He rapped the doorframe lightly with his knuckles, a pit of apprehension coiling unpleasantly in his stomach. He needn't have felt so nervous, for his mother quickly beckoned him in.

"You may enter Szayel. I know it's you," she called in her lilting tones. Szayel swallowed nervously, then pushed the sliding door open and stepped in. His mother knelt in front of a table, writing out a series of complicated kanji characters he did not yet know on a scroll. As he entered, she finished, sprinkling sand over the ink to dry it. She turned and offered him a soothing smile, which set his jumpy nerves to ease, and patted the floor beside her. When he came over and sat down, she spoke.

"I expect you've come about the special skills I promised to teach you."

Szayel nodded.

"Yes," he said tentatively.

"Well, have you come with an open mind? Will you listen to what I have to say before judging?"

"Yes," Szayel repeated, this time a little more impatiently. Lady Tsukiyo sighed and smoothed a hand over his cheek.

"I'm going to teach you medicine."

Szayel stared, not quite believing his ears.

"What?" he asked dumbly.

"Medicine. Herblore. Anatomy. Poisons and remedies and how they all work on the body."

"What!"

She watched him calmly as he worked himself up into a tantrum, for a tantrum he did throw. This response only served to irk him further. He wanted a reaction from her, some emotion he could use to justify his own. But his mother's passivity nullified much of his passion.

"That's stuff for monks, not a noble!" he finally cried, his face twisting into an indignant glower. When she did not immediately reply, his expression darkened, but she would not acknowledge him. They sat in silence that way for the next fifteen minutes until Szayel worked up the humility to compose himself and ask her forgiveness.

"Mother, I'm sorr-"

His voice choked on the y as his pride strangled the apology before it could leave his lips. The boy fumed for another minute, then tried again, only to find his voice cut off again. By this point, the silence was oppressive and made all the more awkward by his unsuccessful attempts to break it. At last, shame facedly, he managed to squeeze out a different concession.

"I'll… learn," he muttered, eyes downcast as he waited for her to say something. But instead of speaking, his mother acted. She reached down and took up his arm, baring the pale underside of his wrist to the light.

"What you don't realize my heart, is that everything is related. Every discipline… connected by slim, invisible wires. You already have a difficult road to walk because you are different without making things even more complicated for yourself. By learning medicine, you'll learn the body… its strengths and its failings. And in the heat of battle when your opponent is physically stronger than you, is it not true that you must rely on skill and cleverness to win? If say, you knew to hit a nerve in his shoulder that would cause his arm to go numb, wouldn't you stand a better chance of living? Szayel, this is just another skill set that will allow you to survive."

Szayel's face fell; he knew that she was right. She was always right, and he'd been out of line. The child finally managed to offer an apology, free of stuttering.

"I'm sorry, kaasan," he murmured, looking up ruefully.

"No my love, I'm sorry," she said. She still hadn't let go of his wrist, but drew a silver knife from the folds of her robe. It was a lovely item, inlaid with lapis lazuli and mother of pearl and engraved with the lunar insignia of their house, but out of place here. He started at the sight of it, looking into her eyes with confusion. They were filled with sorrow.

"Mo…ther?" he asked, an edge of worry coloring his voice.

"I'm going to show you something that I think will help make some things clear. But I am sorry… truly sorry for bequeathing you with this blood, my little butterfly. I would have wanted for this to be a gift, but instead it seems I've only brought upon you a curse."

In a brisk motion, she slashed the blade across his wrist. Szayel felt a sharp pain, and he closed his eyes instinctively as the fine edge sliced through his skin.

"Don't look away, Szayel. You need to see. Only then will you understand the magnitude of your heritage."

He opened his eyes… stared down with morbid fascination at the garnet line of blood that welled to the surface. And as he watched, his mother set the bloody knife aside and kissed his cheek.

"Life is painful my dear one, but it will be especially so for you," she whispered sadly into his ear. The child shuddered, eyes filled with the sight of his own blood.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sakura petals

Trailing from a narrow bough

Whisper not goodbye

But fragile, flutter

Guileless on the springtime breeze

Snow from a blue sky

He looked up after the last brush stroke, watching the ink spread in the eyes of the women around him who stared in captivated silence at the words he'd painted on the page.

"Amazing Shizuka… how can you do this so well? It's like you're a real courtesan," Sumire finally murmured, looking at her own verse with a wince.

"Imagine if he could speak. I wonder if he'd be as eloquent speaking as he is writing?" Kikyo remarked, accepting the brush from Szayel and dipping it in the ink well before concentrating on her poetry.

"He doesn't have a chance to say stupid things when he's writing. I bet he'd sound just as mundane as the rest of us. Just wait Shizuka; I'll find something you're bad at," said Torako with a playful grin as she nudged the male. He smirked back at her, prompting her to blow a raspberry at the pink haired prostitute.

