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He wouldn’t consider himself a vain man - more like someone who just… Cares a lot about his physical appearance. He’s not conceited, excessively prideful, or anything like that at all - he just likes to look nice. And he’s aware that most of the time, he does look nice. Very much so, in fact.
If one were to look at Kaveh’s monthly outgoings, aside from the art supplies, and the numerous (many, many numerous) drinks, you’d find a fair amount spent on his appearance. His body is a temple, after all (despite the aforementioned numerous drinks) and so why shouldn’t he decorate it? Adorn it in gold and exquisite silks, the finest oils and balms - anything to keep himself feeling a little more whole.
It’s a comfort, it’s an armour, it makes him feel like himself. Kaveh, Light of Kshahrewar. A glorious, gleaming example of a human being.
In those dark months of homelessness and debt, he hadn’t felt like himself. Dull, and brass, and above all else - boring. That’s not him. That wasn’t him, that was nought more than a shell.
Kaveh - the real Kaveh - buys his eye kohl from the stall in the corner of the Bazaar. That stuff is of the highest quality, of course. Olive oil soaked cloth burned to ash and scooped into a small golden-coloured jar, applied neatly each morning with steady hands and a small wand.
The real Kaveh gets a manicure each month from the Auntie down Treasures Street, and he’s always indecisive about the colour of the polish (This month, he chose silver and turquoise on a whim, and the Aunties looked at each other knowingly).
He trims his bangs with a sharp pair of scissors, and god forbid Alhaitham ever borrows them to cut up paper. In a past life, he’d dyed his golden tresses brown, ashamed to stand out, wanting to keep his head down and make it through with dark hair and darker eye makeup. But that was then, and this is now, and the brown is almost grown out from the ends of his hair.
He is confident because he has to be. He is beautiful because he wants to be. He chooses to put the effort in - and it does take plenty of effort. He has a seven-step skincare routine that he follows diligently, morning and night, even when he’s drunk. Even when he’s hungover. It’s as important to him as his morning coffee, as important as his work.
It’s an indulgence - of course, it’s expensive to buy the finer products, but why shouldn’t he have nice things? Why shouldn’t he be allowed to look lovely? To feel lovely? Surely, he’d suffered enough for the past few years, what with his debts, relationships, and the whole… Roommate situation.
At the end of it all, he deserves it.
He wouldn’t consider himself to be insecure, and it’s not that he has a problem with people seeing him without his makeup on, his hair pinned - he just simply prefers not to. To him, it feels like leaving the house without shoes on. Besides, Alhaitham wears his headphones all the time, and no one seems to have a problem with that, so why is his own appearance such a big issue?
It comes up one night in the tavern with Tighnari, Cyno, and Alhaitham. He’d been in tears of laughter over a story from Tighnari about a travelling merchant’s ill-fated encounter with a shroom boar, which would definitely be breaking doctor-patient confidentiality if Tighnari were an actual doctor (and the several empty glasses of wine on the table had probably proved to make the story a lot funnier than it actually was) and had brushed his fingers under the bottom of his eyes to wipe away the dampness, only to see black streaks on his fingers.
“Haitham,” He slurred, turning to the man next to him who was not at all involved in the conversation. “Is my eyeliner smudged?”
The aforementioned ‘Haitham’ glanced up from his book for a moment. “Yes.”
Kaveh rolled his eyes, getting up from the table. “Damnit, I’ll be right back. I’m just going to the bathroom to fix it,”
Instead, Tighnari took a handkerchief from his pocket, holding it out to him. “It’s fine, just wipe it off,” He said, casually, and Kaveh tilted his head to the side oddly.
“No? It’s fine, I’ll be two minutes–”
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without makeup on,” Cyno interrupts, and Tighnari looks toward him, Alhaitham even looking up from his page.
“Me neither, come to think of it,” Tighnari adds. “Alhaitham? You live with him, surely you must’ve seen his naked face,”
“He’s always up before me in the morning,” Comes the answer, easily. “Uses up all the damn hot water too,”
And it’s true - Kaveh is always up before Alhaitham, rushing into the bathroom from his room with quick, light steps, makeup bag in hand (he keeps it in his room, otherwise his roommate would nick all of his damn kohl because he’s too antisocial to make conversation with the woman who sells it) - he emerges 45 minutes later with his face concealed, contoured and highlighted, eyes framed with glittering gold, deep burgundy, or soft olive green depending on the day, and outlined with neat black, lashes brushed with mascara carefully applied so as to avoid clumps.
“Is it an issue?” Kaveh frowns.
“Using all the hot water? Yes, it–”
“No. The makeup, is it an issue for me to wear it?”
Alhaitham shrugs slightly, eyes turning back to his book, clearly done with the conversation. “Honestly, Kaveh, it doesn’t matter to me either way,”
Kaveh thinks about his words all the way home, as Alhaitham half drags him through the doorway, and deposits him on one of the divans in the front room.
Half an hour later, after Alhaitham has gone to bed, Kaveh staggers into the bathroom, and carefully removes his makeup with cotton, soap and water.
