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He doesn’t come back to her often, and when he does, it’s different.
His eyes are red from the smoke and fire of the battlefield and the strain of using his magic, and he always smells faintly of cigarettes and—worse—gunpowder. She knows what he does, what he has to do, but she still…
His face has always been tired and there have always been circles under his eyes and his eyes themselves have always been empty, but all these things that she grew to be familiar with, and then to accept, and then to love, have become more pronounced. He’s changed, and her heart aches for it.
His expression when he looks at her has changed, and she knows why.
She wraps her arms around him tentatively, feels him tense and then suck in a breath and then relax, just a little.
“Kiritsugu, Kiritsugu…”
He won’t look at her. Her husband. Ilya’s father. He is so clearly afraid, as her arms encircle his chest and her pale skin stands out harshly against the dark fabric of his suit.
“You’ve gotten thinner, my love.”
He nods, still not allowing himself to look at her face. She can feel his hands trembling, as he wants to reach for her, as he doesn’t.
She remembers telling Saber—a few weeks ago? lifetimes ago—“Kiritsugu’s someone who finds happiness painful.”
“Iri—“
She starts a little at the sound of his voice. “Yes?”
“How is Ilya?”
Irisviel smiles. “She’s wonderful. She’s healthy. She misses you.”
He finally looks at her, then, his eyes searching hers as she feels him wanting to preserve her face in his memory, wanting to forget what she looked like at all, wanting to embrace her, wanting to push her away, wanting to—
It’s the same expression he’d had when Illyasviel was born, she realises suddenly.
For her part of it, Kiritsugu has never realised how foolish he is. She accepted her own role long ago, and although he’s made it more difficult, he’s made it easier, too. To die after living a fulfilled life is so much more painful, and so much less.
Images flash through her mind, a jittery, rushed montage. Ilya in her arms and her husband at the window. His hand in hers and the first time she ever saw him smile. The black ooze of something she cannot identify that clouds her vision when she’s awake and suffocates her when she dreams, as she wakes up, choking, and reaches for someone next to her in the bed who is not there. Her own hands, trembling with fatigue. Saber’s face, smiling gently as she holds out an ungloved hand for Irisviel to take. The peaceful, untroubled surface of the ocean of the country where Kiritsugu was born. Kiritsugu, still Kiritsugu, as Maiya climbs on top of him, her hair falling around her face like a soft curtain, as she—
Despite being the source of his pain, Irisviel will do what she can.
She buries her face in his shoulder and inhales the scent of cigarettes, clutches his body with all her strength—and it’s not much—and squeezes her eyes shut. This painful man, this temporary man. She wants to remember everything about him that she is able to.
He draws in a sharp breath and then exhales, and then, finally, she feels a hand in her hair, painfully gentle, stroking her hair as he holds her.
She can’t see his face, and although she knows what his eyes must look like, she also thinks that he may be smiling, if only a little.
“Thank you, Iri,” he says.
It’s all she needs.