"Nyah. Make all the faces you want; when it comes right down to it, you can't actually say anything back," the woman taunted. Szayel's smirk deepened as he snatched up a spare brush and wrote in bold black letters across a blank page,

Oh, can't I kitty?

She scowled at him while the other girls poked fun at her.

"The tigress has been declawed," Sumire observed mischievously, and Torako rolled her eyes.

"Enough with the name puns. They aren't so clever. You meanwhile are awfully chatty for someone who's supposed to be mute, Shizuka."

He stuck his tongue out at her in an equal show of immaturity, and the other girl broke off into a crooked grin.

"I kid. It really is a pity you can't speak; haikus are best when read aloud by the person who writes them, though it's beyond me why we even practice. None of the jackasses here have the patience to read poetry; most of them are only interested in one thing."

The ring of girls chuckled at this, though Umeko did pipe up with a rebuttle.

"That's not true for everyone," she protested with a pout, "My Kaito will listen to my haikus and my music."

"That's 'cause you're so flat chested, you've got to make up for it in other ways," Torako informed her smugly.

"Well at least I can write."

"Hey! I'm not as bad as Sumire!"

"Don't bring me into this," Sumire grumbled as she crumpled her paper and threw it at Torako.

"You seem to have a talent for pissing people off, Tora-chan," Kikyo remarked as she finished her verse and eyed it critically.

"Some talent," Umeko said dryly, nudging Szayel with a wink, "You should write something for your customers some time."

His face fell, and an awkward silence settled over the room. Umeko, realizing her transgression, backpedaled.

"I- I mean if you get a regular. Its kind of nice, to do other things together…"

She trailed off, looking stricken. The other girls milled restlessly, unsure of what to say to break the heavy atmosphere. It took Szayel himself to smile weakly and offer her a reassuring look to ease the tension, even though inside he still felt the sting of her unintentially cruel remark. It was known that he didn't often get repeat customers, and the ones he drew were not the types to waste time on the other pleasantries the House offered. Well, that was just reality. Nothing to dwell on.

It was actually a relief to him when he was called, and he bid farewell to the women with a formal bow, hiding his disappointment behind a counterfeit smile and graceful motions. The haiku he tucked into his sleeve, unwilling to part with the verse he'd labored over. Though he made it look effortless, a lot of consideration had gone into it, and he was reluctant to leave it behind. Entering his room, he made sure everything was arranged properly, placed the haiku on his dresser, then knelt in the middle of the room to wait for his client.

Just feeling him walk in, he shifted in his formal position uncomfortably, already identifying the man from his distinctive aura; the smoky scent that rose from him, so much unlike most of the pampered, perfumed rich men, and the vitality he gave off, tainted with an angry undercurrent. But… this was wrong. It was so soon. It couldn't have been more than a week since his last visit. Szayel stiffened, guarded as he approached, then felt his rough hands take him by the arms and haul him to his feet unexpectedly. He lurched a little, but the other steadied him.

His blindfold was peeled off without warning, and Szayel squinted myopically as light flooded his eyes, blinking back spots in his vision.

"I thought we'd already established that the blindfold comes off. For future reference, it stays off, Shizuka."

Future reference. The prostitute looked up, surprised, and the taller man returned his uncertain look with an arrogant smirk.

"Please the customer first and foremost, isn't that right? Especially if they're a regular patron. Then you bend over backwards to accommodate them."

The white ribbon of cloth dropped from his hand and fluttered to the floor, and his fingers curled in his hair, teasing a tress loose from the pins and ornaments. His mood didn't seem so enigmatic today; he was being playful, but it was free of the malicious feeling of the last time, and it was still clear what he wanted. Leaning into him, Nnoitra pressed his lips to Szayel's, gradually deepening the kiss until the prostitute was forced to cling to him for support, breathless. Tongue swiped at his bottom lip mockingly before the man moved down to the hollow of his throat, nipping the ridge of flesh above his collarbone and drawing it into his mouth. Szayel squirmed as he bit harder, and Nnoitra looked up. One lilac iris, the other milky and sightless, examined his face for a reaction and got mild irritation in response. He seemed find this amusing, for he picked him up and carried him over to the bed.

"Don't like that, do you? Being marked? Somewhere underneath all that submissiveness, there's pride, and I'm going to drag that out of you."

His lips brushed sensuously over his earlobe before he bit this too, but he didn't linger there. Kissing his jaw, he mouth slid down his neck, finding new patches of skin to target as he worked his way down. Meanwhile, his hands busied themselves in his hair, pulling out the decorations and twining luxuriously in the pink locks. However, he paused in his activities long enough to make another observation.

