Chapter Text
When the Soul King, helpless and frantic with the future knowledge of its death, grabbed hold of his wandering soul and tasked him with destroying Yhwach, he had no other desire than to complete his mission and die with glory.
These people aren’t his people, he had thought at the time, and ripping his memory to shreds in an effort to trap the so-called son of god in a realm between the living and dead was no big deal. He was already too ashamed to face his ancestors: what else did he have to lose?
“We had a hell of a time, Kazeshini, Ichigo,” he smirks.
Ichigo races towards him with hand outstretched as he disappears. It’s only then that he realizes how much he doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to miss out on what happens next. So when the Soul King shows him the way home, he can only ask,
“Can I take a raincheck?”
Then he digs himself out of the trash and moves on with his life. Literally more so than metaphorically.
It’s a surprise that his captain is the one to pick him up.
“Let’s get you back to Kurosaki’s. Ichigo nearly tore me in half when I stopped him from coming,” Kensei says before helping him into the cab.
“He what?” He bites out as Kensei slides into the seat next to him.
“Almost lost control of my hollow. That’s some boyfriend you got,” Kensei remarks.
The denial he wants to shriek gets stuck in his throat, and instead he mouths out, “He’s not my boyfriend.” Kensei, keeping an eye on the cab driver for any signs of listening in, doesn’t see his silent struggles.
And then Ichigo calls, ruining whatever momentum he might have had. The following conversation strengthens Kensei’s wrongful opinion about the two of them, and it becomes too awkward to argue against.
Losing his nerve, he plops his head against the window and keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t say anything even when Kensei talks about him taking a tentative vacation among humanity.
“Assuming you don’t get squirreled away into Muken,” Kensei says flatly.
Assuming I don’t have to put you in there myself, Kensei doesn’t say.
The sudden tension these words leave is like a slap to the face. A silent boundary comes down between the two of them, and he realizes for the first time that Kensei is his boss and nothing more.
He lets go of the words stuck to the back of his tongue. If Kensei notices that Shūhei’s reflection wears a bitter smile, he never says anything.
Ichigo takes him in while he recovers. A fair trade for the loss of his powers all those months ago that left him in a coma, Ichigo says. The excuse doesn’t hide the sympathy in Ichigo’s eyes.
Seeing that sympathy almost makes him want to run away where no one knows him.
But life goes on and he’s a survivor. He survived the genocide of his people, Rukongai, even death, he can survive this. Pride has no room when it comes to survival.
So he hunkers down and consumes his textbooks like his life depends on it. He does what he can to keep from being a burden on the Kurosaki’s—washes the dishes, cleaning up what he can without overstepping guest boundaries, studying outside the house—but it never feels like enough.
He’s not stupid or useless; he knows that, but it can feel like it.
Sometimes he goes drinking on the roof at night to forget the emptiness in his head. It’s a dangerous slope considering how he died last time, but it helps him get to sleep. He’s being careful, he tells himself.
Ichigo catches him one night, and then that’s the end of that.
“If you’re having a hard time, you can talk to me,” Ichigo says while pointedly throwing every beer can in a trash bag. “I know what it’s like.”
But you have your people here for you, is the reply on the tip of his tongue.
“Make sure you treasure your family,” he says somewhat awkwardly instead.
“Yeah,” Ichigo says with a knowing look.
Months crawl by, but there’s no word about returning him to Seireitei. He doesn’t bother asking any more about it after the first couple of weeks. His Soul Reaper career is probably a lost cause. Just like his homework.
Because despite his best efforts, his grades never climb to a passable level. He may have passed high school just by attending, but his grades mean he’ll never see college. All the teachers tell him so.
That’s that, he supposes. Time to go find some work. He refuses to leech off of Ichigo while he’s going to college. That shit’s tough already without adding in a depressed layabout.
The morning of graduation day, he sneaks out of the house to go job hunting. There’s not a lot of reputable places that want someone without a degree or recommendations from a teacher, so he ends up in the more shady places.
Survival, he chants to himself with every slimy, sleazy character he talks to. Something that can pay the bills and bag him connections.
Even shady places want references however, so he ends grabbing the first well-paying job that comes along. Which is more or less how he ends up getting interviewed in an “escort” office.
