Nihao! It's Springroll. Pleased to meet you, or to see you again!

I've decided to write my first M rated story... featuring my second fav Bleach pairing (after GrimmUlqui), Grantzcest! The world needs more Grantzcest stories. This is the recount of their lives the moments before they die and become Hollows. I think their relationship is quite mysterious and intruiging. This story is very disturbing and graphic, but I also find it very beautiful. Szayel is quite the sadist here. I've done my best to eliminate any spelling or grammar errors, you should know that I'm pretty OCD about that. Please enjoy and leave reviews for me. Xiexie!

Word count: precisely 2,500.

Pairing: Szayel/Il forte, aka Grantzcest.

Warnings: NOT for the weak of heart. Yaoi, Non-graphic lemon/strong lime, incest, rape/dubcon, language, and plenty of violence, which means descriptive gore. You have been warned.

Disclaimer: I don't own Bleach, the honor belongs to Tite Kubo.

The Perfect Madness

Mad? What is mad? Is it genius disguised? I am not mad. Truly-truly you must believe me! I am not mad! Nervous- ah, nervous- I am just shaking again! I am not... I am not mad! Stop this insanity! Stop, I say! You should-you should know the level of genius which I have acquired, how perfectly my plan is laid, how meticulously, how flawlessly my preparations are made. I am no fool. Leave me be. You do not deserve to know- what makes me a perfect being! And everyone else- below me!

I am perfect. Perfect! And no one knows what that means! I am beautiful, and I have discovered perfection. And I am not to be ruined.

The evidence of genius is spread out before me. A broken first aid kit lies on the desk. Knives crouch silently, lined up in a row, and filmy gauze drips off one end of the operating table. An encyclopedia lies dusty and discarded in a corner, pages shredded and burned out with tasteless hate. Eyeless creatures and bloodless organisms float in glass jars, suspended in their own grotesque beauty, remnants of a childhood gone horribly wrong. I steal a glance at one of many video cameras and smile. Anticipation is so easily felt. I pick up my favorite scalpel, strident silver with deadly points on both sides. Twirling it, the predatory grin sneaking through my face.

As he walks, I watch him, and as he turns, I face him. Golden hair and bronze skin, hazel eyes, flickering nervously, nervously, because he knows who I am. He fears me. Smart boy.

"Il Forte," I hiss softly. I am there suddenly, by his side, pinning him to the wall.

"S-Szayel. Wha-whaja want?" Bastard. He's so fucking scared.

"Let's have fun. I want... I want you," I whisper huskily into his earlobe, and run my tongue along the shell. He shudders.

"Fuck no! Freak." He makes as if to dodge under my arm, but I grab him by the collar of his shirt and drag him into my room. I return the room to darkness and slide my knife towards his throat.

"One sound, and you're dead." Even as I know that he won't make a sound. He never makes a sound until I'm inside him. It's plain theatrics, and it makes the moment just perfect.

I toss him onto the bed, grinning with fiendish glee as he stares back at me with wide-open eyes. His breath comes out in ragged gasps, because he knows what is going to happen.

I strip him and unravel the gauze to tie his limbs to the bedpost. He's scared. He makes absolutely no signs of protest. He is a trapped deer waiting for the bullet, a prisoner waiting for the shot. He knows it's useless. Smart, smart boy. I smile softly at him, rocking my naked hips against his. He gives a muffled groan and shuts his eyes. I bend down and crush my lips obscenely against his. Perfect.

"I love you. I love you, brother." He shudders violently, drinking in those disgusting, filthy words, so taboo, so wrong.

How many times had I ever told him? He was always so naive, so nice and gentle and kind, because of course, he was five years older than me and I was his baby brother. He had always taken care of me. He always protected and defended me. And that was his mistake. I was capable. I was always capable. I was smarter, stronger, and faster. But he was always there by my side, because he needed to look after me and I was his baby brother. When I was six, I told him I loved him. He pinched my cheek and laughed. When I was ten, I told him I loved him. He rolled his eyes and smiled. When I was fifteen, I molested him, whispered dirty words into his ear, touched him everywhere and took his body for my own. He cried and screamed. But he never reported me. Even though I broke him and ruined his innocence that night. He never said a word. Because I am his cute, sweet, darling baby brother. And he loves me back.

