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Alfonse made no secret of the fact that his spring outfit made him incredibly uncomfortable. He was vocal enough about it, and the way he tugged at it when he thought nobody was looking was rather telling.
And Kiran felt for him, they really did. But they'd be lying if they said he didn't look nice in it.
It wasn't like Kiran was actively looking, either. But Alfonse’s pants were practically painted on, something the prince seemed incredibly aware of. He was routinely pulling and tugging at the bottoms with a frown.
It got to the point that Kiran had to pull him aside. “Alfonse, go put your regular armor on. You're clearly miserable.”
“But, Sharena-”
“Will understand. Besides, I think you've more than fulfilled your promise on this one. It's been a few weeks.”
Alfonse’s tired smile radiated relief. “Yeah, I'll go get changed. Thanks.”
True to Kiran’s words, Sharena pouted slightly but seemed otherwise apathetic about Alfonse’s outfit change. And while the Askran armor seemed rather incongruous with a giant, weaponized spoon, Alfonse seemed to be fighting better than before.
Kiran had to admit, seeing the prince smile was infinitely better than seeing him in skintight pants (although, they certainly wouldn't object to both).
The holiday ended and the Order of Heroes settled back into their regular routines, or as regular a routine an order of lords, mercenaries, and the occasional fell dragon can have. The costumes were put away (and in Alfonse’s case, “accidentally” burned) and Kiran assumed that was the end of dress-up for a while. So one can only imagine their surprise a week later.
Surprise may have even been putting it mildly. Seeing Alfonse peruse the castle library's expansive stacks was hardly unusual, but never -
Never dressed like that .
For a moment, Kiran considered that every part of their day leading up to this must have been one of those overly-realistic, mundane dreams. Because there was no way in hell (or heaven, that seemed more appropriate?) that Alfonse was actually skimming through what appeared to be an ancient text while wearing a maid’s uniform.
Kiran knew, knew in their bones, that they weren't meant to see this. This was something private, sacred to Alfonse. But they couldn't bring themself to turn away, to quietly sneak off. It wasn't that Alfonse wore the uniform particularly well (although, he definitely did) but that he seemed so uncharacteristically relaxed , despite carrying pounds of bows and ruffles upon his hips. He seemed to almost glow, and if Kiran squinted they could just nearly see a halo about his head. But then -
“Kiran.”
Alfonse may have been regarded by many as un-princely, but he without a doubt was skilled in the royal art of couching his fears and self-doubt in distant coldness. But Kiran knew him too well. Alfonse was terrified.
“Alfonse, look, I-”
“I thought you were at the training tower.”
“We were, but I wasn't paying attention and we completely wore out. I was gonna use a potion, but everyone was so tired I figured they deserved the rest of the day off.”
Alfonse nodded, sharp and tight. “You're a good leader. As always.”
“So are you.”
Alfonse’s withering expression was so powerful that Kiran actually flinched, but they powered on.
“You saved an entire village with your quick thinking and leadership. You don't undo all of that by putting on a dress. You know, where I come from, some of the fiercest warriors went into battle wearing nothing but plaid skirts and body paint. Others still battled in the nude. All things considered, this really isn't that strange.”
“This isn't exactly a battle uniform. I mean, I suppose it is, I borrowed it from Flora, but...” Alfonse swallowed heavily. “I would appreciate it if you didn't mention this to the army. I don't expect it would be particularly good for morale.”
Kiran sighed shakily and pulled their hood back. “Alfonse. I would never do that to you. Okay? That's - I know what that feels like. I wouldn't put you through that. What you wear is your business.”
“I still feel as though I owe you an explanation.”
“You don't owe me a damn thing, but if you need someone to listen? I can do that.”
Alfonse tilted his head. “You always do that, don't you?”
“Do what?” Kiran asked.
He just shrugged.
“I...suppose I just like feeling soft. Unconstrained. Feeling...”
“Pretty?”
Alfonse made no attempt to answer.
“You're allowed to want to feel pretty, Alfonse.”
His right hand twitched and he closed his book tersely. “If you don't have anything productive to say, I'll be on my way.”
“I-” Kiran began, but didn't really know how to continue.
Alfonse nodded, gave a tight “very well then,” and fled the library as quickly as one could without appearing hurried.
Kiran stayed there a while, staring at their feet. It was time to get creative.
While none save for Kiran and Alfonse could say why, everyone in camp noticed something different from that day forward. In the few weeks that passed, Alfonse had become more withdrawn, and no longer spent hours by the summoner’s side. Kiran, too, acted differently. They asked heroes after battles to hand over any clothing that was damaged beyond repair, and most noticeably, about a week after the unusual behavior had begun, Kiran arrived on the battlefield wearing only their blue tunic and pants, their hooded robe nowhere to be found. At one point Narcian seemed poised to comment on the contracture scarring that framed the top of their face, but reconsidered when he felt Nóatún pressed against his shoulderblade.
Around two and a half weeks after the ordeal, Kiran cornered Alfonse in an alcove after dinner.
“I understand why you're avoiding me. And I'm not gonna force you to spend extra time around me if it makes you uncomfortable. But- here. This is for you.” They shoved a burlap sack holding something into Alfonse’s arms and hurried away before he could try to reject it.
Alfonse blinked, surprised, and peered into the sack. It looked like...a pile of fabric? Had Kiran given him their robe? He pulled it out.
In a sense, Kiran had given him their robe, but it had been transformed in the process. In Alfonse’s hands was a two-tiered tube of fabric, with a wide band of quilted applique (made from fabric scraps gathered from fighters) separating the top tier from the bottom, wider tier.
His breath caught, and he ran out of the alcove.
“Kiran!”
The summoner looked up.
“You made me a skirt.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
Kiran fiddled with their belt. “I wanted to make you happy. It doesn't really matter the reason, to me. As long as that's the outcome.”
Alfonse smiled softly. “The skirt is lovely, but it isn't the skirt that makes me happy. Knowing that you put so much effort into this, into making me feel at home in a time of turbulence? That makes me happy.”
Kiran smiled back, and weaved a pinky finger around Alfonse’s. “I'm really glad.”