Hn... this is very much my personal theory on the Kamui. Thanks again to Colin for the beta services :D

I reach out to him, lay my hand on his face, pulling against the sharp, hard edges that he has wrapped around my body, reaching past the pain. I call the name I've known him by since childhood in a whispered, tortured shout, though I know the one who holds me now is not him. I've known for a while now. But I couldn't... can't admit that Fuuma will never come back.

I wish desperately that he would.

But no, there's no use in lying to myself. He isn't Fuuma, he's Kamui - he is myself, without pretension, without restriction. And he hurts me, smiling as he breaks me, and god, I wish I could see in that face any of the kindness of my friend. Anything that could help me deny what was happening. Anything but that terrible person who knows exactly who I am and punishes me for it.

Do I really hate myself so much?

What he does... it hurts, both physically and emotionally. I am crying, and I can't stop, but that's all right. I don't want to stop. Don't want him to stop. Blood and tears mix on my skin, and he touches my damp face, leaning in to press his lips to mine.

More than the cuts, the bruises and lacerations, the kisses hurt. They pierce into me, deeper than that damned sacred sword ever could. As if my very soul was being torn at, erased and absorbed. I wonder if they hurt him too, or if he was the one trying to absorb me. If they feel as right to him as they do wrong to me.

But even as I want to scream from the pain, there is something frighteningly seductive about him, the way I melt into him. Along with the pain comes pleasure. And perhaps that frightens me most.

I want him to consume me, I want him to make me his. Make me him. I want to be whole. And most of all, I don't want to be myself anymore, don't want to be this sniveling, disgusting wreck. I feel so weak... until he touches me, and then I'm on fire.

His lips are on my cheeks now, his tongue lapping at the tears I had forgotten I was crying. Savoring the taste of my fear, my sadness, my hate, my hopelessness. It makes him press closer to me, excites him.

It shouldn't excite me, and I cringe away, even though I'm not sure that's what I want to do.

I'm sick of this. Sick of hating him and loving him and feeling wrong and right and so damned confused every time I even think of him.

I wish I could decide how I'm supposed to react around him. I wish I could make up my mind, decide that one set of emotions is the right one and cling to that.

But damnit, I can't. So I let him decide for me. After all, it's essentially the same thing... right?

I don't resist any more when his hands slide over my body possessively.