In order to understand it, there'd have to be a love so consuming in someone's life that it'd become a possessive impulse, something that could not be denied or ignored.  That's what it was, that feeling that if they died before that person betrayed them, then they could be together without that pure image tainted.  That was what Hijiri thought, hoped was racing through Muraki's mind.  No, not exactly that, because Hijiri had always been pure-hearted, so thoughts of possession and obsession even in someone else weren't likely to come…then again, he had known the thoughts of a demon as he bled in an alter.

A low groan, a murmured name, and a soft cry of pain as the blood dripped from his chest.  That's what it felt like to be ripped apart.  Something like screaming but without a single sound, it was strange.  He could feel the shivers coursing down his spine, the salted sweat on his face dripping down as the same man that had severely misguided him slowly tortured him.  It was something like love, but not at all, because love was supposed to be pure, taintless, without lust.  When that tongue trailed along his chest, coating his nipple with his own blood, Hijiri understood that it wasn't the same at all.  Somewhere along the way, he'd been lost into believing a lie, though no liar was present.

"I've always wanted to know…what it'd be like if someone hurt me like this.  Living vicariously is good enough, isn't it?" a low murmur behind glasses whispered, the tongue moving towards the other's lips instead.

"What…do you mean, sensei?" was all the boy could get out between horrified gasps, his chest aching, and his mouth ill, his eyes jaded.

Only a laugh was formed as a response, no words passing those pale lips.  Such a ghost like complexion, Hijiri wondered, how did it exist in such a bright world?  He knew that somewhere along the way, the angel appearance of the other had been torn apart.  He'd loved the way that man would let his fingers linger through his hair, or the way that he'd press a soft, almost chaste kiss against his lips whenever they met.  It was the world of a doctor and a patient ever since that day, and it'd almost been too comforting.

Muraki, Hijiri remembered, had been the one that replaced his old eye doctor, and he even cared for Hijiri's wrist so attentively when the boy had been beaten until his wrist snapped.  Those problems of jealousy from anyone never really went away.  Someone always wanted to be like him, and so he knew what the doctor meant.  To live vicariously…to watch Hijiri in order to become him, that was what so many of the people in his life had done.  Even the people he considered the closest…and then that feeling of isolation and complete abandonment came to him.  The world was getting darker, and something about being there seemed less appealing.

"You're so beautiful…stained in red," Muraki said with a faint chuckle, the smirk on his lips even visible in the faint lighting produced by the moon through the curtains.  It had never looked so white, and yet all Hijiri could see was the blood dripping across his view.  "Why don't you scream for help?"

Hijiri didn't answer, and then slowly the words came to him.  "There's no one that would come," he replied lowly, his eyes dripping with tears as he spoke.  It came to be so tearing, tormenting, ruining to admit that simple fact he had never believed before until the term vicarious came through to him.  Then everything seemed different, and he'd almost wished he'd die right then in the arms of the last person he had ever trusted.  Maybe, he thought, just maybe it was for his own benefit that Muraki drove so much pain into him, through him, raping him and then slowly letting his blood, his life, leave him in a pool of warmth.  All of that just to let it drain away.

"Do you hate me, Hijiri?" the doctor asked, taking the boy's lips to his own again, biting his bottom one until a faint trail of blood fell.

Tears clung to his cheeks, dripping down his face.  Hesitantly, but without any doubt, Hijiri's arms connected with the back of the man's head, pulling the other closely against him as he cried against him.  He felt comforted.  If only for that moment, there was comfort.  That was all he could have ever hoped.  Maybe it was love, or something like it, that drove the other to allow him death.

"I only hate myself for my thoughts," Hijiri cried out, his delicate wrists feeling through Muraki's hair, his chest aching in torment, from the bleeding.

That smirk never faded, and had the violinist been in any other state of mind, he might have been afraid.  He'd trusted the other, and he'd trust him even as he fell to his death, dripping away.  He couldn't hate him, no matter what it was.  Some veil did fall, and all else was lost.  How many times had the man done this before?  It wasn't a thought of Hijiri's, but it was a thought.

"If that's true, then let us meet again.  I want to have your body once more, to see how far I can go to make it bleed before you hate me.  It's too bad…that you'll die before we can find out this time."

He would never deny the doctor of what he wished, that pure trust he had always relied on.  He was scared, but he would do as was asked of him…even if it hurt.  Somehow, along the way, he would meet the doctor again, and then…there would be more pain, another death, until the end of time.  That was all he thought, at least, and further than that, just another moment of confusion and hesitation.  He'd never doubt the man, even if he bled to death.

That was what it felt like to die in the arms of that loved one.