He stares at himself in the mirror, looks at the curves of his nose, his jaw, so different when not contoured, not finely shaped by his own hand. He is an architect, after all - he designs buildings, designs gardens, designs marvellous, breathtaking structures. He considers himself to be one of them.
Again, he is not by any means insecure - but why have a house with four walls and a pitched roof when you could have a splendid palace of opulence?
He is the designer and the design, the sculptor and the sculpture, the creator and the creation. He has molded himself into his own image, he has put the effort in, and for it to go unappreciated?
People will just never understand his art, he supposes. Story of his damn life.
It’s on his worst days that it matters most to him. On the days when it takes such a great, painful deal of effort to get out of bed - and they come, they do come, relentless, vicious, and often unexpected. He peers at himself in the hand mirror he keeps on his bedside table and turns his tired eyes into sparkling features, statement pieces, like his earrings, and his necklaces - adornments of the finest caliber.
It gives him strength that he could not otherwise find, gives him power where before there had only been frailty.
Those months - those damn months he’d spent hidden away in the corner of the taverns drinking away his sorrows and his mind, it’d given him back a sense of control to be able to choose his appearance. He doesn’t credit it entirely for getting himself back on his feet, loathe to say it, Alhaitham did have a fairly large part in that, but damn if it hadn’t helped to be able to face the world in a familiar state.
So yes, it is indeed important to him, as much a part of him as his vision, as his skills. It’s not all about how he looks, it’s about how he feels. And it helps him to feel okay, even when nothing else in his life seems to be.
He doesn’t think about it all that much, really. It’s part of his daily routine, up and out of bed, through to the bathroom, shower, makeup, hair, back to his room, clothes, jewellery, through to the kitchen for coffee with a groggy roommate, then out of the door with keys left forgotten on the hook. It’s security and safety, it’s what he knows, and what he likes.
And as he said - he doesn’t think about it, until late one night when he’d been moving furniture, long past Alhaitham’s bedtime, long past the makeup being removed (he did have to let his skin breathe sometimes, after all). He’d read a book from Liyue on the art of Feng Shui, a practice of arranging furniture in order to create balance. Red, purple and green to attract prosperity, items placed at the back and middle left of the room.
He’d taken the parlor palm from the living room, the one in the terracotta pot (red and green, and besides, it’s not like Alhaitham would miss it) as well as the deep purple velvet cushion from the divan (Alhaitham would be glad to be rid of that one, Kaveh had a sneaking suspicion he hated the texture of velvet from how he’d flick it onto the floor with his book) and the weird painting of the lion that had just appeared in the hallway one day (when asked where the hell it came from, Alhaitham had just shrugged, so fuck it, he was taking it for his room).
Kaveh was in the middle of shifting his desk halfway across his room to lie against the back wall when there was a loud knock at his door. Kaveh groaned to himself as he stomped across the room - he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with his roommate at this time, he’d hurt his wrist from trying to move his bookshelf by himself, but couldn’t just leave it there, so–
He flung the door open to find Alhaitham standing there, pointedly shirtless, as he all too often was, his face marred with sleep.
“What. Do you want?” Kaveh hisses.
Alhaitham only blinks back at him as if slightly taken aback by his appearance.
“You’re not wearing any makeup,” He says, and Kaveh narrows his eyes suspiciously.
“I’m aware,”
“You’re beautiful,” Alhaitham states flat out, not a hint of derision behind his words. Kaveh’s mouth seems to drop open a little, his eyes widening at the sudden declaration. He can feel his face heating up, and without his full-coverage foundation on, he knows the blush is probably painfully evident across his face. “Even without the makeup, I mean,” He continues, and Kaveh seems to gather himself, tossing his hair slightly.
“I’m… Aware of that too,” Alhaitham doesn’t say anything further, only staring at his face far too intensely, prompting Kaveh to fold his arms and lean on the doorframe slightly. “Did you expect me to say something else? Am I meant to be all insecure and argue back with you on that? I know I’m attractive, Alhaitham, with or without makeup–”
“I didn’t say attractive. I said beautiful,”
Kaveh purses his lip, chewing on the inside of his lip. “Did you need something? Or did you just come to bother me about my appearance?”
“Oh, no. Just telling you to shut up with all the crashing and banging, it’s late and I’m trying to sleep.” Alhaitham informs casually, seemingly having already forgotten his confession surrounding his opinion of Kaveh’s appearance.
“I’m allowed to move furniture! In case you’ve forgotten, it’s my room, and–”
“Not when you haven’t paid rent this month. Maybe if you spent a little less mora on makeup, and a little more on–”
Kaveh slams the door shut in Alhaitham’s face.
He steps around the desk, abandoned in the middle of his room, and flops face-down on his bed (so sue him, he wasn’t wearing makeup after all).
And for some strange, stupid, reason, he kicks his legs in the air and squeals.
His routine goes much the same the next morning - he clambers up out of bed, half-heartedly tries to push the desk a little further toward its intended place, gives up, and gathers his things before going to the bathroom.
