I Was His Retainer, Until He Kissed Me In A Moment of Desperation

The air in the grand meeting hall was suffocating, thick with unspoken accusations and the dry scent of old paper. Thoma moved with the practiced silence of a shadow, his steps measured on the polished tatami floors as he refilled the porcelain teacups of the Yashiro Commission elders. Their voices, low and sharp, cut through the stillness, each word a carefully aimed stone against the wall of Kamisato Ayato’s composure.

They spoke of trade negotiations, of resource shortages, of the Hiiragi Clan’s recent, bold movements. Every point was a thinly veiled critique of Ayato’s leadership, a suggestion that the young lord of the Kamisato Clan was perhaps not as capable as his esteemed father had been. Thoma kept his eyes downcast, his focus entirely on the steady stream of hot tea pouring from the kettle, yet he heard everything. He felt the weight of their judgment settling on the room, a palpable pressure that seemed to gather around his master’s shoulders.

From across the long, lacquered table, Ayato was the picture of serene authority. He sat perfectly straight, one hand resting on his knee, the other tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm on the tabletop with a closed fan. His expression was placid, a mask of polite consideration that betrayed nothing of the storm Thoma knew must be raging within him. Only Thoma, who had seen Ayato in every state from triumphant to exhausted, could detect the minute signs of strain: the faint tension in his jaw, the way his gaze remained fixed on a point just beyond the eldest council member’s head, a look of intense, almost painful concentration.

As Thoma approached Ayato’s side to refill his cup, he could feel the rigid control his lord was exerting over himself. The subtle scent of camellia and rain, Ayato’s personal fragrance, was sharper today, as if intensified by his frustration. Ayato gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod of thanks, his eyes never leaving the council.

Finally, the meeting concluded. The elders rose, their stiff brocade robes rustling like dry leaves. They offered formal, shallow bows, their words of departure polite but their faces grim. As the last of them slid the shoji screen shut, a profound silence descended upon the room.

In that quiet, Ayato’s shoulders sagged, just for a second. His head dropped, and the mask of the unflappable clan leader dissolved, revealing the weary young man beneath. His lavender eyes, clouded with exhaustion, lifted and scanned the room, finally landing on Thoma, who stood waiting by the door.

For a long moment, their gazes locked. It was a silent, unvarnished exchange that transcended their stations. In Ayato’s eyes, Thoma saw the crushing weight of responsibility, the frustration of being cornered, the bone-deep fatigue of a battle fought and not quite won. And in Thoma’s steady gaze, Ayato found what the elders would never give him: unconditional loyalty, a silent reassurance that he was not standing alone. The look held, a brief, grounding anchor in a turbulent sea, before Ayato gave a small, tired nod and Thoma bowed, retreating to let his master have the silence he so clearly needed.

Hours later, the estate had settled into the deep quiet of the night, but a single sliver of light still shone from beneath the door of the head of the clan’s office. Thoma had noted Ayato’s absence at the evening meal, an omission no one else dared to comment on but which had settled like a stone in Thoma’s own stomach. He knew, with a certainty born of long years of service, that his lord was still in that room, running himself into the ground.

He prepared a tray in the silent kitchens. It wasn't an elaborate meal, just a bowl of hot miso soup, its steam carrying the comforting scent of dashi and tofu, and two perfectly formed onigiri, still warm. It was sustenance, simple and nourishing. It was care.

Balancing the lacquer tray, he approached the office and slid the door open without knocking, a liberty only he would be permitted to take. The sight that greeted him made his chest ache. Ayato was slumped over his desk, his head pillowed on his arms amidst a chaotic sea of scrolls and maps. The candlelight flickered across his pale hair, casting long shadows under his eyes. He looked less like the formidable leader of the Yashiro Commission and more like a student who had fallen asleep in the library, utterly spent. For a moment, Thoma simply watched him, taking in the unguarded vulnerability of his master’s sleeping form.

He set the tray down on a small, clear space on the edge of the desk, the soft clink of the ceramic bowl against the wood finally stirring Ayato. The clan leader’s head lifted slowly, his eyes bleary and unfocused for a moment before they landed on Thoma. Confusion warred with exhaustion on his face.

