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His name was that of a tragedy.
His hair would be the color of leaves in autumn, and the shade would share the exact hue of the descending sun over the horizon on a day’s end. Strands of lightness would sway with the wind lighter than the orange he had, and he’d find slender fingers adoring them.
He was fearless and strong. He was powerful and a harbinger of the deity he served. He was loyal at that, and his hands would carry weapons wielded for war and they’d be calloused— but it was still soft to the touch, to the fingertips.
He was tall and he stood firm. His figure towered but unlucky him, he had the same height albeit he stood a little taller. Just an inch, two at most, and that was it. They’d laugh at it all the while the other slightly bent down for their lips to brush one another, taking them as one.
Then his voice would be clear, and his hair unruly.
He’d be a mess: onto a pristine canvas splattered in different colors. He was perfectly single-minded and unrelenting in the onslaught of battle, and he’d be reckless and wild and be free.
Then his skin would be pale. Adorned with freckles touched by snow. Painted scars in opposition to “not wounded in any of the battles” lathered in what was once crimson.
And gleaming blue eyes. Vast as the ocean— it was the best description one could ever talk about. Deep, alluring. Rich, abysmal.
And he would be a man of tragedy. He was destined for great deeds but they would turn into an inevitable downfall. He was on the path of it.
Because that’s how tragedies worked. Like that tale of one who dared to reach the heavens and the sun… meeting to demise as a resolution. That’s how tragedies end. Sometimes, usually, always . It always ends tragically and there was no exception to it.
And he has seen too much of it. Far, far much. More when you faced the man named Ajax who looked ethereal too in all aspects: his crooked nose, that notable mole on his left cheek, his teasing smirk, that annoying smile, and those stupid jokes he’d give. Awfully made yet they’d find a way to creep into your lips, find a way to your laugh, find a way to be the source of your smile— his smile.
“You are a tragedy,” the man with midnight blue hair would say as calloused hands brush through his strands gently taking them and lacing them through to kiss them.
“I am,” Ajax would reply. And he’d see himself staring into the irises of a sea that could, would swallow him whole.
“Very much,” words easily said as a fact stated and he would close his eye to flutter it open once again, tracing the warrior’s speckled flesh. Then he’d tell him, “We’re almost one of the same, you know.”
In a bed for two, linen sheets ruffled and under the same blanket. The soft sunlight peering through at daybreak through the glass panes of a place oh so dear to them and only the two of them alone.
It was them who showed everything. Showed their wholeness, showed their existence, showed their parts, showed their tales and stories.
A tragedy and an awaiting one.
“Oh? Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I highly doubt that.”
“But.”
“But do tell.”
“You are nothing but a tragedy,” he started. “An upcoming one, a brewing one, an awaiting one. And I am nothing but a remnant of what was once a tragedy, damned from the beginning.”
“And…” He breathed as pecks trailed from his neck to his tanned skin. From his collarbones to his arms; from his hand, and back to his forehead.
“And I would take you to hell with me.” He kissed his covered eye and set his lip on him as a final say. “ Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”
“You’re damned either way.”
He kissed back, fingers running through his dark hair to be pulled in closer. Skin pressed, mouths touched, tongues tasted, and the sunlight continued to bask the room as clothes scattered amongst the hardwood floor.
And he would be a beautiful tragedy if poets wrote. And he’d take a quill and ink to be one.
“And if I am a tragedy,” their lips parted but never their gaze, “then what am I to you?”
Ad infinitum he would repeat gazing upon a tragedy. Over and over again he would, and over and over again he wished. Because after all that, Ajax was a tragedy himself.
Kaeya looked at him with gazes that never parted.
Gleaming blue eyes, ginger hair. Freckled face, painted skin.
A beautiful tragedy.
He sighed.
“You are my katharsis.”