Our bodies clash and connect in an idiosyncratically literal interpretation of our bond. My eyes roll back in absolute fucking bliss as I revel in his tight warmth. I smirk and roll my hips hard against his body. He gasps, and I can feel his hot breath ghosting down my neck. The atmosphere surrounding our dance is thick and heavy with passionate lust. Sweat-slicked skin presses and rubs against mine. God, he's gorgeous. He completes me. Adds to my perfection. Beneath me. And I wouldn't have him any other way.

"Fuck, Il Forte, I love you..."

And then the door bursts open, and my father is there. Light floods the room like headlights, a train smashing through two bodies. I turn back to face Il Forte. He has stopped breathing, already anticipating, already predicting his sentence.

Suddenly he's on me, my father, screaming and shouting as his filthy hands clasp around my neck, pulling me out of my brother. My head bashes against the wall, once, twice, before the room shifts perpendicularly and I'm on the ground. I feel his voice grinding into my conscience everywhere- "What the hell have you done! You sick bastard!" but I just sit there, sucking my brain into silence. I smile. Slowly, my hand gropes for the knife, uncoordinated, clumsy movements, and my fingers curl around its hilt. And then I throw it, my voice tearing itself out in that same instant.

"Damn you!"

Fury made me a poor shot. I should have seen it coming. The blade buries itself in the wall beside him, and I see the rage in my father's eyes as he grabs the knife and crashes onto me, knocking my breath out, crushing me against the floor.

But I'm fast. Too fast. I duck and grab the weapon by the blade. And I grin in his face.

"Damn you. Damn you all."

Then all it takes is a quick thrust upwards, straight through the heart. The corners of my mouth twitches at the sight of him, blood gushing from his chest as he wheezes and coughs, gasping for breath. Pathetic, and oh, if these are theatrics then they shall too be so desired. I pull the knife back out and slam it in again, down to the hilt, feeling it rip open muscle and tissue . Another spurt of blood. Another thrust. More blood. Again and again. Sickly sweet crimson spews everywhere, staining the carpet, ruining my medical supplies, crawling up my hands and my arms, tainting my beautiful skin.

However I must admit. The imagery is wonderful, just impeccable. Raping his heart with a knife.

I can hear my brother crying, my poor older brother, crying as his sweet baby brother stabs and tears through every sliver of flesh in his father's body. Poor, poor Il Forte. I had always wished he wasn't so weak, so soft. After all, he's just my toy, my beloved doll, my experiment, to play with until it breaks.

A sadist is a beautiful thing.

I look back at the mutilated body of my father. It's delightfully unrecognizable now, flesh and veins glistening, his entrails shred and splayed across the floor, his heart splattered on my blade. Something snaps deep in my mind and I burst out laughing. It's wonderful. Perfect!

Suddenly my mother is there. Her timing, of course, is flawless, just like the rest of this morbid play. A dramatic turn for the worst, if such wordplay is deemed acceptable.

She opens her mouth, and for an instant, I imagine her retching out blood and guts just like my father, but she speaks, she only speaks.

"Szayel?"

There's blood all over me. To complete my facade I bite my lip until tears burn at my eyes.

"Il Forte... h-he raped me! And... he k-killed Daddy..." I promptly break into the most artificial sobs, so terrifically fucking fake that I swear, I could burst out laughing any moment now. I hear my brother make a choking sound, and then a cry, and then a gasp.

"No! He-He's lying! That goddamned son of yours! He raped me!" He's screaming now, flailing helplessly, the very corrosion of his sanity. Because his brain has positively snapped, and he can no longer realize that all this time I've been using him, and now I'm just throwing him away. His voice is weak and his face is flushed, dizzy with confusion and disbelief.

"He did- he did everything!"

Oh, it's a wonderful thing, that sick sense of pride to have destroyed something, to have been the source of its annihilation.

My mother turns her gaze slowly from him to me, her pupils dilating and retracting like a malfunctioning machine, twenty thousand tangled wires. And then she collapses, like a body with no bones, an empty flour sack. She plays her part well. The disgusting thing writhes and cowers on the floor, abandoning any forms of parenthood.

I rise.

Without a word, I pull the knife out my father's chest and impale her throat to the floor.

"Vile bitch." I smirk softly. I grab her head by the hair and pull it upwards to inspect my specimen. Her eyes are still wide open in shock, though they are glossed over. Silently, I reach for the scalpel buried among my medical tools. I carefully spike the keen tip through the pupils and pop the eyeballs out. I can't help but think how damned lucky I am, to get all this new testing material in one day. It's like I'm a child again, unwrapping the candy and letting it fall and shatter like the bones of a body smashed against the ground, spewing its pretty, pretty contents all over the floor.

