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for @merthurmicrofic ︱"man" ︱1810 words

It wasn't surprising that Merlin's attire hadn't come up as of yet. Merlin's life had been thrown so upside down recently that for a while he could scarcely acknowledge what his own name was, let alone give space for aesthetic concerns. From the moment his crew had been called out to check in on a man passed out along the riverbanks, expecting a drunk, and finding instead a very familiar blonde head and aquiline nose, Merlin's heart had both frozen and exploded, caught high in his throat and never settling back down.

There was Arthur's confusion, and Merlin's joy, but there was also grief and anger and panic and a change that Merlin had spent his centuries praying for and now that he was here, entirely did not know what to do with. He hated the fear in Arthur's eyes when a car drove by on the road, the sorrow when he read through Merlin's history books, the insecurity when he quietly asked Merlin what he was to do in a world that no longer needed kings.

So Merlin's mind is understandably distracted as he dresses, pulling on an oversize sweater that was a gift from a coworker, his favorite flowy maxi skirt, a loose scarf for the early fall chill. And really, it was Arthur's fault too, for he had something to say about the ring in Merlin's lip and the length of his hair and the size of his platform boots, and yet nothing about his dress. But when they left Merlin's terrace house with Arthur charging out the front door and insisting that Merlin was lagging behind, as always, Merlin thought no more of his clothes than what he always wore off-duty.

And how could he, when it felt like the sun had finally returned after an endless winter? He knew the terror of being a man out of time, he saw it reflected so clearly in Arthur's eyes. He was prepared to protect Arthur against it all, to feed him the world in bits and pieces, morsels he could swallow.

Arthur didn't want a morsel. He was wide-eyed at indoor plumbing and email and matcha lattes and antibiotics and travel documentaries and Duolingo and breadmakers. He insisted Merlin take him to the local cafe, the thrift stores, the library, the high-end shops, the parks. He was ravenous (at times literally, when anything containing the taste of vanilla or citrus was involved) to take in the world that fate had thrust him back into.

Merlin could never deny his king anything. Every time Arthur smiled at some new flavor or appliance or disease now neutralized, Merlin felt the sun reflect its warmth on him, too. And it was impossible not to smile back.

Even when he was being a brat.

"Get the one with pine-apple," Arthur orders, looking over Merlin's shoulder at the pastry display. While Merlin's spell smoothed Arthur's Brittonic into modern english, words that didn't exist in his time sometimes came out a bit misshapen. "And three mack-a-rooms."

"Macaroons. And you didn't even eat the ones I bought last time."

"Those tasted odd. Like chewing on a sprig of wheat."

"I told you you wouldn't like pistachio. It's not my fault you couldn't resist the fact that they were bright green—"

Merlin had first managed to coax Arthur out of his house and into a public place with the promise of food finer than even the most extravagant feasts in Camelot. Ever since then, he hadn't had a single weekend without Arthur demanding some sort of confectionary. And while that certainly had its upsides (Arthur's delight at the taste of passion fruit and the sugary crumbs on his fingers when he insisted Merlin try a piece and the tranquil mornings as they sat the park and every so often Merlin would turn his head and Arthur would already be looking at him, and how long had he been—?), Merlin wasn't looking forward to seeing how Arthur would handle the dentist in the event of a cavity.

But he categorizes all of that as problems for Future Merlin, who's doing better than he has in quite some time, and right now Present Merlin is only concerned about enjoying his fruit tart. There's a peaceful silence as they leave the bakery, walking over to the park they often visit.

A pair of young men approach them, and Merlin barely notices before one steps in front of him, deliberately, and knocks his shoulder into Merlin's chest.

The tart splats against Merlin's favorite sweater, smearing custard and whipped cream.

"What the fu—" Merlin whirls, expecting to see a pair of sniggering teenage boys. But no, these are men in their mid-twenties, looking at Merlin not with juvenile amusement, but with disgust.

"It's no more of an embarrassment than you already were," one of them spits. "Either dress like a man, or take your freak ass home—"

He stops talking. Arthur's stepped forward, closer than most people are socially comfortable with. "What is the meaning of this?"

It's not a question. The other man is taller than Arthur, and clearly thinks that gives him an advantage. "What are you, his boyfriend? You into that, you sick fuck?"

Merlin's seen enough of Arthur's body language to know that he's about to throw a punch. He doesn't stop it.

Arthur hits hard, not just with his arm muscle, but with his body weight too, the way a boxer would. The man's head whips to the side, momentum nearly knocking him off his feet. Arthur aimed for the jaw, not the nose— which means the man instead goes down, out cold.

