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It’s dark inside the Kamisato Estate. Several of the lights have flickered out for the night, and with them, much of the usual sound.
An almost eerie silence has settled over the house, broken only by the strong winds that surge outside.
Logically, he knows he is safe inside, but every creak and crack from the old walls sends a series of shivers down Thoma’s spine.
The fifteen year old boy stops in his routine tracks, hands coming up to rest on the handle of his mop and his chin resting atop his hands as he lets out a shallow sigh.
Like most nights as of late, he’s been up for hours trying to finish his work. At least he’s almost done, he keeps telling himself. He just has to finish the last part of the last room - a room he’s already swept, scrubbed, and tidied, mind you.
Sometimes he wonders why he puts in so much effort; why it’s become a necessity to make sure everything is as pristine as can be. It’s not like it won’t just get dirty again later, anyways.
Granted, it’s not like he’s just going to stop, either. Thoma would do anything for the people who saved his life. So, if all that means is dealing with a little exhaustion in turn for their house being spotless, he’ll take it.
What he wouldn’t like to take, however, is the churning that’s started in his stomach. Of all people, a boy born and raised in Mondstadt - a nation literally founded on anemo - should be used to a little wind. And normally, he would be. But the fierce Inazuman gales were nothing like the sweet gusts of his homeland.
Here, they were dark, strong; a sign typically warning of an incoming storm. And right now, that was the last thing Thoma needed.
As though on cue, the moment Thoma goes to stand up straight again, a crack of thunder whips across the sky, making him jolt. In the process he loses his grip on the mop, causing it to crash to the floor below - his body following suit.
The world around him blurs as he topples over, and anything he can use to catch himself quickly turns to nothing more than a smudge in the background.
Unlike the mop, which fell swift and straight, his fall is far from graceful. With limbs flailing like a flag in the sea’s breeze, he collided with the bucket of water he’s been keeping beside him, sending it, too, spilling across the floor. And the bottoms of the counters, and wall. And himself.
Especially himself.
So now he’s soaked, and cold, and lying pathetically on the ground as though it’s all he’s good for. As though he’s still out on the bitter sea doing everything he can to stay afloat in the midst of a swirling storm that wants nothing more than to watch as the light fades from his stubbornly vibrant eyes.
Thoma feels a stone-like lump push its way up from his chest, only to get lodged in his throat. In retaliation, he bites down hard on his bottom lip, desperately trying to swallow back the tears that gloss over his eyes - but all he’s met with is the taste of warm iron flooding his mouth, and tears that have no choice but to overflow.
He’s bleeding. He’s drowning. He can’t help it — there’s not a single thing he can do to stop it. Despite lying still, the world around him won’t stop spinning. Thoma shuts his eyes tight as he can, although he only finds himself being transported to a place he thought he left in the past.
He is swaying on the waves, the boat he rides rising up, vertically, before throwing him off. He falls through the spray for what feels like ages before hitting the ocean, which seems to have turned to a solid board that slaps against his back as he lands.
It knocks out every last bit of air he’s able to hold on to, and he’s left gasping, faster and faster. He spends minutes trying to draw in a breath that never comes. A breath too quick to be washed away by the suffocating rising tides.
Eventually, the world around him returns to a more stable setting - familiar walls towering over him, supporting an even more familiar roof - but even so, he can’t put an end to the hyperventilating. Not when he yells at himself to calm down, not when he tries to hold his breath, and especially not when he picks up on the soft patter of feet walking closer and closer yet.
Thoma slaps one hand over his mouth, the other rushing to the ground to help push him up. He’s unsteady as he stands, but he doesn’t let that get to him. He rushes to pick back up the mop before positioning himself so that, by the time the cause of the steps walks in, he’s toying with the spilled water, his wet back facing them. He hopes more than anything that they won’t take notice of him, or at very least, won’t say a word.
So naturally, it’s the first thing they do upon entering.
”Thoma?” The voice is soft, yet stern. “What ever are you doing?”
The beholder of the voice he knows well. It belongs to his lord, Ayato - one of the people he swore most to that he’d never have to see Thoma causing any problems.
Look at how well that worked out.
Part of him wishes that if he doesn’t answer, his lord will just walk away. But, unfortunately, Thoma also knows well that he doesn’t work like that.
He sucks in a deep breath, attempting to calm himself at least a little. When he opens his mouth, it still takes a moment before he can speak, and even then it’s not much.
“Cleaning,” is the only word he can get out, his voice cracking as he does so. In response, he stiffens up, his mopping getting more aggressive.
“You are certainly focused on the task at hand. Will you spare the time to turn around for me?”
Sorry, I can’t, is what he wants to say. It’s bad enough he’s already caught his lord’s attention with the mess, he doesn’t need to see the proof that Thoma’s been lying here crying instead of rushing to clean it up, too.
But then again, Thoma’s never been good at disobeying direct orders.
So he does turn around, slowly. As he does so he plants his usual warm smile on his still pink and puffy face. He doesn’t realize just how off he looks. Nor does he realize just how much the sight of his lord would make him want to cry again until it happens. Until the salty sea starts to spill from his eyes once more, drowning him in its old, unpredictable, uncontrollable fashion.
Across the room, Ayato’s face twists ever so slightly. Thoma knows he’s concerned, and he finds himself caught in a riptide of thoughts as to why.
Surely, he’s the one at fault here. Could it be the mess, and the fact that it still hasn’t been properly cleaned up yet? Or perhaps it’s because Thoma is so blatantly breaking his promise of what is ultimately unreachable perfection? Or maybe…
He hardly has time to get the next thought in as Ayato rushes toward him, the boba tea he had been holding slipping out of his hands. As he draws nearer to Thoma, however, he begins to lose his traction, winding up unable to stop.
