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Thoma writes, the paper crisp under his hands.
They say to start with “Dear Ayato”, the kanji letters that dripped onto the paper so familiar.
To be honest, he doesn’t know what to write, his fingers clumsy as they wrote.
This was the first time he had to write in full Inazuman.
The first time he wrote to Ayato ever.
Thoma tapped his pen against the table, trying to filter out the sound of drunkards laughing outside the house.
What was a good thing to write about to someone who’s busy?
Maybe something short, so he can read about it more easily?
Maybe the letter should be long so Ayato has a way to escape his work for a few moments?
Thoma stared at the blank letter, still confused about what to write.
What could he actually talk about?
The way the trees grew outside? The way the sun shined through his window?
Or the way Ayato smiled? Or the way his blue hair flowed in the wind?
Thoma stops himself.
He shouldn’t think like that anymore.
But there were too many words he wants to say to him. Too many words to even put into words.
So instead he settles for a “hello” and ends it right there.
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This is the second time Thoma is writing to him.
The Sunsiettas the gray-haired maid gave to him sat at the table beside him, its sweet scent engulfing the air.
Thoma wonders if Ayato would like something made out of Sunsiettas as he wrote in the letter.
No matter how much the blue-haired boy insisted that he liked all flavors, it cannot get past Thoma that he prefers sweets.
From the mochi he serves him as snacks to the late-night boba tea expeditions into the city; the boy’s sweet tooth was something he cannot hide.
And something he likes to indulge him in when the boy’s parents-
He writes about the recipes he would make with the sunsiettas; from pies, to even something called “ice cream” as the Fontainian Merchants say.
He writes about how Ayato would probably fall in love with the Sunsiettas the girl picked for him. And how Ayaka would probably laugh at the way he would probably devour the desserts he made, clapping her little hands.
Unlike now-
But even as he writes it down, he knew that cannot be.
Ayato won’t be here to even taste a bite of it.
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A little dog sleeps on Thoma’s lap as the sun disappears into the horizon.
Yet he still writes his third letter, the only light accompanying him was that of a dying flame.
It reminded him of the funeral-
The dog was someone the green-haired man with a snake gave him, saying that it's a comfort animal.
Thoma doesn’t understand why he needs it. When he writes letters to Ayato, everything is fine.
If anyone needs a comforting presence, it had to be the blue-haired-
They were all worried about him, the small community he surrounded himself with.
They told him to stop writing the letters; that it was a waste of time but Thoma refuses.
He knows this could be the sole thing keeping Ayato sane in those meetings.
Meetings where his fate is decided.
He named the dog “Ayato”, he wrote into the letter. He wonders how amused Ayato would be when he reads that. And how much he would long to be back home.
Ayato always did love dogs, he was one of the people he came to the city with to feed the strays.
He wonders how the strays are now, considering the amount of work he has to endure as well.
But it cannot compare to the weight on Ayato’s shoulders, the weight of a clan-
He wonders if he should change the “Your retainer, Thoma” to “Love, Thoma”.
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‘Is writing letters considered a hobby?’ he wrote on the new sheet of paper.
Just earlier, a red-haired teen and blue-haired teen dropped by and asked if he wanted to train with them.
Thoma did not refuse and promptly defeated them with the polearm art Ayato taught him when he first arrived in Inazuma.
The one Ayato used when he fought for his dignity against his own family-
They asked him if polearm dueling was a hobby of his and to be honest, Thoma does not know.
He doesn’t feel like he has a hobby.
All he does now is clean, cook, and do the laundry; and then finally sit at this very table, writing to the Kamisato clan head.
He knew Ayato was doing the same thing. Disregarding anything for his little sister to live on-
He signs ‘Love, Thoma’ this time.
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He can almost see how pretty the flower would look on him.
Thoma spins the glowing blue flower in his hand, the other on the pen again.
The blue hue of the flower was beautiful, it almost reminded him of Ayato’s hair.
The way it was cut into pieces during that duel-
Thoma ponders if Ayato still goes outside of his office now. With everything that has happened.
Was the boy eating well? Was he getting enough sunlight? Water?
Thoma laughs to himself.
It was a ridiculous notion. He’s making Ayato sound like a plant.
