#and dont hide it in the tags idk how many notifs i get hhaa

[zukkatrash]

A Mask to see me as I am

a modern zuko wears makeup au, 2k words, finished, read under the cut

Summary: Zuko tries to cover up his scar with make up, fails miserably but realizes that he doesn't have to cover his face to stand to look at it

(includes bad Haikus from someone who doesnt know shit about Haikus)

credit to @turtleduck-vibes for beta reading this (thanks again ur the best!!♡)

---

The first time Zuko remembered putting makeup on his face was when he was six.

His mother was painting Azula's face next to him for a festival. He couldn't help himself, just dipped his fingers into the small container of colour and smeared it on his face, trying to mimic the delicate lines mother had drawn on his sister. His mother had smiled at him as she wiped the paint off of his hands and tried her best to fix the greasepaint on him into something more put together. Zuko barely remembered the festival or even what was painted on his face, but he did remember the concentration in his mother's eyes. The dedication and love she put into every stroke of her brush and how she smiled when he giggled at the tickling sensation.

Ozai hated it.

Mother didn't paint his face

again, remembering screams.

---

The second time Zuko put makeup on was when he was thirteen, desperately trying to hide a hickey he could not and would not want to explain to anyone.

---

It didn't hide it.

Ozai found out easily.

It had hurt so much.

The third time Zuko put makeup on was when he was fifteen. He still couldn't stand looking into the mirror longer than it took to check if there was something between his teeth. So he skipped the mirror, grabbed the foundation and more or less smeared it onto his eye. The texture of it felt weird on his face, too clumpy and suffocating. So foreign from the salve he had used to heal the wound. The brush however, brought back the memory of his mother. Her death still stung in his heart — He suspected it always would. But when he stopped attacking his face with the pigment for a second and just let the brush glide along his face, he could only think of his mother's smile. He lifted his face to the mirror and couldn't help but hope that it wouldn't glare back at him with the mark of Ozai's hate.

It looked almost worse.

His eye still too small. The place where an eyebrow should be standing out starkly. The skin around his eye clumped with makeup in a harsh contrast to the smooth unmangled rest of his face. 

It took exactly three and a half seconds for him to tear his face away from the mirror.

---

He could not hide it

Hatred burned into his skin

So he wiped it off

The next time Zuko put on makeup, he was a bit more prepared, having read up a bit on proper application and the like. He set his things on the desk in front of him, asking himself once again why he was even trying. The scar would always be there. Burned into his skin. Zuko had already spent his tips from the teashop on this, so he might as well try. But when he faced the mirror, he still couldn't hold his own gaze. He should be used to it by now, having lived with the scar for over two years. Having lived with Ozai’s contempt for as long as he could remember. But hope could be persistent. Zuko knew he could never earn his father’s love. That it wasn’t something a child could earn, that it should have been given to him from the second he came into his life. Zuko knew Ozai was wrong and hateful and abusive, but still he couldn’t help but hope on some days. Couldn’t help but hope that the mirror would show him something different than the truth

Hate.

Disappointment. 

Condemnation.

He moved the mirror, only his right side visible to him now. Maybe he could practise there until he could finally stand seeing his own face again.

But what good would that do? If he wanted to hide his scar he had to put the makeup on his scar. He adjusted the mirror again. If he didn't move, all he could see was his cheek. The rough skin looked bad, but not as horrible as his eye. As my whole face- he couldn't help but think. He put some foundation on his brush and began spreading it. Unsure how to hold the brush, unsure how to move the brush, unsure why he was even trying.

But the brush felt nice and if he just focused on this small part of his face he almost forgot what he was trying to do. So he kept going, letting the brush glide over his skin, adjusting the mirror ever so slightly as he kept going. Scooting closer to it when his eye came into view, not wanting to see it compare to the other one. The normal one. The intact one. Before he knew it he had covered it all. He was done. He pulled back from the mirror.

---

But it still looked wrong

His skin the same colour, but

A mangled landscape

Zuko gave up on trying to cover his scar. The skin was too broken to ever look normal. The eye too broken to ever look normal. He was too- No, Uncle wouldn’t want him to think like that.

But he couldn't deny that he liked putting on the makeup. The method of painting, as if his face was just a sheet of paper and not a testament to Ozai's cruelty. The focus only on a part of his face, without time to criticise when there was art to be done. The memory of his mother smiling down at him as she tickled his nose with the brush. So Zuko didn’t give up on makeup. Only now, he stopped trying to hide something that would always be there.

At first he tried to emulate other people’s makeup, starting with simple things, or what he had thought to be simple things. More often than not, it didn’t come out looking any good. The soft green around his eyes, however, did look quite nice and he couldn't help but think of his uncle's work apron as he looked at his face in the mirror. For the first time in a long time, he could see his own smile look back at him.

