Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You know, I’m surprised Hisagi didn’t come up with this,” Kira says.

“What, you think the Eleventh division can’t birth geniuses, too?” Madarame smacks Renji’s back so hard the table they’re sitting around shakes and Renji nearly coughs up his lungs. It’s impressive, really, that he doesn’t catch the clear dig sitting in between Kira’s words. “Have some faith. You in or not?”

Impressive, or maybe Shuuhei’s the stupid one here, not catching the purposefully exaggerated bravado Madarame’s putting out in response. Either one’s possible.

“Erm,” Kira says.

“You’re our best bet,” Renji says and that’s far from true, considering the three of them went to Iba first, tried to reason with him. It failed, of course; there’s little Iba values more than his time and his rest, both of which he’d have to give up for the sake of their pet project. Really, Shuuhei gets it. And, as Renji starts to grovel, he gets it even more. “Look—you wanted to go into music, at some point, right? Hisagi said so. This is the perfect opportunity!”

Shuuhei finds it all too easy to dodge the punch Kira tries to aim at him. “What? It’s true. What better time to realize your teenage dreams than now?”

“I wanted to go into music,” Kira says. Shuuhei sighs, leaning further on the table; he’s heard this speech before. They’d be better off going to Rukia herself, at this point. “Music,” Kira stresses, pronouncing both syllables very slowly. “Real music. Becoming part of a Beatles cover band was never part of my teenage dreams. Who in their right mind would want to dedicate their entire career to Beatles, anyway?”

“It wouldn’t be a career,” Renji points out. Kira turns his glare at him; Renji’s eyes skitter away and he clears his throat, desperately looking back at Madarame and Shuuhei for help.

“Does it matter?”

“Kira,” Madarame slams his fist against the table, making all the dishes scattered across it jump—and, honestly, probably bringing their chances down. “Don’t you want to be a part of the next big thing?”

“I don’t think this is going to be the next big thing,” Kira says. To his credit, he’s probably right. “Can’t you just put on one of their records and call it a day? The three of you can’t even play any instruments.”

“Hisagi can play the guitar,” Renji says.

“Very badly,” Kira says, which… okay. It was true, when Shuuhei was just starting out, but it’s not true anymore. Or not as true; Shuuhei hasn’t really gotten enough feedback recently to properly gauge his abilities, but he’s definitely improved. Probably. Besides, even if he hasn’t, Kira doesn’t have to be so upfront about it. Shuuhei’s nice enough to not mention all his blaring shortcomings whenever they spar or, worse, whenever he whines for hours about his inability to pick up women. Kira could stand to take a page or twenty out of his book.

“I’m not that bad,” he mutters in defense when neither Renji nor Madarame move to say something.

They could at least pretend they think otherwise. He’s not above quitting, if they keep making it clear they think he’s beyond terrible. Technically not above quitting; he should probably grow a better backbone. 

“We just need you for the drums,” Renji says, breezing right over Shuuhei’s light meltdown. “You’d barely have to do anything. Really! You don’t even have to be great.”

“I just have to humiliate myself every time you want to perform?”

“Only losers think like that.” This time, Madarame does not slam his hand into the table. He throws his arms up, instead, and Shuuhei considers himself all too lucky he picked the other side of the table to sit by when he watches Renji get smacked in the face. “Think of the glory! The fame! The money!”

“I think you’re bound to just lose money from this, actually.”

“It doesn’t even have to be permanent,” Renji rushes to add, trying their last line of offense. It’s not even true. It has to be permanent, if only because the amount of practice that’d go into it would be a waste otherwise. Is so much work even worth it, for such a passion project? “Just for a few weeks, until we find someone else. Besides, you’d have the simplest job of everyone. You probably wouldn’t even be seen, if we put the drums far enough on the stage.”

Kira mulls over it in silence. Renji leans across the table, tension scrawled across his entire face, and Madarame follows suit, eyes narrowed. Shuuhei does not bother sitting up.

They are an unlikely team, Shuuhei can admit, especially for something like this. He might’ve been there at the moment of the plan’s conception, witnessed the quick succession of events that led to them searching for a drummer, but it’s still partly strange to him. Well. Madarame’s presence is; this fits up Renji’s alley just perfectly.

Perhaps their plan to get Kira involved failed the moment the three of them decided to go drinking without him; the moment Renji’s drunken mouth slipped into rambling on and on about Rukia’s newfound obsession with The Beatles, and Shuuhei, in an effort to change the topic, told him to just start his own band. Had Kira been there when Madarame shot up with newfound energy and decided that Renji should start a Beatles cover band to win Rukia’s heart, getting him to agree would be easer.

They should’ve tried harder to convince Iba; that, or maybe they should’ve gone elsewhere… Shuuhei searches through the list of all the division members in his head, trying to figure out who would work and coming up empty-handed. Maybe they could pull off being a three-member Beatles cover band—and no, okay, it would be the biggest commercial flop Seireitei has seen.

They need Kira, clearly, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to agree, judging by his pained expression.

“Fine,” Kira says. Okay, maybe not. Maybe he’s underestimated Kira’s generosity and sense of camaraderie—okay, no, Shuuhei gets it now, as Kira leans across the table, conspiratorial glint in his eyes. “But I want something in return.”

