Il Forte slammed his head back against the white stone wall, causing cracks to spiderweb over the surface and crimson to stain his blond hair. Gasping for breath, he clutched, tight fisted, his shirt closed. He stood there for several second, each stretching on into eternity, before he moved on, dragging himself along the walls of the corridor.

Szayel Aporro couldn't say he was pleased to detect that all too familiar reiatsu entering his domain at this time. In irritation he pulled the white yukata closed tighter over his thin frame, adjusting the black obi around his waist so that it held the garment securely. He was not in the mood for whatever idocy his brother was about to drag in with him.

The latch on the door clicked, and it swung silently inwards. Szayel Aporro tsk'ed in irritation at the lack of any formalities, it was one thing to come into his labs unannounced, but to barge into his personal chambers without so much as knocking was another matter entirely.

Il Forte stumbled into his room, door swinging shut behind him, perspiration beading his skin, and breaths coming in heavy pants. He seemed uninjured, no blood stains or obvious wounds or bruising, save for the blood in his hair, but just by looking Szayel Aporro could tell that it was only a small wound, a bump on the head at most.

It was rare for Il Forte to come to him at all, especially when unwounded, but the way he grasped at his chest told the Octava all he needed to know. There was a pain he could understand all to well, one that he could not escape, but was more subject to because he was the more powerful. His arms dropped from where they had been folded in annoyance over his chest, an he walked over to the blond, taking his face in his hands and forcing their eyes to meet.

This was more than simply being about the consumption of souls, it was far more complicated than that, something that could only ever truly satiate a simple hallow. This was about the confirmation of existence, meaning, purpose. This pain could be kept at bay for the most part, but the stronger one was, the more power one wielded, the more insistent the need.

"Il Forte." Szayel Aporro's words were clipped and cold, but the tension drained visibly from Il Forte's shoulders nonetheless. There was an understanding there, between them.

"Szayel Aporro." His name was whispered weakly from soft lips, they brushed against his own, softly. Desperation and need lacing that simple gesture, a trust that was often absent in Il Forte's rasping voice.

The Octava pressed their mouths together, pulling Il Forte further into the room, and taking control of the situation. He was never gentle with the blond, taking him by force more often than not, and dominating him amidst blood and screams of pain. This, however, was different. Il Forte had come to him, come to reaffirm his existence, his need to be in this world now, to continue in this world. This was to destroy pain.

Cirucci stood just around the corner, the Octava's rooms just a few paces down the hall from where she stood, masking her reiatsu. She had been there for some time, waiting. The brother's, one she despised with every fiber of her being, and the other she sought to own, both locked behind that door. She hated when they were together, hated the Espada more and more for it. He was twisted and disgusting, and he had what she wanted.

After what seemed an eternity, the door finally clicked and swung open. She risked a peek around the corner, watching Il Forte exit. He turned, and leaned back into the door for a few seconds before turning on his heel and striding purposely down the hall, no doubt putting as much distance between himself and Szayel Aporro as possible. At least he seemed relatively unharmed.

She turned to leave, but froze mid step. "Thunderwitch." That cold voice felt like ice water in her veins, the hair on the back of her neck rising as she felt that she had been caught by a deadly predator. She stepped from around the corner, only to catch the Octava disappearing back through the doors to his rooms, left wide open in invitation for her to follow.

She entered cautiously, fully prepared for the sharp, metallic smell of blood to assault her nose. She blinked in surprise when it didn't. Her eyes wandered around the room, searching for the blood she knew should have been there, Il Forte's blood, always his blood.

"Wandering far from home a bit late, aren't you?" Her eyes snapped to Szayel Aporro, somehow more foreboding in his simple sleeping yukata than in his uniform. More personal, more apt to anger, no chains of rank to hold him back from striking out as he wished when he was like this. Or so she felt. His calm voice was disarming.

"I was just out for a walk." She laughed lightly like a birds soft song. "I hope my wandering didn't disturb you." Her words were honey, sliding of her tongue with the intent to sooth any anger, and turn any attack.

"You were looking for Il Forte." Szayel Aporro smirked at her, and anger rose in her chest at his arrogant attitude, both knowing he was right, both knowing the other realized this. "I'm afraid you just missed him."

"I saw him leaving." She crooned back at him, words like silk over cold iron. "A little late to be dragging him here for your twisted games, isn't it?"

He showed no reaction to her words, only widening his smirk at her. "I would think so too, but I didn't call him here. I wasn't expecting any late visitors."

She laughed again, harsher this time, in disbelief that he could try so obvious a lie on her. "Yes, I'm sure he came here just to see his beloved younger brother." She expected him to strike at her, his violent moods were too common for him not to after that. It was almost strange that he hadn't struck out at her the second she had entered his room.

"Tell me, little bird, do you know Il Forte's tell?" Szayel Aporro calmly folded his arms, hands disappearing into either sleeve. "That little thing that gives away when he is lying, that he doesn't even know he does?" She nodded cautiously. "Then ask him yourself."