But in the end, he still wonders about that, he explained in the message.
How is he faring right now without anyone taking care of him?
The flame never came-
He tells him to take care of himself. For the sake of his sister. For the sake of Thoma’s worrying heart.
He then seals the letter with the flower neatly folded inside.
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Now Thoma has no idea what to talk about.
Nothing interesting happened today. The rivers still flowed the same and the breeze in the cobble-stone enclosed city was the same as ever.
So instead, he writes about the house.
He writes about how clean it currently was, how spotless it is.
He chuckles, saying it was how he occupies his time now instead of fretting about Ayato’s situation.
Still, after what happened, it still felt barren; rid of all luxuries and artworks the estate used to have.
Luxuries he sold away to feed the three of them before he was di-
He writes an update on his new dog and how big it has gotten.
He mentions about how the wind flew freely into the house and how lively the neighborhood outside felt.
Unlike the way, it did when the infamous swordsman was first killed and the Yashiro Commission was to blame-
He chuckles again, noting how Ayato should stop and come down from his cold office to visit sometime.
But he knew he couldn’t lie to himself.
These very walls he sat in felt cold and lonely too.
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Thoma writes again, this time more carefully.
He finally ran out of money to buy paper…well not exactly.
The woman selling it denied him, her face concerned.
Thoma doesn't understand, why is everyone so concerned for him?
He was doing nothing wrong! What's wrong with writing to someone?
Thoma sighs, making sure the kanji were tiny enough to fit the page.
Today he doesn’t know what to talk about again.
So he talks about Ayato.
How he misses his soothing voice.
How he misses the way his violet eyes glint in the sunlight.
He talks about how he misses the way Ayato laughed. The way he smiled.
He cannot forget how small his pale hand was in Thoma’s own. How delicate and fragile it looked while being stronger than anything Thoma had ever seen.
Something wet drips onto the pages but Thoma ignores it, his writing becomes faster.
He cannot push away the memories of running into Inazuman festivals in disguise. The way they sat up in the Sacred Sakura to stare at the sunset.
The way Ayato stares, the way he walks, the way he would lay his head on the taller man with a look of fondness.
All of them were swirling around him now, its dizzying speed making his head hurt. Like a toddler was punching into his skull. Or someone has taken a chisel and is driving it up to his brain.
Or the way the lightning crashed against the salty and deadly waves of the Inazuman seas.
The kanji was shaking now as Thoma took in a shaky breath.
A strange pressure was in his chest now, making him feel like something is pushing the air out of his lungs. It hurts to breathe; it was as if he wasn’t worthy to do it. As if he didn’t even know how to.
But the images couldn’t leave him no matter how much his body hurts.
He could almost see the way Ayato’s face glowed in the sunset. Can almost hear their late-night talks. Or their banter as they hunt for onikabuto.
The wood in his hands felt so real, his voice so loud it was like he was here.
As if he was here.
Thoma drops the pen, clutching his head.
His voice was all around now, too loud for his sensitive ears.
The world around him blurs and spins, a cruel and blinding light being the only thing he can focus on.
That was the color of his coat, the Kamisato Crest on its back.
An agonized groan came out of Thoma’s lips as he presses his head against the Cedar wood.
Memories flood against his head, almost like a raging tide.
He…. was here.
He was here, looking down at Thoma, his face devastated.
He says something but Thoma couldn’t hear him.
Even then, Thoma already knows the words he said by heart.
He knew them too well.
“I’m sorry Thoma…but I officially dismiss you from the service of the Kamisato Clan.”
Silence filled the room, the ache in his head finally gone.
As if that was the only thing that could make it better.
Finally acknowledging the cruel truth.
That Ayato has sent him away and is now all alone.
A sob erupts from Thoma’s throat as he opened his desk.
6 other letters were laid there, all unsent and unopened.
Unread by the one who needs them the most.
Thoma chokes back tears, holding all the 7 letters to his chest.
Why was he doing this? Why was he doing this to himself?
Why is he writing letters?
He already knows the truth.
No matter how much he makes, Ayato will never read them.
Not when a single ocean lay between them, the perpetual storm of politics and the archons tearing them apart.