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Kiritsugu doesn’t look surprised.
There is anger, disgust, maybe even fear thickly veiled beneath the mask of his dark eyes, but he does not look at all surprised at how this has ended. Kirei wonders at that. Watching the way this man - this cold-blooded killer, this would be hero with his delusions of a perfect world and a wife he was doomed to watch die - looks up at him as though he were an easily read book.
Kirei tightens his grip around Kiritsugu’s throat. Perhaps he is transparent, after all Gilgamesh was quick enough to bear the darkest pits of his soul to the harsh light of day. His own desires had always been something he’d smothered down deep beneath holy words and scripture, denying every stray thought that deviated from what he knew to morally right. Good men carried out their duties with reverence and obedience, they did not take intimate pleasure in the defeat of their enemies. Good men gave the wicked a swift death, a merciful one, they did not revel in the pain that others felt. But Kirei had never been able to convince himself that he was a good man, no matter how much he prayed.
Kiritsugu’s throat spasms in his hand as the man struggles to take a breath. The nails of one hand dig into Kirei’s own but the pain is so minimal he doesn’t even acknowledge it. His blows no longer carry the strength behind them that they did minutes earlier. The man is tiring, and like this, with only his bare hands as weapons, he is no match for Kirei. That much must be obvious to him, but still he struggles. That, Kirei thinks, is Kiritsugu’s entire life in a neat little bow: struggling mindlessly against a fight he is either too stupid or too deluded to realize he will never win. And that is why Kiritsugu’s pathetic, childish attempts at heroism are so amusing. Because even now the light of hope still shines in his eyes.
Kirei wants to snuff it out.
It is not for any tiny shards of physical pleasure he might accidentally experience that he reaches his free hand down, fisting it in Kiritsugu’s clothing and then tearing the fabric away. Kiritsugu’s body does not concern him. His eyes never leave Kiritsugu’s face.
Kirei hadn't know that this was what he’d wanted. When he’d first learned of this man he thought he’d meant only to kill him. The flame in his chest when he thought of his enemy was one that might even be something pure and dutiful. But deep down it had always felt like something more. From such simple seeds the desire to utterly to crush this man had grown. And from that same innocuous seed something warped had been left inside of him, or rather revealed itself. He no longer wants to kill him. That much is apparent. But the extent of what he wants, even now, as he’s yanking away the torn remains of Kiritsugu’s clothing, he still doesn't know. And Kirei almost wants to stop, to examine the strange series of feelings in the pit of his stomach but he can’t. Because Kiritsugu’s eyes are narrowed and his teeth are grinding together and he looks like a piece of elastic that’s been pulled taut and is about to snap. A pleasant warmth churns through Kirei belly and he knows that there is no way that he can just leave him like that.
Kirei loosens his grip around his throat so that he can hear faint sound Kiritsugu makes when he trails his fingers up the man’s length.
He hasn’t even spoken to Kiritsugu yet. He knows the sounds he makes in pain but not what his voice is really like. Kirei wonders if he should speak to him but no appropriate words come to mind. And looking at the other man he doesn't think he needs to talk. Kiritsugu already knows anything he might want to say.
The tight heat of Kiritsugu’s body is only ever as pleasurable as sex has ever been for Kirei. What truly gets to him and makes a moan tear itself fast and unabided from his lips is the look on the magus killer's face. It is no longer the cold, controlled mask he tries so desperately to shield himself with but one of a man crumbling. It’s raw, flushed with anger and embarrassment and self hatred. As though he could have endured anything Kirei had chosen to do to his body as long as he didn’t have pleasure forced onto to him. That expression, Kirei thinks, is the most beautiful part of all of this.
Laughter fills his ears, and Kirei wonders where it’s comes from before he realizes his hands are wrapped too tightly around Kiritsugu’s throat for it to be him, so the laughter must be his own.