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There is no better thing to him than a gloomy day, one of those with gray skies threatening to pour down gallons of rain, but never getting to the point of bursting. Today is such a day.
Rin’s relatives have worn their best faux contrite faces for the occasion, features crumpling and wrinkling in mourning that once again isn’t there, once again attending a function for a family member of the last of the relevant Tohsakas.
Would he be the one to bury the girl, too? Kirei asks himself that, hiding behind the black umbrella to shield himself from the prodding gazes of the members of the high society of mages. The quirking of his lips is far too evident now to choke back. It’s not his fault that his mind keeps wandering towards the same finale — one that jolts him up at night in a thrilled sweat that doesn’t wear off, to the point he barely catches any sleep whenever he ends up stumbling upon such thoughts.
Her pale neck looks easy to snap, his jaw clenching at the sight of its delicate profile, partly hidden by her thick locks. It stands out of the white collar of her dress beautifully enough for him to think of how his hands would fit around it, and how little pressure would take him to make her eyes roll back, her skin growing cyanotic.
But what would be left if he really did that? After all, such a tragedy of a girl is one of the few things that still nourish him to this day.
Even as the workers lower Aoi Tohsaka’s coffin down under, next to her husband’s headstone in a spot tailored especially for her in Fuyuki’s cemetery, Kirei can’t help but grin to himself as the relatives scatter and chit-chat, going about their day and barely offering Rin any comfort that doesn’t come in the shape of an awkward pat on either shoulder or a couple mumbled words that she doesn’t seem to care for. She stands by the wrought iron gates, straightening her back the best she can, a neutral expression on her features — the kind that is a dead giveaway of how quickly she forgot to display any other emotion that isn’t boredom and disgust in front of anyone else. Anyone who can’t quite catch the direction of her gaze, that is.
Rin Tohsaka isn’t looking at anything people can see. Kirei is the one lucky spectator of her decay; he’s the only witness to her aversion to food, especially the regularly scheduled meals that she’s forced to share with him, the steps he hears at night in the kitchen area notwithstanding. He’s the only witness to the curve of her back as she hunches until the wee hours over scroll and scalding gemstones. He’s the only witness to the sound of the turning of the key when she truly wants to be left alone.
Rin Tohsaka is sixteen years old on the outside, and older than one hundred within. And she sees farther than anybody else — perhaps, she even looks at him with enough suspicion to understand that he’s the one who caused all this. The only man responsible for the wreckage of what once was a perfect little family.
A thunder in the distance catches his attention long enough for Rin to disappear from his peripheral vision; but he knows where to find her.
And there he does find her, under the drizzling rain.
It feels like she’s waiting for him somehow, standing in the same spot as ten years ago, right in front of her father’s grave as droplets drip down her naked arms and dampen the hair she spent so long brushing in front of her own mother’s boudoir, with the same brush she used on her mother’s hair until the very last day. Her best dress feels like a corset that cuts her breath off, and he picked it for her just to see how close to a widow she would look in that. The fabric might be soft to the touch, but it seems to grate at her skin, the way she seems to ripple under her very flesh. Maybe it’s enough excuses for him to admit that yes, she’s grown into a beautiful young woman indeed.
Rin is nothing but the perfect amalgam of Tohsaka genes. If he looks at her under the right light, he can see Aoi in her prime, solemn and dignified, an indescribable pain hunching her shoulders down ever so slightly. Always on the brink of falling apart, but never faltering nonetheless. No matter how long it’ll take her, Kirei’s blood sings at the thought of being in the front row for the show.
His own personal show, at that.
“Rin,” he calls her name firmly, but in a hushed tone, as if speaking to a sleepwalker he never wants to wake up.
She doesn’t answer right away. She goes back to being sixteen when she scoffs at him and gives him a prolonged roll of her eyes, turning her back to him but never taking a step closer to the gates. Kirei can’t help but sigh in response — it’s the same song and dance all day everyday but he gladly obliges — and steps closer to her, offering her the protection of his black umbrella. It’s big enough to fit both.
Come to think of it, they’re a strange pair, the two of them: a murderer, and the consequence of his own actions.
If he didn’t feel the rush of it all, he would be supposed to feel his stomach tightening each time he comes closer to her. And he does, but for entirely different reasons. Maybe raising her up as some sort of makeshift daughter that does not feel like a daughter at all is enough to atone — or maybe he just likes playing God, moulding the raw jewel called Rin without violating her nature. It’s her nature, after all, that he’s after.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” she scoffs, not even turning to face him.
“What would you want me to say?”
“That you’re sorry for me for once. Or maybe pretend that you are,” she adds, her voice trembling as it leaves her mouth. She all but whispers a ‘ fake priest ’ through her teeth for added spice, hoping it doesn’t reach his ears. It does, but it doesn’t matter. They both know he hears all of her fumbling and mumbling, but she likes to pretend she can mock him behind his back — it’s their own special piece of comedy that they’ve been rehearsing for nearly ten years, to the point of perfection.
“You know this would’ve happened sooner or later, Rin,” he explains. “Perhaps it’s best. Could you have called that life at all?”
“It’s best ?” she repeats, and her voice grows slightly more high-pitched, cracking at the very end.
Kirei knows he shouldn’t be delighted by the tears glittering in her blue eyes. He is anyway.
Rin grits her teeth and lunges at him, desperation fueling her instead of her typical teen rage. It’s in the way her knuckles tighten a bit too hard when she balls her fist; stopping her is nothing, he trained her for long enough and hard enough to know her full potential. And she’s not using much of that.
Her left fist rests against his palm, barely pushing against it at all, and he catches the other mid-air, firmly enough to hold her still, but not to hurt her. It’s too early for that.
Rain dribbles down the both of them now, as it did ten years ago or so, the one other time she dared crying in front of him. The day he had given her the dagger that stabbed through the fourth and the fifth rib of Tokiomi Tohsaka and had been cleaned of his lifeblood, wrapped in a gift just for her. It’s a place dear to Kirei’s heart — the place where Rin had held the tangible proof that he’s a wicked man.
“You should have died!” she snarls, still adamant on holding back the tears that are already falling down her face, features twisted in vain effort. Her shoulders quake and his stomach flips in response, warmth rippling downwards.
For a dead man, he sure finds plenty of things… attractive. Like he found her mother to be most beautiful when completely incapacitated.
The hands he’s holding do not belong to the Tohsaka heir — those are only good for channeling magic and handling artifacts — but to Rin . The wrecked teen who lost both parents and carries the weight of the world, only sharing in with the person she hates the most in the world, the person she looks at with the most suspicion. These are not the hands that nearly flipped him over during sparring. The hands he’s holding tremble, and only want to take the pain out on something they can touch.
Rin is anything but a Tohsaka now. Rin Tohsaka never cries, not even at her mother’s funeral. Rin is a fragile thing, and Kirei is a blessed man.
There’s just one thing left to do now.
He pulls her closer, as gentle as he can, holding her firmly enough for her to really feel it. He runs his fingers over her damp hair and she gasps slightly — and honestly, he can’t blame her. The fists banging on his chest lose power and intent, mere shadows of the violence she imbued them with until that moment, until they come to a halt and she slumps in his arms, letting herself be comforted by the last person she’d share that sort of intimacy with.
“You should have died,” she repeats, almost a murmur now, fingers curling on his chest in a last attempt at making him feel the rage quaking inside her, but he’s too busy taking in the lingering honeyed scent of her shampoo and fabric softener. Tears fall down her cheek and on the fabric of his jacket, and there’s no rain to hide them any longer.
“I know,” he says, after what feels like ten more years. “I know.”