“You do have the face. Body’s good too,” the man looks over his comically large shades with consideration. “Which field you play for?”
“None at all,” he answers.
The man stares at him for a long moment before saying slowly, “By field, I don’t mean playing baseball.”
“I know.”
“I mean are you gay or straight-”
“Neither. I am neither,” he says through clenched teeth.
That’s as good an answer as any. Explaining the ins and outs of being demi-sexual is too complicated. Most people don’t believe in it by the end anyway.
(It galls him to say Kensei-sexual, but that’s the closest comparison he can think of.)
“Fantastic. You’re hired.” The man leans back with a satisfied smirk. “You are now an official gigolo.”
“Just what I always wanted to be,” he says morosely. Kazeshini isn’t here to tell him not to do it, so that’s on the Zanpakuto, he thinks ludicrously.
He goes back to the house to pack a bag and leave a note on the table. Then he’s gone.
The first day on his own sees him settling into the temporary dorms until a client moves him into their abode. He makes nice with his roommates who appear to be a drug addict and a runaway teenager. An older man swings by to give him the “Do’s and Don’t’s” of being an escort.
Day two consists of picking out a wardrobe from a cart of used clothes. He ends up walking out with a tight black suit that looks like it’s been through the shredder. Mind, it looks good on him, but that doesn’t stop the fact that he looks like a sexualized murder victim from a horror movie.
On the third day, he practices for the interviews with his clients. It goes to waste because he gets hired before he even sees anyone.
“Saw your profile and was a goner. She’s willing to pay big money for you. Seems your face reminds her of an old friend,” his boss tells him.
The client’s name is Narumi. She appears to be an average Japanese woman in her late twenties, but there’s a spark of something in her eyes that gives off red flags. No doubt there’s a weird, creepy dungeon somewhere below her house.
He is, unfortunately, a professional, and his boss has already signed him over before he can think better of it. Unless Narumi does anything to void the contract, he’ll have to suck it up and deal with her. He moves out of the dorms without a fight.
Narumi’s house turns out to be a huge, traditional manor complete with a high stone fence around the property. The place is much too big for only one person, but Narumi says she has no plans to give up her family’s property any time soon.
“It’ll be so good to have someone walking the halls again. It gets lonely by myself,” Narumi tells him with a smile that could make children cry.
He resolutely does not let his expression falter.
“I look forward to being here with you,” he says without sincerity.
Survive. He only needs to hang in there until his client gets bored of him. He can do this.
“Let me show you to your room, darling,” Narumi all but purrs.
“After you, my lady.”
The first few days of living with his client are rough. He has to learn to dance to her tune while setting up his own boundaries with a delicate touch. For one, he’s a companion not a slave which can be hard to differentiate when his only job is to make his client happy.
He learns that Narumi does not take “No” very well.
Even so, the job isn’t as bad as he initially feared. Sure, being forced to wear women’s kimono and drink tea in the courtyard is strange, but it’s not the worst thing that could happen. His client seems mostly content to spend her days chatting to him about old memories.
“Did I ever tell you of the time we decided to replace my family’s sake with fruit juice?” Narumi giggles from where she lies in his lap.
“Tell me about it,” he says while lazily swirling the drink in his hand.
His phone remains quiet. No one has contacted him since he left. He tries not to feel hurt by it. It’s his own fault for not maintaining his relationships. Nothing is stopping him from picking up the phone and calling them himself.
He needs to do better, be better.
Once he attains independence, he’ll crawl back to the Kurosaki’s and thank them properly for taking care of him. He’ll even apologize to Ichigo for being so grumpy these past few months. He didn’t come back from the dead to keep running in the same endless circle.
“Are you listening to me?” Narumi asks, eyes narrowing up at him.
“Your uncle just accused the maid,” he repeats automatically before pasting on a fake smile. “Please continue.”
Two years is the average length of time for this particular brand of escort to be in service. His coworkers told him that once he gets past the first month, pretending will become almost second nature.
He just never thought he couldn’t even make it that long.
“Of course you have a dungeon in your basement.” He sighs, and the back of his head hits the table beneath him.
There’s something keeping him sedated, but a careful tug tells him that chains holding him down won’t break even if it wears off. Narumi hums as she adjusts the dials of a science-fiction machine over by the wall, and the crystal on top of it shines menacingly.