There it is.

+

Kira’s something, as one might have predicted, is a whole list of somethings. Shuuhei’s known him for long enough to figure this out before he starts specifying what exactly he wants, and he manages to weasel his way out of the negotiations by leaving before they get down to the details, using Seireitei Monthly for an excuse. It’s also how he manages to weasel his way out of actually doing anything for Kira, when Renji and Madarame get to it in the following days. In truth, it’s not as much of an excuse as it is deadlines hovering over his back, but.

Shuuhei’s willing to take what he can get.

Of course, because the world is eternally against him, what he can get is not much.

“Um,” Ryunosuke shakes under his gaze, even if all Shuuhei’s done was tap his knuckles against his desk and ask whose pieces are still missing. “The Fifth and Eleventh divisions haven’t delivered any of their works, and it’s worth noting that, um… the second division’s work is almost complete nonsense.”

Obviously it is, though Shuuhei takes the piece in question when Ryunosuke offers it to him. It is, of course, Suì-fēng’s; no one else in the second writes anything for Seireitei Monthly. Thankfully so. When Shuuhei looks at the unjustified word vomit filling the page, his headache turns nearly fatal.

“That all?”

Ryunosuke shuffles through the papers on his desk until he produces a checklist and furrows his brows together, trying to scan the chicken scratch there. “Er… no, we’re also missing some from the Tenth division. I think.”

Shuuhei doesn’t even have to check to know that it must be Matsumoto’s piece. “Naturally,” he says. “I’ll head to the Eleventh. Send someone out for the rest, will you?”

“Yessir,” Ryunosuke says, looking moments away from saluting. It’s been a thing, for the past weeks—Shuuhei’s willing to bet that Shino’s told him he should start doing that—and Shuuhei’s mostly glad he’s just growing out of it. A little sad, because it is amusing, but mostly glad, because the one time he did it to him in front of Kyouraku, somehow Shuuhei became the butt of the joke. “Just, uh, what do you want to do about… the article?”

Eh… if it were up to Shuuhei, he’d trash it. It is up to Shuuhei, but he has enough common sense to know that trashing it would turn the entire Second division against him. He glances over the article in his hands again, skims over the nonsense strung together—if he lets this run, Kuchiki will get on his back for not doing good enough quality control. And if he edits it into something readable, Suì-fēng will get on his back for editing her article.

Still. Shuuhei would much rather have the Seireitei Special Forces on his heels than face Kuchiki’s wrath, so the choice is clear.

“Have Ichibanboshi edit this,” he tells Ryunosuke, setting the article back down on his desk. Then, because he’s feeling generous—and fairly optimistic that Yamada’s general kicked-puppy attitude works on just about everyone—he adds, “then have Yamada run it by Captain Suì-fēng.”

This time, Ryunosuke commits to a salute, and Shuuhei gives him a pointed look in response before ducking out of the stuffy office. He’s spent the past near twenty-four hours holed up in there, trying to work out all the kinks in their newest issue. It’d be much easier if everyone bothered to follow the deadlines he sets up, instead of ignoring them completely; of course, the thought is futile; of course, Shuuhei is bombarded with work before each release.

At least it gives him an excuse to leave, if only for a bit.

The path to the Eleventh division is familiar; the sight of Madarame hunched over his desk, less so. Shuuhei takes a moment to marvel at him in the doorway, ignoring the mild disappointment curling in his stomach, before he does a performative little series of knocks on the open door.

Madarame’s reiatsu spikes immediately, which is bad news, only to fall back down just as quickly when he lifts his gaze, which is good news.

“Oh, it’s just you,” he says, as Shuuhei comes up to sit in front of his desk, throwing his legs up on the neighboring chair. “Everyone in the Eleventh’s been coming to shit all over me today.”

It’s hard to feel bad for Madarame when his usual schedule consists of beating the new recruits into the ground, sparring with Renji, and eating to his heart’s content at the decked out Eleventh division cafeteria, but Shuuhei thinks he does pretty well with the sad, empathetic little hum he offers. He eyes the paperwork stacked on Madarame’s desk—given that he knows for a fact that Ayasegawa takes care of most of the Eleventh’s reports and whatnot, he can only assume this is one of Kira’s somethings.

“Couldn’t get Ayasegawa to help you?”

“He has,” Madarame says. Huh. Impressive, Shuuhei thinks, how much paperwork Kira must’ve been behind on. Or how much he invented, for the sake of giving Madarame and Renji a hard time. “Not much, though. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve gotten away with doing nothing.”

“I’m already doing you a favor to begin with,” Shuuhei points out, before he has the chance to start feeling bad about leaving Madarame and Renji with all the work. Really, Madarame should be the least involved; other than this being the result of Renji’s deep-seated obsession with the Kuchikis, them actually putting the plan into motion is more Shuuhei’s doing than anything else. “Two favors, if you count setting you on Kira’s trail. Be glad you have at least Renji to share the weight of the cross with.”

Madarame grunts something noncommittally, probably adding Shuuhei to his long-winded list of enemies of the week. Shuuhei can live with that; so long as he plays guitar in their Beatles cover band, he’s practically untouchable. “What do you want, anyway? You didn’t just come to gloat, did you?”

