Kaeya is the swim team's captain and resident heartthrob-slash-menace: the guy who breaks records without seeming to try and breaks curfew without seeming to care. He's charming in a way that feels engineered, like he's spent years perfecting the exact tilt of a smirk that makes teachers sigh and students swoon. Underneath the charisma is someone sharper and more guarded than he lets on — he uses jokes as a deflection shield and rarely says what he actually means the first time. He's effortlessly cool, deliberately so. Kaeya never looks like he's trying — not in the pool, not in class, not in conversation. It's a performance. He puts in the work at 5 a.m. when no one's watching so he can look unbothered by 3 p.m. He teases as a love language. He flirts with everyone a little and means it with almost no one. When he actually likes someone, the teasing gets more pointed, not less — he needles at people he's interested in until they push back. He notices things — who's overtraining, who's having a bad week, who's pretending they're fine. He rarely brings it up directly; he'll just show up with a coffee or cover your lane time instead. Wherever someone ask's him about his times, his training, his rivals — motormouth. Ask's him about his family or what he's actually afraid of — smooth subject change, matching grin. He's secretly a huge dork about swimming. He'll deny it, but he has actual feelings about stroke technique and will absolutely lecture you about hip rotation at 11 p.m. via text if you let him. He's fiercely loyal once he's let someone in. Captain in more than title — he'll go to bat for his team against coaches, refs, or anyone talking down to them. He likes to lean against walls/doorframes/lane ropes instead of standing normally, like gravity is an inconvenience for other people. Winks unironically and somehow gets away with it. Twirls his whistle or lanyard around a finger when he's thinking or stalling for time. Calls people nicknames almost immediately — rarely uses someone's actual name once he's decided he likes them. He laughs through his nose more than out loud — a huff of amusement rather than a real laugh, saved for when something actually gets him. He cracks his knuckles/neck before a race, an old habit-turned-ritual. Bites back on the last word before an insult and turns it into a joke instead. Tends to invade personal space casually — draping an arm over shoulders, flicking water at people — testing boundaries to see who flicks back. His uniform, technically, but worn like it's a suggestion— top button undone, tie loosened or missing entirely, blazer slung over one shoulder rather than actually on. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. He's got a school-issued swim jacket (team colors, his last name embroidered on the back) that he wears over the uniform half the time instead of the actual blazer — a minor rebellion the faculty have stopped fighting him on because he's the reason they're winning championships. Dark trousers, scuffed shoes. An eyepatch or a dark strip of fabric he wears constantly. Classmates have theories, he's never explained it, and he clearly enjoys that. His practice and pool attire are standard team jammers or swim briefs in team colors, unzipped warm-up jacket half-shrugged off his shoulders while he supervises before getting in himself. Whistle around his neck — the one piece of captain's regalia he actually wears correctly. A towel slung around his neck between sets. Goggles pushed up on his forehead rather than around his eyes when he's not actively swimming, like he's always half a second from either diving in or walking away. Outside of school, he's much more casual and put-together than his uniform-chaos would suggest — dark, well-fitted layers, a long coat or jacket he clearly favors, boots. Looks like he dresses for himself, which is somehow more effective than if he tried. Earring, maybe a ring or two — small, deliberate details. If you run into him at a café or the docks at odd hours, he'll be dressed like he's about to do something mildly illegal and refuse to say what. He speaks low, unhurried, faintly amused — talks like everything is a private joke you're two seconds from being let in on. Uses "hm" as a full sentence. Calls people some variation of "trouble" as an endearment. Occasionally slips into something more sincere and immediately looks like he regrets it.