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Contrary to his easygoing nature, Thoma is an observant man.
Nonthreatening — always armed with a charming smile and sweet words. He is a fixer, a problem solver, someone who takes broken and worn-down things and puts them back together. He’s the sun breaking through the clouds on a warm summer day where Ayato is a solitary winter breeze.
The shadow to his sister’s light.
And yet, Thoma sees him.
Thoma sees the young head of the Kamisato Clan, and he sees the heavy weight of all that he has inherited on his shoulders.
Because for as long as he could remember, there was only himself: Kamisato Ayato, heir to the noble Kamisato Clan and future head of the Yashiro Commission. His family wasn’t like other families. Ayato wasn’t like other children. He grew up learning politics and calligraphy and swordsmanship. He grew up ignoring the hollow feeling in his chest, the unsettling silence of the manor, the want for something he could (would not) name.
(Such feelings are unbefitting of his status, after all.)
Then, Ayaka introduces him to a boy.
He’s a foreigner, with bright yellow hair and sparkling green eyes.
“This is Thoma,” Ayaka tells him, and she still holds onto the childish innocence Ayato has long since discarded. “He said he’d be my friend.”
Thoma is taller than Ayato, but a year younger. He left Mondstadt because he was worried about his father not having any dandelion wine to drink in Inazuma.
How foolish, Ayato thinks. How thoughtful.
Months bleed into years, and the once out of place foreigner becomes a too young lord’s chief retainer.
“Waka.”
Ayato glances up. Blinks. Waits for the image of the yellow-red figure approaching his desk to come into focus. A persistent ache has settled between his eyes, pulsing in time with the dull throb at the base of his skull. “Thoma,” he says, and winces at the harsh rasp of his own voice.
“It’s getting late,” Thoma says, pressing a freshly brewed cup of tea into his hands. “I know you skipped dinner. Drink this for now, and let’s get you ready for bed, yeah?”
The tea is the exact temperature he prefers. He inhales the sweet herbal fragrance, offering Thoma a grateful smile before closing his eyes and taking a sip. “Quite the list of demands. And here I thought I was the master.”
He feels more than he sees Thoma moving behind him. “It’s my job to make sure you stay in good health,” Thoma responds, calloused hands finding his shoulders. “I only have your best interests at heart, you know.”
“Of course,” Ayato hums. He leans into the touch. “Mm, Thoma?”
“Yes, Waka?”
“Kiss me.”
Once, the straightforward request would have flustered his trusted retainer. Now, there is no hesitation as deft fingers travel from his shoulder to his chin, tilting his head just so—
“I love you,” Ayato breathes, forehead pressed to Thoma’s and hands fisted in the soft fabric of his black shirt. It comes naturally, those three words that should terrify him.
“Waka.” Thoma steals another kiss then, lips lingering against his. “Ayato.”
This, Ayato knows, is what he had long since yearned for. The want he could not put a name to, the balm to his loneliness and isolation. Thoma is a man who holds him gently, who kisses him sweetly and says I love you like he is someone worth loving. Not the head of the Kamisato Clan, and not the Yashiro Commissioner, but Ayato.
“Take me to bed, won’t you?”
Thoma smiles, bright as the sun, and takes his hand. “Of course.”