“Seireitei Monthly,” Shuuhei says, by way of explanation.

“No…” Madarame actually looks sheepish for once. “Is that for today?”

“For yesterday,” Shuuhei says. It’s almost amusing, the uncomfortable way in which Madarame shifts under his gaze, trying to find an excuse for his incompetence, as if this doesn’t happen just about every month. “Don’t tell me you don’t have anything?”

“Well…”

“He got a ghostwriter for this month’s issue,” and a pile of papers is dropped unceremoniously into Shuuhei’s lap. Shuuhei doesn’t have to look up to know Ayasegawa’s got that smug smile of his hiking up his lips—he looks, anyway, and finds he’s right; Ayasegawa’s eyes shine when they meet his as he sets the food he was holding on his own desk, leaning against it. “Anything else you need, Hisagi?”

Shuuhei tunes out Madarame thanking Ayasegawa, ignores the pressure of Ayasegawa’s gaze as he goes through the papers, duly noting that everything is there. There’s even extras—Ayasegawa’s added some nonsensical sketches that could’ve only come from Yachiru and which will probably come in handy when Matsumoto ends up not handing in her piece.

“Seems to be everything,” he says, standing up, holding the papers to his chest. “Thanks. Madarame—if you end up needing help with Kira’s favor, you know where to find me.”

He says it out of common courtesy, not really thinking about it. It’s the wrong thing to do, because Madarame’s head shoots up at the suggestion and his hungry eyes start sweeping the papers, probably trying to suss out which are the most tedious ones to fill out. He opens his mouth to speak; Ayasegawa beats him to the chase.

“He’ll get it done,” he says, the unspoken threat hidden underneath his words forcing Madarame down into his seat. Like a dog, Shuuhei thinks, amused, before becoming infinitely less amused when he remembers how he used to act for Matsumoto. How he still does, occasionally, in his worst moments. Damn.

“Yeah,” Madarame grumbles, though not without shooting a dirty look at Ayasegawa, who only seems to run more self-satisfied. “I’ll get it done.”

“Great,” Shuuhei says. He watches as Ayasegawa starts unpacking the food he’s brought from the cafeteria, until he spots shrimp sticking out and looks away before his stomach dares betray him. “Let me know when you’re all done, and we can actually try to figure out… well, everything else.”

“Will do,” Madarame says.

Just as Shuuhei’s about to turn to leave, Ayasegawa hums, looking up from the food to immediately catch his eyes like a magnet.

“Hisagi,” he says, “don’t you have time to join us for lunch?”

It’s tempting; tempting, partly because the Eleventh division probably has the best food in the cafeteria throughout the entirety of Seireitei and partly because it means more respite from the chaos in the Seireitei Monthly offices. It’s tempting, partly because Ayasegawa’s clearly brought along more food than enough for two, maybe anticipating Shuuhei’s routine stop for articles at the Eleventh and—okay. Shuuhei’s clearly reading too much into things again. If he stops thinking about it and takes Ayasegawa’s words at near face value, the offer reads more like a joke at his expense, no matter how genuine Shuuhei wants him to be.

Shuuhei feels his train of thought shoot off without him in real time and decides the entire thing does not matter, because he does not have the time to begin with.

“Another time,” he says, forcing a smile and then slipping out of their office before his stomach can protest.

+

Shuuhei’s team manages to collect all the articles; Suì-fēng signs off on her edited one, which means Ichibanboshi must’ve worked a miracle and a half on it; Kuchiki still gets on Shuuhei’s case, calling misconduct when Seireitei Monthly goes into print and distribution a near full day later than planned. In Shuuhei’s defense, it’s not even the fault of the Ninth division. If there’s anyone he can pin it on, it’d be Matsumoto, for handing in her piece long past her extended deadline. Or himself, maybe, for taking her word and waiting for the article before going into print… well.

In Shuuhei’s defense, he has none.

It helps that Kuchiki’s wrath is rather easy to avoid. So long as Shuuhei avoids the Sixth for a bit, things are bound to die down—and they do; within a couple of days, Kuchiki has shifted his interest and switched to terrorizing his subordinates for whatever offense they may have committed. And by subordinates, Shuuhei means Renji, which makes the entire thing hysterical. Of course Kuchiki has some problem with Renji, when does he not?

Unfortunately, that also means the first official band meeting takes place in Shuuhei’s office, as it’s in everyone’s best interest to avoid running into an annoyed Kuchiki.

“First things first,” Shuuhei says, taking advantage of the fact that he’s the only one sitting at a desk to fall into the natural leader position, while the remaining three are forced to play the audience. Kira and Madarame were lucky enough to score chairs; Renji has to make do with the floor—that or the couch, though he’d fallen cross-legged onto the floor before Shuuhei even had the chance to suggest it. “We need,” he puts up one finger, “equipment,” two, “a manager, ” three, “a teacher… is that all?”

“Costumes,” Madarame says. “Yumichika insists.”

Privately, Shuuhei thinks Ayasegawa is pulling their collective leg and trying to make them look like even bigger fools. Privately, Shuuhei knows better than to go against him, though.