Standing up slowly, I twirl the scalpel in my hand, and as I finally face my brother, he suddenly doubles over and gags, retching horribly and throwing up all over the floor. His stomach thrashes and he clutches it terribly. Bile spatters the floor. Tears bubble out of his eyes from the stench. But really, what's another bodily fluid around here?

The grin flashes on my face. I pull myself back onto the bed and meet those hazel eyes, so full and overflowing of emotion that I swear, it's as if he's forgotten it's all a game. A play. A tragedy. The one which I write with my body and my soul, the one in which he has no choice but to play along, voicing every sorrow and woe in a stage whisper, because I wish it so.

He looks so beautiful. So pathetic, so weak and frail. The one that I love. The one that had always looked over me, now succumbed to me, because in the end I outsmarted him. Can't he see? It's all a game. A perfect game.

I smile. "Brother."

He cracks.

"Il forte, I love you."

He breaks.

He cries, sobs catching in his throat, and finally he smashes himself inward and falls apart completely. He lunges at me, half leaning against me, half assailing me. Tears streak down his face, and suddenly he seems fragile, delicate, the most insignificant organism in the universe. His punches are poorly aimed and weak like a child's, but he rains them down relentlessly, uselessly on my chest.

"H-how could you?" The fact that I had just killed both our parents seems to have finally struck him. He screams, crying out from his ragged throat.

"Why? Why? I-I don't understand! I don't understand you, Szayel!" He's gone mad now. Truly gone mad. He's sobbing, as if he's expecting me, his darling baby brother, to comfort him. But I would never do such things. He should've known me better. This game is over.

"Szayel! Szayel, you bastard! I hate you! I hate you! I fucking hate you, brother!" His eyes burn with a mad, raging fury. Every cry and every sob and every scream laced with unadulterated remorse and grief. And... anger. Anger that he would let himself be used by me. Anger for letting me, his baby brother, use him, rape him, kill his parents, everything. Anger for ever, ever, trying to love me. I smile.

"Szayel! I don't ever want to hear that name again! I don't ever want to see your face ag-"

He stops, and a gush of blood spurts out of his mouth.

I laugh softly, completely satisfied by his reaction. I'm almost convinced it's real, although no one is as perfect as me. I smile. I run my finger slowly down his jugular, where a silver scalpel slices open every vein in his throat. "You won't... Il Forte."

His eyes are glassy, quivering with disbelief. He gasps, but instead a bloodied gurgle rises weakly in the back of his ruptured mouth. Alarm flares in his muddied orbs, and suddenly panicked fear washes over him like the blood that flows freely from his gullet and surges lazily over my fingers. With every sound he makes, the blade in his throat quivers in a cruel imitation of his mouth. I smile. "S-Sza-yel... you... b-bast-t...tard..."

I laugh and gently stroke his golden hair. "You're a fucking liar. You love me... because I am your baby brother."

Suddenly he stops. Everything stops, and he is unable to blink back tears.

He's torn, so terribly, horribly, torn.

Love?

Hate?

In his voice contains all the love and hate in the world.

"Brother..."

He looks so beautiful now, his face twisted in agony as he gasps for every strangled breath, bleeding to death, choking and gasping as he reaches for me. Perfect... almost perfect. But never as perfect as me. I smile. His pain-soaked eyes are pleading desperately for me. He reaches out a shaking hand, begging me to save him.

But all the love in the world can't save him now.

I can feel the last wretched, labored throb of his heart as it sinks deep into his chest. He trembles, and in that moment reaches an immaculate perfection so startling and beautiful that I am assured, that it must be a sin to love him. He opens his mouth to scream, but he is engulfed in silence, unable to make a sound, his throat spilling all over the bed. I smile. His limbs are jerking uselessly, and he cries as he drowns, slowly drowns in a river of ceaseless red. My hands are drenched in his sweet, hot blood. I smile. His breathing flickers and stops. My smile grows wider. His honey-glazed eyes close.

"Sleep well, brother." I lean down to kiss him. As my lips brush softly against his, my eyes burst in shock. Blood pours out of my mouth and into my brother's. I cry out, and my fingers fly to my throat.

Scalpels are pointed at both ends!