Stolen - FE Heroes Fanfic (Kiran/Alfonse)
I got to thinking about Kiran and Alfonse being from separate worlds, and then this came about. Basically, I thought about what would happen if Kiran went back to his regular world and then couldn’t return to Askr.
Normally I post anything longer than 1,000 words on AO3 (and this is 1200 words) - let me know if you want me to put it up there, as well. Please excuse any typos - I haven’t been good at catching them in my own writing lately.
Kiran’s hand runs along Alfonse’s forehead, sweeping his blue hair across. The prince’s head is a comfortable weight against his thighs. From beneath his hood, Kiran studies the blue eyelashes pressed against pale skin. Alfonse is looking a little more gaunt than he did the last time. His forehead is cool beneath the hair, and for an instant fear grips Kiran’s chest tight in a familiar ache. How much time is left? Kiran forces a smile, even though Alfonse isn’t looking at him, and shifts the hair back across the other way.
Kiran glances down the couch, taking in the sight, committing it to memory. Their hands are twined together on Alfonse’s chest, which rises and falls, cool through the fabric. Alfonse is wearing a loose cotton shirt and pants borrowed from Kiran’s closet. It looks strange, but yet completely normal. If Kiran wanted to pretend, he could imagine that Alfonse will wear this all the time. He’s already grown more familiar with the un-protective garments.
Through the windows one can hear the sounds of children playing in the street below, if one wants to. Kiran doesn’t want to. He ignores the low drone of the airplane in the sky and the shouts and squeals. Instead he listens to Alfonse’s breathing as if it’s the most important sound in the world, and tries to determine if he’s asleep, or still awake.
Just as Kiran thinks the prince is on the edge of sleep, the cell phone beside him vibrates. It buzzes through Kiran’s body, fracturing what little pieces remain of his heart into a single, all-encompassing question.
Always the question, when the alarm goes off - how much time is left?
Alfonse stirs as Kiran reaches out and slaps the alarm into silence. The prince blinks and focuses, and then slides up onto his elbows, a soft, secret smile darting across his mouth.
Kiran feels his cheeks heat up at the expression - he still can’t get used to seeing that look directed at him. The prince rises up into the cowl of his hood and presses a soft, cool kiss to his mouth, and Kiran’s blush deepens. His fingers go to the gold-dipped hairs near Alfonse’s jaw, and he melts into Alfonse’s mouth like there will never be enough time for them.
It wasn’t always like this between them, but Kiran can’t place the exact moment he realized he was in love with him, and that the prince’s feelings were reciprocal. It just became reality, just as that fateful day Kiran had been in the middle of his math class, listening to his professor drone on about theorems and the existence of an imaginary number, and between one drowsy blink and the next he found himself tossed into a new world, familiar and yet completely foreign.
“Were you watching me sleep?” Alfonse asks in that gentle voice that is only for Kiran. His hand snakes up into the cloak, cold fingers running along Kiran’s warm neck, eliciting a shiver.
“Were you sleeping?"
"No, just enjoying the cuddling."
Kiran makes a face and gestures like he’s going to shove him off the couch. He could never actually do it, but Alfonse laughs anyway, and sits up. He slides against Kiran, bicep to bicep, hip to hip, hand to hand. Alfonse never talks about the events in Askr, since Kiran left, but Kiran can see the signs in his tired body.
Alfonse’s eyes go dark, hooded as he tries to disguise the pain from Kiran. "It’s nearly time,” he whispers.
Kiran’s fingers go to the strings which will pull the hood closed around him. It’s so selfish, but he can’t keep the word from escaping from his lips. “No.”
They get nine hours from the moment Alfonse appears. Nine hours and a few precious minutes. It hurts Alfonse less if he goes right away, when the alarm goes off. But as much as Kiran hates to see him in pain, he’s desperate for a few more minutes. Especially this time.
Alfonse takes hold of his hand and presses it to his chest. Through the shirt he feels Alfonse’s heart beating, slower and slower, and yet the seconds seem to be ticking away within the ribcage, faster and faster.
“This is yours,” Alfonse says, in that old-fashioned way that is completely genuine. Nobody says it like that in the “real world”, but Kiran loves it.
He pulls Alfonse to him, and the hood shifts off his head and flops to his shoulders. Kiran presses their chests together, hooking his chin over Alfonse’s shoulder and hanging onto him. How much time is left? he thinks, and then dashes the words from his mind. “You should go,” he says instead, strangled.
“If I could stay, I would,” Alfonse says, cool cheek pressed against Kiran’s. “You know I’m working on a way, back in Askr."
The country name sends a fresh wave of cold through both of them. It is Alfonse’s attachment to that country that draws him from Kiran, the cursed link between the prince’s blood and his homeland. Even the fact that Alfonse’s heart belongs to Kiran cannot keep him here, nor can it return Kiran to Askr.
Kiran swallows, and Alfonse’s arms are tight around him, one finger digging into his spine, but he doesn’t mind. "Come back to me,” he says, like always.
They sit in silence, and then Alfonse lets out a little pained noise, shoulders curving inward protectively as if struck by a savage blow. Kiran knows what that looks like. He’s seen Alfonse take mortal wounds again and again.
Kiran pulls back, and stares right into those blue, narrowed eyes. “You should go,” he says, even though his heart is breaking. “Go, and take Br… Briedablik with you.” His voice cracks.
Alfonse shakes his head vehemently. They both know why he’s sent back here, again and again. The summoning weapon sits on the table beside the couch, glowing faintly. It doesn’t belong here - but it calls Alfonse to him, for nine hours at a time.
“I love you,” Alfonse says, though his eyes are narrowed.
“I love you,” Kiran echoes. And he does. He knows what Breidablik’s absence is doing to Askr, what it is doing to Alfonse. Breidablik belongs in Askr - like Kiran’s heart. The weapon will turn the tide against Embla.
Alfonse leans in, and their lips touch.
Their last kiss, although Alfonse doesn’t know it.
“I’m ready,” he whispers against Kiran’s mouth. Then Alfonse stands, always graceful despite the pain.
Kiran draws in a deep breath, bracing for what he’s about to do. His eyes feel puffy and hot but he won’t let tears blur the view. He takes in Alfonse, those bright, loving eyes, and presses this vision into his memory.
With trembling fingers he picks up Breidablik. He caresses the weapon, steadying his heart, and then looks once more at Alfonse.
“Goodbye, Alfonse,” Kiran says. “Please don’t hate me.” Then quick as a lightning spell, he reaches out to take Alfonse’s hand. He presses Breidablik into Alfonse’s dry palm and curls the prince’s fingers around the grip.
“Kiran–!” Alfonse shouts, trying to withdraw.
Kiran has the upper hand, the element of surprise. He turns Breidablik toward the prince’s chest and pulls the trigger.
The last thing he sees before Alfonse and Breidablik disappear is the anguish in Alfonse’s eyes.
His legs tremble, and he falls to the floor, all his strength leaving him in a rush. Alfonse will prosper, and take back his kingdom from Embla.
It’s what Kiran should have done ages ago. It’s the right thing.
He only had to sacrifice his heart to do it.