He lifts up a fourth finger. “Costumes. Anything else?” Renji presses the tips of his fingers together, pensive, and Kira looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but in Shuuhei’s office. Ah, and there’s another one. “A place to practice.”

Kira kicks out his feet in front of him, grazing the bottom of Shuuhei’s desk. “Don’t you think it’s all more trouble than it’s worth?” he asks. “What if we suck at the end anyway?”

“Have some faith,” Shuuhei tells him.

He eats his words two months later. Another two volumes of Seireitei Monthly have been released and both times, they actually manage to go to print as scheduled; that’s not the issue. The issue is Renji and Madarame’s complete inability to play guitar.

Or sing, for that matter.

The singing they discovered as a problem a week in. While they were waiting for Urahara to deliver their frankly over-priced equipment, Madarame called for a meeting, meaning he stopped by Shuuhei’s office and paced back and forth for thirty minutes while Shuuhei pretended to work, hoping to have him leave. Madarame was clearly mad, then, near steam blowing out his ears, and Shuuhei’s spent his time around enough Eleventh division members to know how easy it was to trigger a fight. That, and he’d just remodeled his office. Naturally he was being extra cautious.

Regardless; Madarame paced, and paced, and paced, before he finally sat down in front of Shuuhei’s desk. He folded his arms atop it and said, after several painful beats of silence, “you’re going to have to be our frontman.”

It was not at all what Shuuhei might’ve expected. “…what?”

“Listen,” Madarame said and it was clear that he’d been discussing this at length with himself for the past hours, on the brink of going senile. “I know this whole thing is for Renji’s sake, but I listened to him sing yesterday,” he paused for full impact—that, Shuuhei remembers clear as day, as well as the pain in his eyes, “and I wanted to disembowel myself.”

“Er… and what about you?”

Madarame sighed. The whole thing was starting to feel like an all too elaborate plan. Shuuhei, really, would’ve been content with strumming his guitar somewhere in the background, letting Madarame and Renji be the performers. “I can’t sing, either,” he admitted, “and Kira’s on the drums, so obviously he’s not singing shit.”

“Madarame,” Shuuhei said, hoping to, for once, knock some sense into his bald head, “none of this will fucking work if only one person sings. Have you ever seen The Beatles perform?”

Naturally, Madarame’s answer was no; as was Kira’s; as was, surprisingly, Renji’s—Shuuhei figured that he’d be more invested in the band, given Rukia’s obsession, but clearly not. This added another obstacle on their way, as Shuuhei had to put together a short enough crash course about The Beatles to set everyone in the know, and even then it didn’t feel like enough.

Still. It's one thing to be a cover band without knowing much about the original artist to begin with, and another to be in a band while being completely incapable of playing any instrument.

It’s been a near two months of semi-frequent practices—that, and mentoring from Chad, who in spite of caring little about the Beatles, somehow does care enough to volunteer his free time. It’s been a near two months of that, and Madarame is still busting his guitar strings, unacquainted with the idea of being gentle with fragile things; Renji is whining more than he is singing, making Shuuhei want to call real fan privilege and kick him out of the band; Kira is… surprisingly doing quite well.

“That almost sounded like a real song,” Madarame says, when they finish their rendition of Paperback Writer. Shuuhei tries to relax, leaning his head against his mic stand, ignoring the weight of his guitar. It almost sounded like a real song, sure, but not anywhere close to Paperback Writer. He feels ill. “If we keep practicing…”

He sounds entirely unconvinced.

For once, even Renji picks up on it. He sighs, then again, then again—ah. He’s just breathing heavily. “Maybe we should figure out some other plan.”

Kira hits one of his cymbals. “Maybe we should switch,” he says.

“Now you say that?”

Kira huffs in response and Madarame sets down his guitar against the wall, going searching for replacement guitar strings through the pile of equipment-and-miscellaneous-but-necessary-items they’ve shoved into the corner of Renji’s living quarters, where they practice. It’s the perfect place, if only because Renji can’t exactly force them out when the whole thing is for his sake, anyway, and because the officers of the Sixth division are too chickenshit to go above Renji and complain about him to Kuchiki. And thank god; Kuchiki would probably sebonzakura their asses to Hueco Mundo and back if he found out about their band practices.

That, or he’d use it to destroy their equipment behind their back. Shuuhei does a brief calculation in his head and finds out either option is just as likely. Maybe looking for someplace other than Renji’s to practice isn’t that bad an idea, actually.

“I just think it could be a good idea,” Kira says. He sets his drumsticks down in his lap, smooths his hands over them, and Shuuhei turns to look at him, still bent over the mic stand. “I’m not saying it has to be permanent. I’m saying we should try.”

Madarame knocks over one of the boxes, before straightening in place with a triumphant aha!clearly not listening to the conversation at hand in the slightest. Renji, however, is visibly starting to sweat—more than before, at least. “Switch how, exactly?”

“Well,” Kira says. His eyes dart around, awkwardly, and Shuuhei takes the chance to join Madarame, setting his own guitar by the wall. He has to help him redo the strings, anyway—if Madarame’s left to do it on his own, he fucks the process up entirely. And there’s tuning the guitar, too. Shuuhei keeps the ingenious little machine Chad gave him for it under lock and key, sure that his fellow bandmates would find one way or another to destroy it. “Well… Hisagi and I are the only ones who can actually hold a tune.”