"That's right, its been a little under a week since the last time. You must still be so colorful."

He stroked his chest through the cloth of his kimono tauntingly.

"How careful you must be to hide this from the others, but lets have a look shall we?"

Szayel's blood chilled and a shiver ran up his spine at these words. Panic lit his eyes as Nnoitra moved to slip the kimono off his shoulders, and he shook his head, arms coming up between them defensively. Nnoitra's eyes narrowed as he was, for the first time, presented with active resistance. But Szayel didn't care that he was provoking him, only that he shouldn't see. In the end it was futile. Nnoitra twisted his arms behind him painfully and pulled the cloth down in a swift motion.

It wasn't what he'd see that Szayel dreaded, but rather what he wouldn't, and the thick silence that followed in the immediate seconds after he lay exposed and shivering on the bed confirmed his worst fears.

The man trailed fingers over his abdomen, face inscrutable, met with the sight of unmarred skin. The bruises he sought were not there.

"What is the meaning of this?" he asked with deceptive quietness. Szayel lay helplessly, unable to explain. His client frowned, rubbing a thumb over his stomach, pressing… presumably in search of a powder covering or some lingering tenderness. He found none, and his frown deepened to a scowl.

"What the fuck is this?" he demanded, catching Szayel's eyes in a fierce expression, "There's no way you could heal from something like that so quickly. There would at least be faint, yellowed bruising still, but not nothing."

He sat back, confusion and anger at that confusion plain on his face, and Szayel pulled himself back up into a sitting position, drawing the cloth back up around his shoulders. Nnoitra's eyes flickered over to him, and his lips twisted into an unpleasant sneer as he brushed his cheek with his fingertips.

"So how long does it take? If I cut here, how long would it take for you to lose the scab? The scar?"

He pulled a knife from the sash that circled his waist, flipping it tauntingly in his hand with an ease that bespoke familiarity with the weapon. Szayel's eyes widened at the sight, and he moved backwards, away from him. Nnoitra caught his shoulder, holding him still as a twisted grin spread across his face at the prospect of this new game.

"Maybe I should find out?"

The knife was slid free of its leather casing, and the low light of the room shone off its wicked edge and magnified it in his eyes. Szayel watched as he raised it until the flat of the blade rested against his cheek. A twist of the other man's wrist, and the razor edge would bite into his skin. In that moment, something in the prostitute snapped. Golden eyes narrowing, one hand came up and bent the wrist of the hand that held the knife to his face back sharply; the other flattened and struck the other man under the breastbone, aiming for the diaphragm, which he knew would wind him. The knife dropped from Nnoitra's hand and his eyes bulged as he tried, but failed, to breathe. Taking advantage of this moment of weakness, Szayel picked up the knife he'd dropped and held it up to the taller man's cheek, mirroring the action he'd taken just moments before. A bitter smile distorted his mouth as he tapped his face with the flat of the blade, and for the first time, Nnoitra looked a little frightened at the sudden change in the pink haired man.

But then a shudder ran through Szayel, and he withdrew the threat of the weapon. He didn't have too much longer before Nnoitra would recover and exact revenge. Meeting his eyes evenly, amber gazing into lilac and white, he raised his wrist and positioned the knife over it. Silent laughter issued from his lips as he slashed across the pale surface, feeling the old but familiar burn as blood brimmed to the surface, running down his arm like a river overflowing the banks of his skin.

"…the hell?" Nnoitra gasped as he snatched the stained knife out of his hands and stared at the prostitute uncomprehendingly. "What is wrong with you? You some kind of masochist?"

Szayel proffered his wrist as explanation, and at first, Nnoitra only gave him a look of utter disgust. However, after a moment, his eyes widened as he observed the point of Szayel's entire demonstration. Even as he watched the smaller man's blood run in ribbons down his hand, the wellspring of those crimson rivulettes was closing. In the span of a minute, the injury had clotted, and a scab crossed his wrist in a thin, burgundy line.

"How…?"

The prostitute shook his head, unable to explain. He touched his throat to remind him of the silence that took from him his words. Still in a state of shock, the other man lifted his wrist, examining it with surprising gentleness. Szayel felt his rough fingers pass over the newly closed cut, then the rest of his arm, searching.

"No scars, but the irreverence with which you did that… you've done it before. So you don't scar either?"

He shook his head, confirming this fact, and Nnoitra let his bloody arm fall again.

"Then this is why you don't tell? Because the evidence will all have disappeared by that point?"

Szayel hesitated, unsure of how to reply to this. His recovery rate differed depending on the type of injury. A cut or something that drew blood healed the fastest. Bruises took longer, though they were still much faster, taking days instead of weeks. The tenderness disappeared very quickly, healed by the blood spilled from the ruptured capillaries, but his body still had to metabolize and reabsorb that blood. In the end, he nodded cautiously, and Nnoitra hmmed a little at this reply, realizing there were certain nuances he couldn't convey with a simple yes or no answer.