The issue is - the one issue is - as he takes the wand from his little pot of kohl, he hesitates.
“You’re beautiful,”
“Even without the makeup, I mean,”
The wand hovers just in front of his eye, and he looks at himself in the mirror - really looks at himself, at every angle, every shadow, every blemish, soon to be hidden. He narrows his lips into a thin line, exhaling heavily before continuing with applying the kohl.
“You, silly, silly man,” He mutters quietly, and he honestly doesn’t know if he’s talking about Alhaitham or himself.
Sitting down at the breakfast table later on, once he’s all dressed, his face painted like a fine art piece, he’s not quite sure what he expects. Alhaitham emerges a little while later, sits down opposite him and picks up his mug of coffee (the mug with the weird fish on it is his, it’s been here since before Kaveh moved in and he’s desperate to know the story about it) and takes out his book and begins to read.
It’s painfully routine. Painfully normal, Kaveh can’t help but drum his fingers on the table restlessly.
It lasts all of thirty seconds before Alhaitham peers across at him, with a fairly irritated expression.
“Can you stop tapping? I’m trying to–”
“What did you mean, when you said ‘You’re beautiful’?” Kaveh blurts out and wow, wow - that was not how he’d meant to broach the subject.
To his surprise, Alhaitham blinks, eyebrows slightly raised, and takes a sip from his coffee as he puts his book down.
“I thought I was fairly clear in my words,”
Kaveh splutters slightly, “Yes, but you can’t just– you can’t just say that!”
“Why not? It was a positive comment about your appearance, is that not allowed?”
“No, that’s not allowed!” Kaveh exclaims, standing up from the table abruptly, and pointing a finger accusingly toward the other man.
“You said, you said – and I quote – ‘it doesn’t matter to me’! When I asked about my appearance! Weeks ago, don’t you remember?!”
“I believe I said, ‘It doesn’t matter to me either way. Meaning I like your appearance whether or not you’re wearing makeup,”
Kaveh’s pointed finger droops slightly, and then he drops his hand to the table, sitting back down in his chair, defeated. “You like my appearance? You think I’m beautiful?”
An eye roll. A sip of coffee. “Do you have some kind of head injury? You’re doing a lot of repeating yourself,”
“No, no, I’m just trying to… Process…” Kaveh murmurs, head now in his hands in an attempt to hide his reddening cheeks.
“Hence the head injury question - I feel like this shouldn’t need that much ‘processing’,” Alhaitham says, air quotes around the last word.
“It’s a thing that needs processing! My roommate just said I’m beautiful, and not like the ‘Oh, Kaveh, you look so pretty today’ way, in the outright confessional ‘You’re beautiful’ way! That’s strange, Alhaitham. You’re strange,”
“I’ve been called much worse,” Alhaitham seems to agree. “And I really don’t think it’s that strange, you are beautiful. I do appreciate your appearance.”
“Oh, you’re just making it worse!” Kaveh groans. “What about– What about Nilou? Do you think she’s beautiful?”
“In an objective sense, I suppose. I think for you, it’s more of a…”
“More of a what? A subjective sense? Your personal view is that I’m beautiful?”
Alhaitham smirks slightly, that damned, smug smirk - Kaveh just wants to wipe it off of his face and… Kiss him?
“Congratulations. You know what subjective means. Perhaps you should’ve chosen the Haravatat Darshan instead of–”
Punch him.
No, kiss him.
And God fucking damn it, he does, he reaches across the table, grabs Alhaitham by his stupid little collar, and kisses his stupid little face and to further the problem - Alhaitham kisses back, his hand finding Kaveh’s cheek, and he feels as if he could melt in his touch, could die right now, an incredibly happy, idiotic man.
They break apart, Kaveh with slightly gasping breaths, Alhaitham perhaps the most expressive he’d ever seen him, eyes staring into his, glistening and–
“I think you’re beautiful too,” Kaveh manages, his cheek still resting in Alhaitham’s hand, held in the most gentle, the most tender of touches.
And Alhaitham seems speechless - he actually rendered Alhaitham, of all people, fucking speechless. He stares at Kaveh, mouth slightly agape as if shocked by the fact that they just kissed, and Kaveh is shocked too because his face is still being held in his roommate’s hand and this is quite possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done, and maybe he misread the situation, maybe Alhaitham doesn’t like him that way, saying you think someone is beautiful doesn’t necessarily mean that you like them that way but–
“Thank you,” Alhaitham murmurs, face edging closer to Kaveh’s. “For the compliment, and for the…” His eyes flick down towards Kaveh’s lips. “... Kiss,”
“You’re very welcome,” Kaveh whispers, nodding slightly. “Do you want to… Kiss me again?”
“Yes, I would like that very much,”
Kaveh would not consider himself to be a vain man - he is not conceited, egotistical, or overly prideful surrounding his appearance.
He is, however, extremely, undeniably, proud of this.
Whatever the fuck ‘this’ is.