“You’re on the drums,” Renji tells him. “It can’t be difficult to hold a tune there, can it?”

“Maybe you should try it,” Kira says.

“Why not Ikkaku? He’s just as shit as I am!”

“Not as shit,” Madarame cuts in. Predictably, he’s left Shuuhei with redoing the strings on his guitar, while he crosses his arms and goes to argue with Kira and Renji. Shuuhei should probably mind more. “Fuck, Renji, I can’t listen to you mewl on the mic any longer. Do you really not hear yourself?”

Renji pauses. “…excuse me?”

Both their reiatsus spike dangerously in the small room. Though Shuuhei agrees wholeheartedly with Madarame, he doesn’t necessarily think them settling the argument by battling it out is the greatest idea. At least not here; he really doesn’t want any of the instruments to get ruined in the process. It would only mean going through Urahara again and Shuuhei’s not looking forward to doing that anytime soon. No thanks; he’s already gotten scammed enough to last a lifetime.

Though… he doesn’t really want to play mediator either, considering the real enough possibility of Renji just storming off and cutting their entire band venture short after hearing everyone’s complaints.

There’s an easy enough solution to both issues, though.

Shuuhei reaches Renji just before he pulls out his zanpakutou. Damn; once an Eleventh division member, always an Eleventh division member, he supposes. “Not here,” he says, before unceremoniously forcing Renji outside. “Take this to one of the training grounds.” As Madarame goes to follow suit, Shuuhei stops him by the door. “I’m counting on you,” he tells him, low enough so Renji won’t hear. Kira adds his thumbs-up of support. “Don’t let me down.”

“Yessir!” Madarame salutes. Shuuhei considers it his greatest achievement that he has enough self-control in his body to not whip out his own zanpakutou and bust Madarame’s head open on the spot as he shoves him outside.

+

Madarame wins; Renji and Kira switch places; Kira is… surprisingly good on guitar. And at singing. This is starting to be a pattern and not one Shuuhei’s particularly fond of, but at least it means their band practices start sounding better and Shuuhei stops wanting to cut out his eardrums.

The whole thing brings forth another issue, namely Renji, who spends half the time moping about, so much so that even Rukia notices. If you ask Shuuhei, Renji should consider this a win; at least she noticed, ergo she cares, ergo she wants him back. Or something along those lines—whatever the end result may be, the winning point is that she noticed.

Renji does not consider this anywhere close to a winning point.

“What good does noticing do, if I can’t even talk to her about it?” he whines, when they take a break from practicing to go out to eat. “It’s pointless. Now I just have to blow her off.”

Even if Shuuhei can see the point, he maintains the view that it’s better that she noticed—otherwise, it’d honestly look kind of bad for Renji’s love life. It’s hard not to notice when he feels sad, what with downtrodden he gets. If Rukia hadn’t noticed, it’d be clear that she’s not attuned to him at all.

Thinking that way maybe lowers the romantic connotations of it, though. From what Renji told them, Kuchiki also got on his case about it, even if more formally and antagonistically, and half their mutual friends swung by Shuuhei’s to ask what the hell was Renji’s problem these days.

Well. At least she cared enough to ask him about it directly, then?

“You don’t have to blow her off,” Madarame says. Grunts, more like, through the noodles he’s shoved into his mouth. “Just tell her you’re having troubles with Kuchiki.” Shuuhei and Kira share unimpressed looks, and Madarame glances at them quizzically before his mind processes the issue with what he said. “Or, er… why don’t you tell her the truth?”

“About how terrible the band’s doing, or that I got kicked off the mic?”

“Does she even know about the band to begin with?”

“Listen, Renji,” Shuuhei says, hoping that Renji still has some blind respect from their academy days left for him, even if it’s buried somewhere deep inside. He uses his chopsticks to stir the remainder of his ramen, pausing as he thinks, before he finds he really has nothing concrete to say. “You’ve got to pull yourself together.” That’s good enough on its own, but his traitorous mouth opens to say more without his agreement. “You’re going to scare Rukia off, if you keep this up.”

It’s a terrible thing to add. Even Madarame is emotionally developed enough to think so, if the way he raises his brows and sucks in air through his teeth is any indicator.

“I mean,” Shuuhei continues, seeing Renji nearly disintegrate in front of him in real time. What can he even mean? He takes any longer to comfort Renji and they’re bound to lose their drummer—and that’s what he’s worried about? “If you keep blowing her off, you will. I mean… what do you even tell her?”

There. Changing the topic was a great idea. Shuuhei reaches up to pat himself on the back before Kira pushes his arm down.

“That it’s Sixth division business,” Renji says. That’s not too bad, depending on what tone Renji said it to Rukia with. Knowing Renji… it was probably much worse, actually. Shit. “standard issue reply. but I don’t want her to think I’m pushing her away.”

and there it is, the main issue that Renji has with all things Rukia. Shuuhei can understand, given their shaky past, but he wishes Renji would consider solving it on his own by maybe finding more direct ways to get close to Rukia. Or, if that’s asking too much, that at least he wouldn’t spend so much of his time whining about it.