The other man for half a second looks stupid enough to charge at Arthur, but then his pants fall down around his ankles. He tries to take a step forward, and instantly falls down, not quite catching himself fast enough to avoid smacking his face against the cobblestone.

Arthur's got the look in his eye that indicates he'd like to deliver them to the police station himself, but people are already starting to give curious looks from a distance, and memory spells always leave Merlin with a migraine. "Come on," he hisses, grabbing Arthur's wrist and quickly dragging him away.

Arthur waits until they've ducked into a little grove at the park to gently pry his wrist free, although his face is all thunder. "They should be arrested. They assaulted you—"

"Technically, you're the one that assaulted them," Merlin points out. Arthur still didn't quite grasp that dueling wasn't an acceptable practice to resolve disputes. "It's not worth the trouble."

"They were worse than Saxons," Arthur retorts, aghast. "Utterly barbaric—" And then he quiets, jaw working in the way such that Merlin knows something more is coming, something uncomfortable. "I… I don't understand. What was it that made them target you?" Then, before Merlin can try to distract him from the crucial detail, "They said you didn't… dress like a man?"

Merlin goes to cross his arms over his chest, until he realizes his sweater is still covered in custard. "They're just knobheads. They…." Merlin chews his lip, catching the cool metal of his ring. Thinking about what words he can say that wouldn't reveal more than he was ready for. "They think of dresses and skirts as woman's clothes, and don't think men should wear them."

"I see."

Merlin can't read anything in Arthur's face, and it's making his pulse quicken. "Did you… did you not wonder, before now? About what, what I wear?"

"I've seen plenty a wizened elder in a tunic. At first I assumed you were merely dressing your age."

Merlin rolls his eyes, but his hands still uneasily fidget by his side. He knows Arthur's deflecting. "But then?"

"I assumed things were different now." Now it's Arthur's turn to avoid Merlin's eyes, putting his hands over his pockets and looking out over the park. With the soft breeze, the background shrieks of children laughing, the melody of quiet conversation, Merlin could almost close his eyes and imagine himself back home. Almost. "Many things are."

"Things are different," Merlin says. "Most people used to think like those two men. Now there are a lot fewer of them."

Arthur nods, still looking over the park. Merlin watches the clench in his jaw, and waits. "You… you never wore women's clothes in Camelot. Did you want to?"

"Never occurred to me. It didn't until—" He swallows down the word hundreds, doesn't want the reminder of how much time there is between himself and everyone he's ever loved. "—quite some time had passed. And then I started, and," he shrugs, aiming for casual, "'s comfortable."

"As in more convenient?"

1500 years, and Merlin's still never braced for when Arthur's gaze zeros in, all of the attention of a hunter finding the weak spot. Like he can see where the edges of Merlin's defenses don't quite line up. Merlin takes a deep breath. "I can change my body however I wish. I can be a man. I can be a woman. I can be a bird, a cat, a snake, I once spent two decades as an oak tree. Trying to make myself match those around me only made me more aware of how different I was. So eventually I just… did as I pleased."

He's watching Arthur so carefully, looking for a twitch, a frown, anything that indicates he's stumbled too far, where not even Arthur's innate compassion can understand him. He wouldn't be upset, as long as Arthur wasn't cruel about it. He's long since learned to take whatever scraps he can salvage.

But after a moment Arthur just nods, looking back at Merlin. "I'm sorry about your sweater." He takes a step to Merlin, gingerly grabbing the hem to inspect the fabric. "Do you think it can be cleaned?"

Merlin's gaze darts around to make sure no one's looking their way, and then his eyes flash gold as the stain on the sweater disappears. "Good as new."

"I used to wonder how you always got even the worst stains out of my clothes," Arthur grumbles. "Do you want to head home? We don't have to…."

Merlin rolls his eyes. "I may not be a man, but I'm not a damsel. I don't need coddling after losing my tart."

"Well," says Arthur. He lets go of the sweater, but he doesn't step back. His hand moves slowly, courageously, to Merlin's hand hanging by his side. Their knuckles brush. "If you ask nicely I might be persuaded to split my pastry with you."

Merlin slowly curls his hand around Arthur's own, and watches as Arthur's cheeks turn pink. His gaze doesn't stray from Merlin's however, and Merlin thinks he'll never meet a braver man. "Even the macaroons?"

"Don't get greedy," Arthur retorts, and pulls Merlin along into the light of day.

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