"Then these…" he said, leaning in to tap the red marks he'd bestowed on his neck, "How long? Days?"

Szayel nodded and held up two fingers.

"Two days…"

Nnoitra frowned, and Szayel was reminded of a sullen child pouting over being denied something he'd wanted. He tensed as Nnoitra pressed him back down again, realizing this short reprieve was reaching its close. And indeed, Nnoitra soon had him pinned down quite effectively. He shrugged off his haori and began unfastening the ties of his hakama. Szayel closed his eyes, feeling sick as he felt those hands move to his body possessively.

"How long do broken bones take?" he murmured teasingly in his ear. The prostitute stiffened, going rigid at the thought, and Nnoitra laughed.

"Just kidding. That's a little too obvious. But if I can't leave a lasting brand on you, then I'm just going to have to do it more frequently to make sure it sinks in. I'll call again this time next week. You'd better be free."

Nnoitra spread his thighs, bending down to lick up the inside of his leg, and Szayel's pulse skittered in unpleasant anticipation. He seemed, for whatever reason, to like this better; making him squirm and react rather than being the one to receive such pleasure. He supposed, as his mind grew hazy with chemicals, that it had to do with his need for control, for when he did let Szayel work on him, it was very regulated. He wasn't a bed partner, he was a tool. A puppet to make gasp and whimper and moan beneath him in accordance to his whims, and he dutifully danced to the tune he drug from his body, his breathing and heartbeat setting the tempo.

It wasn't all that unexpected when things became more painful. This was the revenge he'd expected, that Nnoitra was getting around to. But he wasn't quite as brutal as usual, as if to say that he knew he had all the time in the world to extract it. Days. Weeks. As long as he chose to come. Confirming this fact, the taller man husked into his ear,

"Didn't think you'd get away with that rudeness, did you? My wrist still hurts, and I didn't like the feeling of not being able to breathe. So you're going to pay up for that show of little show of insurrection, although it does make me curious. What else are you hiding, Shizuka, behind those pretty, wordless lips and fragile body?"

Nothing you'd ever find out. Szayel clenched his hands as he felt him drive into him mercilessly and tried to transcend the pain unsuccessfully. Here was the hypocrisy; Nnoitra had unearthed some of the pride he'd sought, only to find it distasteful and punish him for it. Here was the loaded gambling again, the skewed game that favored the other completely. There were no odds, only inevitabilities that changed according to his moods.

No. Nothing he'd ever find out. Because he'd never have the patience to learn and treat him as more than just another beautiful diversion.


Author's Notes:

A late birthday present to my readers. I thought to myself, as I spent Monday musing over how I'd gained yet another year, that I wouldn't be receiving any material presents this year due to the fact I am away from family and friends on this internship. And around eleven pm, an idea occurred to me. Why not give someone else a present instead? One that would be as fun to make as to give, thus becoming a present for myself as well? I decided that I wanted to engage in the ambitious endeavor to update all my fics by the end of the week. Of course, work got in the way during the week proper, and I only began Saturday evening. But I bring you this chapter, borne of what amounts to an alnighter. I stayed up till 5:30 am writing, though when the sun came out, I decided I should probably get some sleep. But on to the real author's notes.

In case any of you caught the fact Szayel heals quickly in the earlier chapters, here is the explanation for that. Mmm... yes. The story is getting less and less realistic, isn't it? Well, it was meant this way from the start; I'm just showing my true colors now. No, Szayel isn't a masochist in this fic, (Even if I believe he has masochistic tendencies in Bleach) and the significance of his blood will be explored further.

The name puns alluded to in the beginning of the chapter are a result of me being bored. Torako means tiger girl/tiger child. Ko is a common suffix in girl's names, and the kanji means child. Tora is tiger, as many of you probably know. Hence, tiger child = tiger cub = kitty. Obviously. (Jk. Feel free to hit me)

Ha ha. I also get to burst your bubble in this chapter, for those of you who had the reaction of "Baww... Nnoitra actually cares." Well, no. Not really. He just projects certain insecurities of his own onto Szayel, which lends him the appearance of empathy. Sure, he's not a total jackass because very few people are, but he's still insufferably arrogant and egocentric.

Read and review if you like. ^^ Mariposa has been getting more and more lately, so I'm happy. Honestly guys, I love reading your comments. It encourages me to update sooner if I see someone cares enough to say something. Sorry for the long AN section this time. x_x And advance apologies for any typos I may have missed in scanning for them; the bulk of this was written in the wee hours of the morning.

~Tinari.