“Then you need to lie to her,” Kira says, “or find something that you can talk to her about, that also makes you upset.”

“I can’t lie to her,” Renji pushes away his untouched ramen to rest his head on the table, and Shuuhei takes the opportunity to switch Renji’s bowl out with his own empty one. “At this point, I’m not even sure if continuing this farce makes sense…”

“Renji, be serious,” Madarame says, more invested in their cover band than Shuuhei expected. “You’re not going to just give up. Come on. I’ll give you a crash course in cheering up.”

Madarame’s crash course in cheering up includes, of course, sparing, and has little to do with actual cheering up. At least Renji has something to complain about that’s not his own shortcomings—well. Not his own shortcomings in their band, that is. His shortcomings on the training grounds are an entire entity of their own.

Still, the problem remains; Renji continues moping around; morale falls. Even Shuuhei finds himself feeling down. Of course something has to come up—just when they’ve really started to improve. It’s serious enough an issue that Shuuhei has trouble focusing on anything but it, even when the time to print the next volume of Seireitei Monthly comes up.

Going through the articles is as boring and monotonous as always, making it easier for his mind to stray, but Shuuhei suffers through it anyway. By the time he’s done, they’re itching closer and closer to the deadline. Even so, when he asks Ryunosuke for the list of articles missing, it’s longer than usual. He delegates Yamada to go to the Second division, Sannen to the Tenth as a form of minor punishment, and Yagamo to hunt down Kira for the latest chapter of his serial novel, while he himself takes on the daunting task of the Eleventh division.

When he gets there, the door is closed, which can only mean one thing.

“Come in,” Ayasegawa calls after Shuuhei knocks, albeit with a small delay. When Shuuhei opens the door, he continues writing at his desk for a moment before looking up. “Acting as your own runner again?”

“Something like that,” he says. “Do you have everything from the Eleventh?”

“Almost,” Ayasegawa says. He shuffles around through his desk for a moment, then passes up a handful of papers to Shuuhei. “Just running behind with my piece. Sorry. Do I have time to finish before you go into print?”

Not really, but Ayasegawa looks apologetic enough that Shuuhei can’t say that.

“Yeah,” and as praise for his response, Ayasegawa gives Shuuhei a smile. “How long do you think it will take you?”

“Not too long,” Ayasegawa says, which is as good an answer as Shuuhei should’ve expected. He moves around the papers on his desk, organizing them into neat little piles, before he’s left with only his unfinished article in front of him. “I’m almost done. I’ll go drop it off, as soon as I’m finished, promise.” He pauses and his eyes flit up to Shuuhei’s again, dancing in the low-light of his desk lamp. “Unless you’d rather stay to collect it yourself, that is.”

Shuuhei hesitates, free hand curling around the back of the chair in front of Ayasegawa’s desk. As usual, he doesn’t really have the time and should probably get going… besides, no matter how often he willingly puts himself in this situation, spending time alone with Ayasegawa tends to be irrationally nerve-wracking.

Unfortunately, Shuuhei doesn’t exactly perform the best with Ayasegawa’s eyes trained on him.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay?”

“Not if you don’t mind waiting,” Ayasegawa says.

Even if he should, Shuuhei certainly doesn’t, and he takes a seat in front of Ayasegawa’s desk. While he works, the angle between his feathers becomes gradually more and more obtuse as his brows unconsciously furrow, his expression becoming one of utter concentration. Shuuhei watches, more fascinated than he should be; it’s only when Ayasegawa goes to tuck his hair behind his ear and glances up, meeting Shuuhei’s curious gaze, that Shuuhei snaps out of it, embarrassed, and starts shifting through all the articles he was given instead.

It takes more than it should, as Shuuhei can’t concentrate on any and has to reread each sentence three times before it starts making sense. He notes any questionable content that Ichibanboshi should edit out later, hoping his hazy head hasn’t made him miss any. When he’s done, he lets his mind wander back to Renji, this time consciously. The easiest solution to the entire thing would be to let Renji back on the guitar and mic, but when Shuuhei so much as considers that, he feels so upset he could cry.

The only other solution is to cheer Renji up, somehow. If anyone’s capable of that, it’s certainly not Shuuhei.

“Something bothering you?” Ayasegawa asks, cutting cleanly through Shuuhei’s thoughts. When Shuuhei straightens in his seat, shifts his eyes away from the ceiling, he finds Ayasegawa no longer working on his article, his hands instead folded under his chin as he waits for an answer. “Does it have to do with the cover band? Ikkaku barely tells me anything about it.”

“Er. Sort of,” Shuuhei says. Though the band is technically no secret, he doubts the best thing to do is go around gossiping about it. “Did you finish?”

“Yes,” Ayasegawa hands Shuuhei his article, not bothering to check it. Shuuhei does his obligatory little scan of it, deciding it looks fine. He moves to stand up and Ayasegawa adds, “do you have to go? Maybe I could help you, with whatever the issue is?”