Thoma tries to brace himself, but the force Ayato slides into him with ends up knocking the both of them down. Instinctively, he puts out his arms, trying to break his lord’s fall. Granted it doesn’t work, and he’s left wincing as the body beside him momentarily crushes his arm.
Thoma opens his eyes only to find his lord watching him, his own eyes wide with surprise. He is quick to slide off the sun-haired boy’s arm, whispering an apology that receives no answer. Thoma merely sits on the ground, not quite sure of what to do - where to go. That is, until he shifts his weight to his feet, eyes locked mop once again on the damp floor. He attempts to crawl closer to it, but is stopped by a hand that reaches gently out to grab hold of his wrist.
Thoma stops, turning his attention to the hand, his gaze following the arm back up to the face of the boy it belongs to. Plastered on the face is that unwavering look of concern - the one that almost makes Thoma sick to see, to think about.
He’s so sure he messed up again.
Neither of the boys move for what feels like an eternity, save for when the thunder roars above, filling the silence with what Thoma would describe as ear-piercing tremors.
He snaps his eyes shut as he throws his forehead against the floor. Or, what should be the floor. Instead, he hits something soft, and fleshy - the very hand that tried to hold him back only moments prior.
“Thoma,” his lord begins, “please. Come here.”
Thoma sits up straighter, but his eyes are still glued to the hand still resting before him. When he doesn’t respond, Ayato creeps closer, tentatively wrapping his arms around the other boy before gently squeezing him.
At first, Thoma flinches. But this is warm, he realizes. Soft, and cozy, and warm.
“What is the matter?” Ayato’s voice is low. So low, in fact, that even if there were other people in the room, the only ones who would hear would be the only two it pertained to.
Thoma’s not sure why, but he finds it almost comforting to know there is hardly a chance of anyone hearing them. That the only people sharing this moment are the ones in it. That still doesn’t change his response, though.
“I’m okay,” he chokes out.
“Of all people, you should know that I know just what that means. What is wrong?”
Thoma looks at his lord’s gentle face a moment, weighing his options, before finally giving in.
“Bad night,” he begins. A faint laugh accompanies the words, and persists as he trembles alongside the still-echoing thunder. “Bad memories. But I'll get over it.”
”You do not have to.”
”I…”
“Please, do not brush this off. If you do not pace yourself, you will end up erasing yourself, and we do not want that.”
For what feels like the millionth time that night, tears cascade down his face, which is shamelessly pressed into Ayato’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” his muffled voice is broken up between silent, unrelenting sobs.
“None of that. You do not need to apologize.”
“Still…” Thoma lifts his tear-smeared head off his lord, taking instead to staring back at the ground, “I shouldn’t be bothering you like this. You’ve got so much more to deal with, and now your precious time is being taken from you all because I messed up. You really don’t need to worry yourself over something so trivial, I promise it’s not going to happen again!”
“Thoma, Thoma, Thoma… what are we ever going to do with you?”
Thoma makes no effort to respond, his head still clouded with panicked thoughts still claiming he’s been nothing but a nuisance.
“Look at me. Do I look like I am bothered?”
Thoma takes his time raising his head, moving as though he first has to push it through molasses. But when he does fix his gaze on his lord, there is not a single sign of disappointment, nor anything related. No. There is kindness, sweet and inviting.
“The only thing that is bothering me here is seeing you so upset. Your feelings are not trivial, and you are not going to drown me with another burden by spilling what is on your mind. I assure you of this.”
“Thank you, my lord,” a faint smile breaks over his face as he drags the back of his hand across his eyes, sniffling slightly. “Thank you for being here.”
”Shall I wait out the storm here?”
The question catches Thoma off guard, and his response comes out much quicker than he initially anticipates. “No, no! I’ll be fine, really!”
Ayato, however, does not seem fazed, and continues on in his regular tone. “I admit, I need a break from all of this work. Are you going to deny me one?”
Continues on playing with Thoma’s heartstrings, more like.
“Of course not! Just, you gotta promise me you’re not doing this for my sake.”
“Hehe, very well. I promise.” Just as quickly as he answers, Ayato switches the subject. “Are you open for another hug?”
“Truthfully, my lord? If I stop working any longer, I might not have the energy to get back to it.”
“Did I not tell you to pace yourself? When is the last time you have rested?” And, back to the serious tone.
Thoma pauses a minute, thinking hard about the answer, before admitting, “Yes…ter…day?”
“Tsk tsk, Thoma. What you have left can be cleaned later. Come join me.”
The corners of Thoma’s lips sink down, his eyes squinting ever so slightly, as he admits defeat. “Fiiine.”
“Thank you.”
Hesitantly, Thoma pushes himself closer. He wraps his straggly arms around his lord, his head reclaiming its spot on Ayato’s shoulder as he, too, rests his arms over the boy with him.
They sit together, listening to the rain falling overhead as one being. Several minutes pass before, for the last time that night, Thoma’s soft voice breaks the silence once more.
“This helps you too, doesn’t it?”
He is slow to respond, but Ayato does express a clear, “Yes,” before returning to the previous state of half-exhaustion-fueled silence.
And with that, the two let the sound of the rain consume them. By now, the thunder itself has sailed to a different sea, leaving them with faint drops that drift off before long, too - much like Ayato.
It’s not until he can no longer hear the rain that Thoma realizes his lord has fallen asleep on him, his grip still as tight as ever. He’s not going to admit it, either, but he finds the whole thing kind of cute.
But, there’s no time to dwell on that now. Cautiously, he shifts himself so that they can properly lie down. And with one last glance at his lord, Thoma finally allows himself to rest - swiftly passing out to the melodic tune of Ayato’s heartbeat.