“Thoma?” His voice was rough with sleep.

“You missed dinner, my lord,” Thoma said, his tone gentle but firm. He pushed the bowl of soup closer to Ayato. “You need to eat.”

Ayato blinked, looking from the food to Thoma and back again. A protest seemed to form on his lips, some reflexive dismissal of his own needs, but it died before it was spoken. The weariness in his bones was too profound to argue. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire day, he picked up the spoon.

Thoma didn't leave. He stood quietly by the desk, a silent sentinel, as Ayato ate. The only sounds in the room were the soft scraping of the spoon against the bowl and the rustle of paper as Ayato shifted slightly in his seat. He ate slowly, mechanically at first, but then with more purpose, as if the warmth of the soup was seeping into him, chasing away some of the chill of his fatigue. When he was finished, he set the empty bowl down and looked at Thoma, a flicker of his usual self returning to his lavender eyes. The deep lines of stress around his mouth had softened.

“Thank you, Thoma,” he said, and the words were quiet, stripped of all formality. It wasn't a lord thanking his retainer. It was just Ayato, thanking a friend. The charged silence from the meeting hall returned, but this time it was different—not tense, but thick with an unspoken intimacy that felt both comforting and dangerous.

"Of course, my lord," Thoma replied, his voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the quiet. He reached for the empty tray, his movements efficient and practiced. "Allow me to clear this, so you can rest."

Ayato didn't answer, but he didn't dismiss him, either. He simply watched as Thoma began to carefully stack the scattered scrolls, his large, capable hands bringing a small measure of order to the chaos on the desk. The candlelight played over Thoma’s focused expression, the slight furrow of his brow as he navigated the clutter. The simple, domestic act was so at odds with the political turmoil that defined their lives, yet it felt more real than anything that had happened in the meeting hall earlier.

Thoma’s hand hovered over a large, unrolled map detailing strategic positions along the coast. It was the centerpiece of the desk, the source of much of the day's debate. To clear the space for the tray, it would have to be moved. As Thoma reached for the edge of the thick paper, Ayato moved as well, his own hand going to secure the opposite corner, perhaps to help roll it or simply to get it out of the way.

Their fingers met over the inked coastline.

It wasn't a brief, accidental brush. For a fraction of a second that stretched into an eternity, their hands touched. The calloused pads of Thoma’s fingers pressed against the smooth, warmer skin of Ayato’s. A shock, sharp and electric, shot up Thoma’s arm. He froze completely, his breath catching in his throat. He could feel the fine bones of Ayato’s hand under his, the faint, steady pulse just beneath the skin.

He looked up, and Ayato’s lavender eyes were already on him, wide and dark in the candlelight. The polite mask was gone, the weariness had vanished. In its place was something raw and startlingly intense. The air crackled, suddenly heavy and thick with everything they had so carefully left unsaid for years. The space between them, a carefully maintained distance of master and retainer, vanished completely, leaving only the charged connection of their touch.

It was Ayato who pulled back first, but the movement was slow, reluctant. Thoma snatched his own hand away as if the contact had burned him, his heart hammering against his ribs. He quickly rolled the map with unsteady fingers, his gaze fixed on the task, not daring to look at his lord again. The silence in the room was deafening now, filled with the echo of that single, forbidden point of contact.

Thoma picked up the tray, his movements stiff and jerky. "I will take my leave, my lord. Please get some rest." He didn't wait for a reply. He bowed deeply, a formal, rigid gesture that felt absurd after the intimacy of the moment before, and then turned and walked from the room, sliding the shoji screen closed behind him with a soft click.

The sound seemed to finally break the spell for Ayato. He stared at the closed door, his fingers still tingling with the memory of Thoma's touch. He slowly lifted his hand, turning it over in the candlelight, as if he could still see the imprint of the other man's hand on his own. The quiet of the office returned, but it was no longer peaceful. It was filled with a new, dangerous question that promised a sleepless night.