Involuntarily, Shuuhei falls back in his seat. Ayasegawa remains looking at him expectantly and the words start falling out of Shuuhei’s mouth before he can even think about it. By the time he finishes briefly recounting the situation, Ayasegawa’s brows are pulled together and he’s dragging his teeth over his bottom lip in thought.

“Hm. That’s the problem?”

“Yeah,” Shuuhei says. He trails his eyes over Ayasegawa’s desk to avoid staring. “Everyone keeps telling Renji that it’s really not an issue, but…”

“But Renji’s Renji,” Ayasegawa says. he leans back in his seat, kicking his legs out underneath his desk. He already looks satisfied with his advice even before he opens his mouth. “Tell him women tend to favor drummers. Well—not just women, of course, but for Renji’s sake that will do. Tell him that so long as he looks attractive enough on stage, Rukia will notice him. Really. Even if he’s on the drums. Especially if he’s on the drums, maybe. He has nothing to worry about.”

Huh. “You think so?”

“Sure,” Ayasegawa says. When Shuuhei peers at him, curious, his smile turns teasing. “I can’t say I ever really understood the craze myself, but I’m sure Rukia will get it.”

Shuuhei relays his words to Renji as soon as he gets a chance, which happens to be directly after that month’s issue of Seireitei Monthly goes into print. He runs into Renji on his way home to crash and, in all his sleep-deprived charm, does his best to paraphrase what Ayasegawa said.

It works. Renji shows up for their next practice more invigorated than before, and Shuuhei makes a mental note to thank Ayasegawa for his advice as soon as possible.

+

Renji takes to the drums surprisingly well when he’s not being pissy about it. He even picks up practicing on his own, so much so that between one practice and the next, his improvement becomes nearly tangible. Madarame follows suit and it becomes common to see him plucking at his guitar in odd hours of the day. It gets to the point that Shuuhei feels as though he’s the one falling behind, despite all the hours of experience he had prior to their band, and also takes to practicing whenever he has the time, in between his mountains of paperwork and his duties at the Seireitei Monthly offices.

Admittedly, it’s not the greatest idea he has. Various Ninth division members walk in on him more than once, and the embarrassment is hard to battle when they linger inside his office to work out whatever serious issues they may have. Them, and various members of the other divisions. The one time Hitsugaya finds him playing the chords to Please Mister Postman, he screws up his entire face and walks right back out; Ukitake lingers silently in the doorway when Shuuhei doesn’t notice him come in, and only says something when Shuuhei finishes; Kyouraku finds the whole affair hilarious, as he does all things Shuuhei.

His one consolation is that Kira shares the same fate.

“Nanao thinks I’ve gone mental,” Kira says, as if Nanao didn’t think that before. Still, Shuuhei hums empathetically, as is his duty. “Her, and Unohana, too. They’re moments away from offering to try out experimental healing kidou techniques on me. This is a nightmare.”

Shuuhei thinks if he’s lucky, Unohana might even offer him a lobotomy.

Kira thinks that’s little consolation.

“Madarame’s said that no one bothers him, in his and Ayasegawa’s office,” Shuuhei offers, when Kira’s scowl doesn’t ease up any. He raps his knuckles against the table, watches as Kira picks out the last grains of rice out of his bowl. “You need to find some place like that to practice. Or make it known that your office is off-limits, I guess.”

He means it offhandedly, the way Matsumoto does when she shares gossip with the either of them, knowing that neither he nor Kira will care enough to remember it. He doesn’t think anything of it, when he stops by Kira’s office the next day for actual Gotei Thirteen business and finds it empty, doesn’t think anything of it when that keeps happening. He barely remembers their conversation, either, only vague bits and pieces of Kira’s whining.

In retrospect, however, it was probably those words that prompted Kira to take his guitar down to the Eleventh, and set up camp next to Madarame’s desk.

“Is that Kira’s guitar?” Shuuhei is stupid enough to ask, when he stops by Madarame and Ayasegawa’s office.

The official story is that he’s looking to kill time. It’s less the issue of there being too little work and more the issue of too much bureaucratic work, the kind that requires him to go through all the proper channels, making him waste half his day tracking down various lieutenants and, occasionally, captains. The unofficial story is that he’s hoping to kill time with Ayasegawa, one way or another.

“Good evening to you, too, Hisagi,” Ayasegawa says. He’s massaging his temples, leftover annoyance still embedded deep in his expression—though a little bit of it does ease away when he looks up at Shuuhei. Thankfully. “Yes, it’s Kira’s. Who else would leave their guitar here? Who else even has a guitar to leave here?”

Shuuhei’s first stroke of genius successfully stops him from pointing out that he has a guitar to leave here. His second stroke of genius proves much less helpful when it has him ask, “what’s his guitar doing here?”

“I’ll give you three guesses,” Ayasegawa says.

His eyes are calculating and the angle between his feathers is severe enough that it would probably be best for Shuuhei to hide his tail between his legs and scram. Despite his better judgment—or maybe because of it—Shuuhei lingers around Madarame’s desk, instead, peering at his guitar strings and noting that they’re intact.

“Since when does he practice here with Madarame?”