If this isn’t the prelude to being tortured and murdered, he’ll eat his very fashionable hat.
“I knew you were nothing but a bitch,” he says.
“Don’t be like that, darling.” Narumi’s high heels click against the cement floor as she moves back and forth. “This is a joyous day.”
“I can’t say that it is.”
He had relaxed his guard, had assumed that his initial impression of Narumi was wrong. He should have listened to his instincts and walked back to Ichigo with his head bowed.
“I can never forgive Kaien for taking her away from me,” Narumi scowls, “but this time. This time, I will not let you go.”
Of course he got the woman who was actually a renegade Soul Reaper looking for a vessel for her dead beloved.
“Come back to me, Miyako,” Narumi croons in his ear as she places metal wires into his skin.
“I’m. Not. Her,” he bites out.
Narumi pays him no mind and flips a switch. Nothing happens at first, and he has a moment to hope that the experiment is a bust.
He was never that lucky.
There’s a feeling of something expanding inside of him, and it grows from barely there to incredibly painful. He screams as the crystal atop the machine slowly fuses into his gigai. It’s more than just painful; his very soul feels like someone is pouring in heated iron to fill the holes. It’s too much.
“No, no, no!” Narumi suddenly screams.
He passes out right before everything explodes.
Get up.
Who?
Get up and let me fight.
Fight what?
He’s smacked on the head. Well, he thinks he is. His head throbs like it's been hit even though no one is actually there.
He scrambles to his feet and the chains on his wrist and ankles move against his skin uncomfortably. It looks like whatever they were attached to has disappeared. He examines a wrist with something like fascination.
Something whispers angrily in his ear, and he looks around in confusion.
“Who? Oh, your name is Kazeshini? That’s neat.” He tilts his head. “Mind helping me out? Because I suddenly realize I don’t know anything.”
He doesn’t think strange voices calling him an idiot is normal, but then, he can’t remember a thing, so maybe it is?
A glance around the room tells him nothing. There’s a smoking hunk of metal over by the wall, but that’s it. It just looks like a random murder basement.
“I should get out of here? I don’t suppose you know where ‘out of here’ is?” The angry voice doesn’t bother responding to him, and he’s left to find the hidden staircase by himself.
Kazeshini is nice enough to help him find his room. Well, he hopes it’s his room. The kimono he’s wearing is completely wrecked, and the clothes that look like they’ve been slashed with a knife fit him perfectly. They even sort of go with the chains he can’t seem to get off.
He finds a flip phone in a jacket pocket, and Kazeshini helps him operate it. He chooses a name from the contact list that the angry voice gets less angry about, and puts the phone to his ear. He waits until he hears a cheerful “Urahara Shop!” to say,
“Hello, do you know me? I seem to have forgotten everything, and I don’t know where I am.”
The silence on the other end stretches on for a long time.
His name is apparently Shūhei, and he is a grumpy cat in fake human skin. That is what Urahara says, but he seriously doubts the validity of it when he considers Kazeshini’s whispers of warning. Urahara lies a lot supposedly.
He wants to say that half-baked help is better than no help, but he’s getting exasperated with trying to figure out what is true and what isn’t. That’s not even getting into the “memory experiments” Urahara likes to subject him to when he’s not helping run the man’s shop.
“Shūhei!”
He looks up from where he’s wiping down the counter. A young man rushes up to him, and the sight of spiky, strawberry blond hair makes him wince.
“Don’t be annoying. I have a headache,” he says, clutching his forehead.
“You don’t even know who I am,” the man says, offended.
“Ichigo,” he says, the name coming to him easily.
“You remember me?” Ichigo looks at him in surprise. Somewhere behind him, he can hear Urahara writing something down in his notebook.
“No, but here’s a doodle of me pushing you down a flight of stairs,” he says pulling out a piece of paper from his pocket.
On the back of an old receipt is a stick figure labeled “Shūhei” pushing down another labeled “Ichigo.” There’s a stick figure getting impaled by a scythe above, but there’s no name to go with it.
“Still the same Shūhei,” Ichigo scowls.
“Good to know we really do have a loving relationship,” he says serenely.