“Homesickness is a gentle thing, not loud enough to name. It settles in the hollow spaces, folds itself between his ribs, pretends to be ordinary air. He misses things he cannot return to, versions of himself that no longer exist. And sometimes the ache is not for a place at all, but for the feeling of once belonging without trying.”
Homesickness. What does it really mean, anyway?
Thoma had spent years turning that word over in his mind like a smooth river stone, feeling its weight change depending on the tide. To the people of Inazuma, he was a marvel, a man who had bridged the gap between a closed nation and the outside world with nothing but a smile and a broom. They saw the “Fixer,” a man whose spirit was as bright as his Pyro Vision and as sturdy as the polearm he carried.
But in the quiet hours, when the moon hung low over Mt. Yougou and the only sound was the rhythmic thrum of the distant thunder, Thoma felt less like a bridge and more like a ghost.
For him, homesickness wasn’t a sharp, stabbing pain. It wasn’t the kind of agony that made you scream into the sea. It was a slow, quiet erosion. It was the realization that his memories of Mondstadt were starting to fray at the edges, like an old banner left too long in the sun. He could no longer perfectly recall the exact shade of red the roofs of the houses had, or the precise way the bell of the Cathedral sounded when the wind caught it just right.
In Inazuma, everything was beautiful, but it was heavy. The air was thick with the scent of sea salt, the weight of centuries of tradition, and the crushing gravity of the Shogun’s eternity. Even the flowers here, the Sakura Blooms, fell with a delicate and practiced grace, as if they were afraid of landing the wrong way.
He missed the rowdy, chaotic freedom of a Mondstadt breeze. He missed the way the wind there didn’t ask for permission; it simply blew through the streets like an uninvited guest, carrying the scent of sun-warmed grass and fermented grapes.
Thoma leaned against the cypress railing of the Kamisato Estate, his gloved hands gripping the wood tight enough to splinter it. He felt like a dandelion seed that had been tossed into a crack in a stone wall. He had taken root, yes. He had grown. He had even thrived. But he would always be a different colour than the garden around him. He was a master of the Inazuman tongue, but he still dreamed on the lilt of the North. He was the most loyal servant the Kamisato clan had ever known, yet he knew that if he were to vanish tomorrow, he would be remembered as a “strange, foreign man” who did his best to fit in.
The melancholy settled into his bones, a familiar, cold companion. It was the price of survival. He traded his heritage for a home, and while he didn’t regret the bargain, some nights the debt felt impossible to pay.
The silence of the estate was absolute, broken only by the distant, rhythmic thud of a bamboo water spout in the garden. Thoma closed his eyes, exhaling a breath that hitched just slightly in the cold air.
Then, he heard it.
It wasn’t a loud noise, just the soft and familiar scuff of boots against the wooden floorboards, a rhythm he would know even in the middle of a battlefield. He didn’t have to turn around to know it was you. His first instinct, honed over years of being the “Fixer,” was to straighten his spine. He rolled his shoulders, wiped the mourning from his expression, and plastered on the warm, lopsided smile that he gave to the rest of the world.
“You’re up late,” he said, his voice steady, though he didn’t quite turn to face you yet. He kept his eyes on the moonlit bay. “I thought I was the only one who couldn’t sleep when the wind picks up like this.”
You didn’t answer right away. You walked up to the railing, stopping just a few inches from him. You didn’t look at the horizon; you looked at the white-knuckled grip he had on the cypress wood.
“Thoma,” you said softly. Just his name. No titles, no request for help, no household business.
He finally turned his head, the “Fixer” smile still held firmly in place, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine, really. Just thinking about the inventory for next week. You know how Ayato gets when we run low on that specific tea he likes—”
“Stop it,” you interrupted gently. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” He laughed, a short, breathy sound. “Being responsible?”
“Being a ghost,” you countered. “You’re standing right here, but your heart is somewhere across the ocean. I can practically hear the gears turning from across the courtyard.”
Thoma’s smile faltered, just for a second, before he looked back at the sea. The mask was cracking. “Is it that obvious? I thought I’d gotten better at the Inazuman art of keeping appearances.”
“To everyone else, maybe,” you whispered.
You moved then, stepping into his personal space. You didn’t stand in front of him to demand eye contact; instead, you stepped to his side, leaning your weight against him. You wrapped your arms around his side in a firm, grounding hug, pressing your cheek against the rough fabric of his shoulder protector.
Thoma stiffened for a heartbeat. He was so used to being the one who held everyone else up—the one who provided the shield, the one who fixed the leak, the one who carried the burden. To be the one held felt like a sudden, jarring shift in gravity.
Slowly, the tension began to drain out of him. The “dept” he felt he owed to his new home, the weight of the “heritage” he’d left behind, it all felt a little less crushing with your arms anchored around him.
He let out a long, shuddering sigh and finally let go of the railing. He turned slightly in your hold, bringing one arm down to pull you closer against his side, burying his face in the crown of your head.
“I was just thinking about the dandelions,” he confessed, his voice dropping to a low, vulnerable murmur that he only ever used when the two of you were alone. “How they just… fly away. They don’t have to worry about where they land or who they belong to. They just go where the wind takes them.”
He squeezed you tighter, as if afraid the Inazuman breeze might try to carry him away, too.
“But then I think…” he continued, his breath warm against your hair, “if I had just kept flying, I never would have landed here. With you.”