She didn't know what to respond with, the Espada was always hard to predict, but more often than not he acted out violently, and now he was so calm. She took a moment to look at him, study him while she had these few precious moments, still expecting him to turn. His hair was tangled, his lips bruised, his normally covered neck was littered with bite wounds and bruises, and she could see more hidden just under the edge of his yukata. "You..." She ground the word out angrily.

"I what?" He stepped closer to her, and she backed a step towards the still open door, knowing she couldn't run. "Is it that you know I'm telling the truth, that you don't have to ask him after all? Or is it that you're angry that he came to me instead of you? Though, maybe, that isn't even it. It could be that he came to you, but you were too busy whoring yourself out to others that you couldn't even be useful. Then there is always the possibility that you never even crossed his mind." He stepped closer still, and she felt her feet freeze to the ground. "Well, which is it?"

Cirucci's fists clenched and unclenched, and she fought for something to say, anything, but drew up a blank as all she could do was glare at the Octava Espada. Neither of them moved as they waited for her to come up with something.

When she could find nothing she turned, hair fanning out around her with the sudden movement, as she stalked out the door, what she could only describe as insane laughter following her.

Normally when traveling outside of Tres Cifras, Cirucci masked her reiatsu, suppressed her energy and the tell tale signature so harshly that it hurt, that the center of her, the hole where she lacked, ached from it, a tempered desperation to not be caught outside her domain. She checked hallways and corridors before heading down them, clung to the shadows and the edges of rooms, but not now.

She was far too angry for that now.

Her reiatsu was blazing, temper unchecked, and she strode down the middle of the halls, small booted feet far too loud in her pace, almost tempted to kick into sonido but her caution did extend to that at least, to not let that reverb echo loud and clear throughout Los Noches. Only one Numeros didn't clear out of her path. He limped away with five long gashes across his chest from clawed nails.

Cirucci Thunderwitch found Il Forte where she though he would, in his own chambers, and she didn't care to look at whether it was surprise or expectancy on his face when she simply walked in, he didn't rise from where he lay, at least, for all intents as if he were about to sleep, hauled roughly upright by her gloved hand and slapped clean across the face.

"How dare you." She snarled, her vicious temperament, around males and those she needed curry favor with hidden behind sweet veneer, showing through, evident as she fisted her little hands in his clothing and pulled, threw him to the ground and out of his bed. He rolled, landed gracefully enough, long blonde hair tangled about his face and the anger she expected in return blazing in his eyes.

"Watch it, Thunderwitch." He snapped back, stood and blew the hair out of his face as he watched her for movement other than the trembling of her fists, watching to be wise of if her hand would reach next for Golondrina at his hip, Del Tore lying still behind her, beside his bed.

"No, you watch it." The Privaron's voice was far too high pitched, grating on the ears, as she advanced again. Il Forte did not retreat, did not show that weakness or that he was intimidated by the smaller Arrancar, even though he knew, despite the lower number, that her power certainly was not. He was unwilling, also, to break out cero, bala, to get her away from him, knowing if he took that step, if he escalated the game, that she would finish it with the same manners, and it would not be pleasant.

It was always best to keep her to the physical if he could.

"You've no right to be here." He pointed out, a blow at her rank, her status as Privaron Espada and no longer the Quinta Espada.

"You've no right to fuck with your brother." The Thunderwitch's responses were immediate, but his actions, reactions, matched hers, just as used to this play as she was. Her hands reached out, snatched a long strand of blonde and he matched her, opposite hand yanking hard on a coiled strand of deep, dark, purple.

"You don't own me, Privaron." The Quince spat. He hated her saying it aloud, because when she said it, it became real. It became some undeniable weakness, relying on his brother for anything, let alone that, let alone needing, but she always came out and said it, threw it in his face so that he had to confront it, had to deny it, and he loathed it, loathed his brother for it, and loathed her for making him hate himself for it.

"That's where you're wrong," Cirucci's voice suddenly quieted in volume, that high, grating anger in her voice abruptly replaced by a sort of strong, steady word, low and dangerous. "Cirucci does own you, Quince."

"No, you don't." And it was true. In seeking their worth, they owned each other. It was a twisted partnership, something that served only irritate them both when they weren't satisfied with it. She hated when he went to his brother. He hated it when she came to him still with another male's reiatsu clinging to her form.

They hated each other, and they loved to do so.

It didn't matter how much he said she had no claim to him, didn't matter how many times she said she did. Because no matter what they said he usually managed to shut her up by covering her mouth with his, let her try and erase the marks the Octava left with her own, the hard nips and bites soothed by a pant of breath or the feel of tongue pressing before her lips found another place to reclaim, to reassert her claim that had been usurped in her absence.

They were selfish, too, for each place on his skin she touched she dedicated to spiting the Octava, and every time he kissed her, very rarely on the mouth, that was far too sensual, far too romantic sometimes, too personal, he was using her for his own pleasure, gave it in return so he could revel in the noise she made when trying to force out his name.

It was later, the Thunderwitch finally asleep and sated, lying across his chest, that Il Forte finally got around to reflecting on how twisted it was, how sick, how wrong. But it never seemed that way during, never seemed it until later when he was alone with his thoughts, quiet only for the sound of the Privaron's slow breath and his. It was too easy to slip to such doubts, such questions of himself, when it was like that.

He woke Cirucci.