Thinking about… Kaeya learning to live with one eye.
Kaeya, who takes his time with stairs after he started wearing the eyepatch. He stumbled the first few times, but he’s learned to be mindful of them by now, but you see how his hand grazes the railing— just in case.
Kaeya who chooses to lurk in the corners of the room if he can help it, his visible eye angled to everyone and everything else.
Kaeya, who startles when you speak up from his right and masks his annoyance with a laugh or a tease. Must you stand there while he’s deep in thought?
Kaeya, who struggled when his blade grazed armour instead of skin — close, but not enough. And sometimes far closer than expected. It strikes true now — at least most of the time — but very few saw the hours of gruelling practice it took. How many missed slashes at mocking dummies finally let his blade pierce flesh.
Kaeya, who sat in silence as his head throbbed, his uncovered eye sore with strain. Back when the press of leather on his face was alien. But the ache never left, it returned with painful familiarity on long nights and the harsh glare of the sun.
Kaeya, who hesitated to drink in taverns. The drinks he could handle, the humiliation of knocking the goblet over he could not. He’s learned not to by now, but you see the slow care in his hands, the tilt of his head that could be mistaken for playfulness.
Kaeya, who’s hyper aware of his surroundings. It’s the first thing he does, turning his head and mapping all he can — with surprising memory. Though sometimes he bumps against the table, or against the doorframe, when he moves in a hurry. Is that why no one catches him arrive or leave?
Kaeya, who fumbled when Klee decided to play catch. His arms raised a second too late— or quick— knocking the brightly coloured ball back clumsily. He’s better at it now, though you get the sense he’s calculating more than he lets on.
Kaeya, who gets less accurate the more he strains in a fight. His strikes are quick, but the control dwindles. The savages strikes graze armour, and sometimes draw him closer than preferred … but he’s too far gone to care by then — which in itself is a threat.
Kaeya, who jests of fearing the dark, but you see the way he tenses, his visible eye squinting to make sense of the pitch black. But it’s no trouble back in his apartment, where even you could walk blindfolded if you visited it enough. Things rarely changed there.
Kaeya, who carefully files away the slightest movement, anticipating blows before they strike, judging tension coiling in muscle.
Kaeya, who baits opponents with an opening on his right side — one too good, just too good to pass up. At least until he counterattacks in a rapid thrust, knocking the air out of them. He talks a big game, rolls his shoulders and looks almost bored — until they get right where he wants them.
Kaeya, who curses when they close in on him from all sides. That’s when he gets the most creative, might introduce the environment into the picture. Like that ruin guard, conveniently slumbering between the pillars right there.
Kaeya, who won’t admit he bit more than he could chew when he’s lying on the infirmary bed, assuring you he’d had it all under control — as if he wasn’t swearing in three different languages when the first unseen blow announced itself.
Kaeya, who feels space more than he observes it. The flutter of loose fabric, the creak of floorboards, the shift in the air around him. You think it’s easy to sneak up on him, but he calls you out just as your fingers hover over his shoulder — or maybe with his own blade to your neck.