You didn't say anything for a long moment, simply letting the weight of his confession settle between you. You could feel the slight tremor in his frame, the residual vibration of a man who had been holding himself together too tightly for too long.
Gently, you pulled back just enough to look up at him. His green eyes were glassy, catching the moonlight in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable. Before he could pull the mask of the “Fixer” back over his face, you reached down and took his hand.
His palm was warm and calloused, a map of hard work and hidden burdens. You didn’t just hold it; you threaded your fingers through his, squeezing firmly.
“Come with me,” you whispered.
Thoma blinked, a flash of his usual curiosity breaking through the gloom. “Now? It’s nearly midnight, and I still have to finish the morning prep for the kitchen—”
“The kitchen can wait. Inazuma won’t fall apart if Thoma takes an hour for himself,” you teased gently, though your expression remained soft. You began to lead him away from the main veranda, tugging him toward a secluded path that wound behind the estate, away from the prying eyes of the guards and the silent hallways of the Kamisato Clan.
Thoma followed you in silence, his hand gripping yours like a lifeline. He was so used to being the guide—the one leading the Traveler through Ritou or navigating the political minefields of the Commision—that being led felt like a strange, quiet luxury. He watched the back of your head, the way you moved with a secret purpose, and he felt that “leaky roof” of his heart to seal shut.
You led him to a small, hidden clearing near the edge of the estate’s cliffside, a place where the thunder of the ocean was muffled by the thick, ancient roots of the sacred Sacura trees.
There, tucked into the hollow of a stone lantern, you had set up a small sanctuary.
It wasn’t much, but to Thoma, it looked like a miracle. A small, portable stove sat on a woven mat, beside a bottle of dandelion wine, miraculously sourced from a traveling merchant, and a plate of “Mondstadt Hash Browns,” still smelling of toasted potatoes and home. A few small, handmade candles flickered in the grass, casting a golden glow that fought back the purple shadows of Inazuma.
Thoma stopped in his tracks. His hand trembled in yours.
“You…” he started, his voice cracking. He looked from the small feast to you, his eyes wide. “How did you…?”
“Happy Birthday, Thoma,” you said softly, stepping in front of him to adjust the collar of his jacket, a gesture he usually did for others. “I know you spend your life making sure everyone else has a home. I just wanted to make sure you knew that you have one, too. Even if it’s just this little patch of grass, and even if the wind doesn’t smell quite right.”
The “Fixer” finally collapsed. Not into sadness, but into profound, soul-deep relief. Thoma didn’t say a word as he pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your shoulder. The scent of the wine and the warmth of the potatoes hit him—a sensory bridge back to the boy he used to be.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured into your neck, his voice thick with emotion.
“You stayed,” you whispered, rubbing your hands across his back. “That’s more than enough.”
In that hidden corner of the world, with the taste of his birthplace waiting and your heart beating against his, Thoma realized the debt was finally paid. He wasn’t a ghost anymore. He was home.
✨ author’s note
i know i’m a little late, but i hope you enjoy it nevertheless. hope you wonderful people have a lovely day.
this twitter post is one of my favorite interpretations on why exactly corbeau puts us in debt ()
and just in general. corbeau’s main idea behind all of this
quick translation of the images below
the main objective of the rust syndicate is to protect lumiose city. which includes monitoring suspicious activity within the town and dealing with it
at some point, team-MZ catches corbeau’s attention. the team members are quite strong and have been rising up in the royale rankings—but their main base is hotel Z, which was already pretty suspicious given the absolute lack of customers, and there’s nearly 0 info on the team’s objectives and the work they do. i mean, given that the only members there are a couple of teenagers and this weird guy who’s rumored to be 3000 yrs old it makes sense to be skeptical of them
so from there, they make a plan to form a “relationship” with team MZ and keep an eye on them (the literal translation is that they set up a trap for team MZ but i think this still makes sense)
first they put urbain/taunie in debt ()
they pretend one of the syndicate members is having trouble with something, trying to get their attention, and as a way of “returning the favor” they give urbain/taunie a loan
from there, corbeau essentially uses the accumulated debt as an excuse to send the team MZ members out on errands, while constantly keeping an eye out for anything suspicious and making sure they can intervene if necessary
originally they had phillipe battle with the player to establish the rust syndicate’s strength and authority over team MZ, but the player wins—leading to some rethinking of plans
corbeau later finds out that team MZ is dealing with the mega-evolution issue popping up in the town (backed by quasartico inc.), so he ultimately decides that the team is also trying to protect the town, like the rust syndicate. and with the player fully following corbeau’s orders + showing that they’re powerful in a fight he decides he no longer has to intervene in their affairs
he does some final security checks at the hotel to confirm nothing suspicious is going on, which is why he suddenly comes in and stays there for a night.
eventually he decides that they are not a threat to the city, and so erases urbain/taunie’s debt as if nothing happened.
personally i like this interpretation a lot, even if it isn’t actually true. i kinda like the concept of him using more underhanded methods but still having a very clear objective regardless
Playmaker is infected with a virus that corrupts the user’s mind through their avatar, removing their sense of self, reasons and inhibitions, making them rogue.
There are all protagonists of 7 Yu-Gi-Oh anime series. Suddenly a Rival of Vrains appears, in the middle of his transformation alongside his fellow Prisoner of Destiny. Someone sure as hell knows exactly how to sell him very well...
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