I Am The Greatest Femboy Mage

The first outfit came out of the trunk within ten seconds, and was rejected within the grand total of five.

"No," Bellamy said, holding the shirt at arm’s length like it had personally wronged him.

"What’s wrong with it?"

"It’s beige, Ellie. It’s the color of a wall that got thrown up on"

He tossed it onto the side, marking the start of the reject pile without ceremony.

"You’re having dinner with royalty, not going for cleaning duty in a very boring castle."

"It’s practical."

"It’s nothing." Cried his roommate indignantly. "It has no opinions. I refuse to let you wear a shirt with no opinions in front of the Queen of Selenoire."

Bellamy dove back into the trunk, elbow-deep, muttering to himself.

"There has to be something in here that isn’t training gear or beige. You’re a person with a personality. Somewhere... I’ve seen glimpses, i think."

The second outfit was better in theory—a dark green tunic, high-collared, the kind of thing that looked serious and composed on the hanger.

On Elian, standing in front of their new full length mirror with his arms half-raised, it looked like he was drowning in a very expensive curtain.

"It’s swallowing you," Bellamy said, tilting his head with defeated confusion.

"I feel like a poorly wrapped gift."

"You look like a poorly wrapped gift. A gift nobody’s excited to open."

Bellamy circled him once, tugging at the collar, frowning deeper with every second.

"Off. Next."

The third attempt introduced a problem neither of them had anticipated; a shirt that fit perfectly everywhere except the sleeves, which had apparently been sewn for someone with considerably shorter arms.

"I can’t bend my elbows."

"That’s fine, you don’t need elbows for dinner."

"I need elbows for eating Amy."

"That is not an important detail."

But he was already shaking his head, waving it off himself.

"No, you’re right, scratch it, this is a disaster, take it off before you lose circulation in your arms."

By the fifth outfit, the reject pile had climbed high enough that it had its own gravity, and Bellamy had taken to narrating each failure like a disappointed merchant reviewing bad stock.

"Too stiff, next." Toss.

"Too big." Toss.

"That one makes you look like you’re about to deliver a sad, sad eulogy." Toss, with extra feeling.

Elian sat down on the edge of the bed at some point, half-dressed in the sixth attempt, and put his face in his hands.

"I don’t own anything appropriate. I own things that survive training and things that survive laundry day. That’s the full range."

"Don’t panic."

Bellamy dramatically crouched in front of him, hands on his knees, though using the specific gentle tone he reserved for genuinely serious moments, which was rare enough that it always landed.

"We have hours. It’s not even properly late yet. We’re going to find something. I refuse to let you show up to dinner with a king looking like a wet sock."

"Very reassuring."

"I specialize in reassurance." He straightened, glancing around the room like the solution might be hiding somewhere obvious he’d missed.

Then, slowly, his gaze drifted toward Elian’s small wardrobe shelf—the one with the folded stack of things Elian never wore, gifted or handed down or bought on impulse and then immediately regretted.

"What’s that."

"Nothing." Elian said a little too quickly.

"That is very clearly not nothing." Bellamy was already crossing the room, already pulling the stack down before Elian could get up to stop him.

He unfolded the top item and went quiet for a second—genuinely quiet, which almost never happened these days.

It was pale, somewhere between silver and lavender, soft-spun fabric that caught the candlelight differently than anything else in the pile had. Delicate embroidery ran along the cuffs and collar in a vining pattern, small pale flowers worked into the thread so subtly you had to catch the light right to notice them at all.

Cordelia’s grandmother’s influence, unmistakably—the same woman who’d produced the golden threads out of nowhere weeks ago had apparently also, at some point, decided Elian needed this, and Elian had folded it away out of sheer nervous energy and never touched it since.

"Why," Bellamy said slowly, an eye brow raised, "have you never once mentioned owning this."

"Because I’ve never worn it."

"Why not?"

Elian shifted, suddenly very interested in a spot on the floor.

"It felt like... I don’t know. Too much. Not really me." Elian felt his face heating despite himself.

"Elian." Bellamy held it up against him without asking, tilting his head, already nodding to himself in a way that made Elian nervous.

"This is extremely you. This might be the most you thing I’ve ever seen you own."

"It has flowers on it."

"Yes. And?"

"I don’t—" He faltered, not quite sure how to finish the sentence, because the honest end of it was I don’t know if I’m allowed to look like this, and that felt too big to say out loud at nearly two in the morning.

Bellamy, for once, didn’t push.

He just held the shirt out, patient, waiting.

Elian took it.

It fit like it had been made for him, which, given Cordelia’s grandmother’s apparent talents, it probably had been.

The fabric sat soft against his skin, the sleeves the right length for once, the collar sitting open just enough to look deliberate instead of sloppy.

Bellamy circled him slowly this time, quiet in a different way than before—not disappointed-quiet, but something closer to satisfied.

"Turn," Bellamy said instructionally.

Elian turned.

"Okay. Yeah. That’s it. That’s the one." Bellamy grinned, delighted, already reaching for the trousers that matched—dark, simple, letting the shirt do all the talking.

"You look..." He stopped himself, considering, then apparently decided honesty was worth the risk.

"You look really pretty, Elian Valcourt. Like, genuinely."

Elian felt his ears go warm and didn’t have a ready answer for it, so he just glanced at his own reflection instead, turning slightly side to side.

The person in the mirror looked unfamiliar in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable—soft-edged, deliberate, put-together in a way that had nothing to do with drills or bruises or proving anything to anyone, like he had been trying so hard this last month.

He still didn’t fully register what he was looking at.

Not the whole of it atleast—not the way the colour of the shirt mimicked the Everbloom’s glow, not the way the embroidered flowers along the collar echoed, faintly, unmistakably, the shape of the Everbloom’s own petals.

He just saw clothes that fit, and something that didn’t feel like a costume, and left it there, too tired and too relieved to look any closer.

Bellamy noticed.

Actually, Bellamy always noticed things like that. He just didn’t say anything, filing it away instead, the way he did with most things worth keeping.

"Finally, we’re onto the next part."

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