---

The face still the same

His again with colours and

Memories of love

At seventeen Zuko’s weekend routine now had an addition. Instead of reading or studying, he would put on makeup after his shift at the jasmine dragon and wipe it off in time for dinner. He would lock the door, set the mirror on his desk and take out the small bag from where it was stuffed in his bottom drawer. He would see how different colours looked against his face, how the shapes accentuated different parts of his face, but he wouldn't cover up his scar anymore. Mostly he settled on leaving it alone altogether, since the pigment didn't tend to feel all that good on it. He got good at it though. Now he even took pictures of it, mostly just to track his progress, but the first one he had taken was a celebration. Of the first time his eyeliner looked not only even but good. Never to show anyone though. Not that he really could show anyone, since Jin would definitely tell his uncle. It wasn’t that she was a telltale, but only a few people managed to spend much time with Uncle without letting some secrets slip.  Zuko still couldn’t quite believe how easy it had been to come out to his uncle, how accidental it had been.

So maybe it wouldn’t be that bad if Uncle knew. No it definitely wouldn’t be bad. But this wasn’t only a hobby, or something Zuko just was. This was something that helped him look in the mirror. Even if his face was bare he knew how well blue went with his eyes. Where to put highlighter to bring out his cheekbones. How to get the tail of his eyeliner just right. This was something that helped him see himself behind his face.

---

A way to separate

The now away from the past

Mask to see himself

There was a knock at his door.

"Just a moment." He called back. Uncle was early, usually Zuko would have at least another half hour until dinner. He grabbed a makeup wipe and almost scrubbed it at his face. But today he had finished the dishes early. Today he had been ambitious. Today there were delicate flowers on his cheekbone. Flowers he had drawn and cleaned off with a q-tip and redrawn over and over again until they were perfect. He couldn't just wipe them off. 

“Do you need to come in?” Zuko asked before he could think better of it. 

“Are you alright, nephew?” And there it was. He hated to worry his uncle, the man had done so much for him and Zuko still just served to make his life harder.

“Yes.” Everything was alright, he just didn’t want him to come inside and yet even Zuko could hear it in his own voice. The undertone that would tell Uncle that there was something.

“I only wanted to ask if you would like to join me on a walk before dinner” Uncle’s voice was as gentle as ever.

“Nope, I’m good.” Zuko could almost feel his Uncle’s disappointment through the door.

“I am worried about you.” There was hurt in his voice and there was nothing Zuko would hate more than hurting his Uncle. He had to tell him, or rather show him.

“Zuko,” Uncle paused and Zuko already knew what was coming, but he really was fine. But then again Uncle wouldn’t know that. Zuko had already thought of telling him, but this felt like it was his and only his. He was sure Uncle wouldn’t react badly. Hell, Zuko could probably come home with bags full of stolen stuff and Uncle wouldn’t be mad at him. But this had been the first skill he had ever honed that wasn’t for other people, not to convince them of his worth. It wasn’t even that he didn’t want to tell Uncle, he just didn’t want to tell anyone.

But then Uncle had continued talking. 

Zuko took a deep breath, he knew he didn't have to worry. He knew Uncle loved him. He knew Uncle would never be mad at him for this. And yet the walk from his desk to his door had never felt longer. Zuko put his hand on the door and before he could think himself out of it he opened it.

His eyes were glued to the floor and his voice barely above a whisper.

“It’s not done yet.” Uncle took a second to react, which was to be expected but still Zuko couldn’t help his internal freak out at the silence. 

“Oh, what lovely jasmine blossoms.” and Uncle’s words were filled with love and a split second later his arms were filled with a very relieved Zuko.

---

Flowers blooming free

Pressed against a smiling cheek

Honesty brings freedom

Uncle knew and despite Zuko's worries it still was his. He might be getting more pictures of flowers when Uncle went on a walk but he didn't pry. He never pried, only ever waited patiently with open arms and a cup of tea, and when the next Saturday came around, Zuko didn’t lock his door. But left it wide open as he settled in front of his desk. And he almost didn’t startle when the apartment door opened later and the sound of Uncle’s hum filled the space.

Zuko was about to pull out his phone when he realized something. He didn’t have to take the selfie in his room where the light didn’t reach in the evening. He could catch the sun as it set from the living room. Uncle didn’t look up from his book as he passed him on the way to the window. Zuko very much understood it as the gesture it was. That their home was a place for Zuko to be himself, that Uncle wouldn’t stare at him just for expressing himself. He very much appreciated it as well, even though he had shared his secret, didn’t mean he was quited ready to really talk about it.

Vulnerable trust

Held steadfast with time and pain

And wounds can still heal