“How handsome you are, of course.” With a grin, Thoma presses a chaste kiss to Ayato’s forehead. Their position is awkward and there’s a strain in his neck, yet their gazes refuse to waver.

“Such a tease.” Giggling, Ayato moves to intertwine their hands with a squeeze, and Thoma’s heart soars with love. “I love you, Thoma.”

He loves the blue of glaze lilies, the blue of his mother’s earrings, and most importantly—  he loves the kaleidoscope of blues within Ayato’s eyes. How it encompasses the crashing blue tides of the sea to the endless blue skies of every season, or the blue of hydrangeas and forget-me-nots he will pick for him in Mondstadt. 

Thoma loves the color blue with every inch of him. From the tingling numbness in his fingertips to the tips of his toes, he loves blue.