“Since four days ago,” Ayasegawa says. He glances at the left-behind guitars, worries his lip between his teeth, clearly high-strung. “Nonstop. I didn’t mind when it was just Ikkaku, but when Kira joins in and their playing is interspersed with schoolboy giggling…” he trails off, annoyed, though thankfully no longer at Shuuhei. “It’s unbearable.”

“I can imagine,” Shuuhei says. Well—he can imagine it being unbearable. He finds the vision of Kira and Madarame, huddled together and giggling, to be just out of reach. Kira and Madarame… strange.

As if privy to his thoughts, Ayasegawa sighs.

“Yeah,” he says. He sighs again, shuffling around the papers on his desk, and Shuuhei reaches to pluck a guitar string before withdrawing his hand. Better not provoke the wolf. Or something. “If you came looking for Ikkaku, he left to go get something to eat with Kira. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

Though he’s a frequent visitor of the Eleventh these days, Shuuhei can’t remember the last time he wandered over in hopes of finding Madarame. He leans against Madarame’s desk, crosses his arms, watches as Ayasegawa’s eyes idly track his movements.

“No,” he says, “I was hoping to catch you, instead.”

“Mhm,” Ayasegawa hums. He entertains the notion for a few moments before his eyes dip back towards his desk. “If you’re hoping to drag me out somewhere, it’s not going to work. I’m so far behind schedule that even Kenpachi is starting to get worried.”

“…really?”

“of course not,” Ayasegawa says. “Kenpachi’s the last to care about silly things like paperwork. I am behind schedule, though. I’m sure you can figure out the reason why.”

Shuuhei can. He has a hard enough time concentrating during practice, when Renji’s whining to him about one thing or another, and Kira and Madarame have delegated themselves to another corner to pluck their guitars and bitch about chords. It’s strange, though. Kira and Madarame congregating during practice is one thing, and outside another… hm.

It’s strange that Ayasegawa hasn’t kicked them out the office, too. Shuuhei’s seen firsthand how in check he keeps Madarame with whatever blackmail material he has under his arsenal and it’s not too difficult to tell Kira off, in spite of the hardened image he tries to push for himself. It’s not too difficult for Shuuhei, that is. It must come easy to Ayasegawa, whose already blunt words run crass when pushed too hard.

Really, Kira should’ve been exiled from the office by the end of day two, and even that’s a stretch.

Shuuhei peers at Ayasegawa, who’s sliding his pen across the paper again. He’s not sacrificing his own peace of mind for the wellness of the band, is he? Would he care enough to? Ayasegawa glances up; though Shuuhei in-combat is quick on his feet, the same cannot be said of Shuuhei in-conversation, particularly Shuuhei in-conversation-with-Ayasegawa.

“Er… did you eat already?” 

“Nice try,” Ayasegawa says, private smile playing on his lips. “Ikkaku and Kira are supposed to bring me something from the cafeteria in,” he checks the time, “nearly thirty minutes ago.”

There. Knowing Madarame, he’s probably forgotten and, knowing Kira, he’s probably not going to remind Madarame. Perfect.

“You’re content with cold left-overs?” Shuuhei asks.

Ayasegawa’s smile grows, even if only slightly. “You really want to badmouth anything from the Eleventh in front of me?”

“Just thought you’d rather eat something warm.”

“Hm.” Ayasegawa sets his pen down. “You sure you don’t want to try some other method of persuasion?”

His eyes feel heavy when they land on Shuuhei, who only has a moment to catch the jovial buzzing of familiar reiatsu entering the division before Ayasegawa catches hint of it, too. His entire face sours, the weight of his gaze disappearing completely as his eyes dip back to his desk.

“Ah,” he says. “Never mind.”

Notes of Madarame and Kira’s conversation flit down the corridor, Madarame’s voice catching on the walls. Ayasegawa’s own reiatsu has started to hum in the office in response, louder than before, the twinges of annoyance burning in it fighting the… expectant notes? Shuuhei pauses; no matter how good the Eleventh division’s cafeteria food is, there is no way Ayasegawa, in all his capricious glory, cares so much for it.

On a whim, he says, “you know, you can always come to the Ninth.”

Ayasegawa’s reiatsu pauses before it continues humming. “the Ninth?”

“My office,” Shuuhei says, conveniently omitting the fact that he has only one desk. “If you’d like some peace from their practicing, my doors are always open.”

The expectant notes in Ayasegawa’s reiatsu fizzle out completely, replaced by thinly veiled triumph. He doesn’t respond, instead gathering the papers in front of him into one pile, and only stands up as the door to the office opens. Whatever Kira was saying stutters to a stop immediately.

“Hisagi,” Madarame says, the mirth rolling off him in waves. To his credit, he seems to have remembered Ayasegawa’s request, judging by the take-out containers in his hand. “Should’ve figured. You weren’t messing with my shit, were you?”

“I have better things to do,” Shuuhei says.

“Sure you do,” Madarame says. “Hasn’t stopped you from coming here, though. You need anything?”

“We were just leaving,” Ayasegawa intercepts Shuuhei’s response, then intercepts Madarame before he can even make it to his desk, prying the take-out from his hands with a smile. “Thanks, Ikkaku. Do lock up when you’re done, will you?”

+

Working alongside Ayasegawa is surprisingly pleasant, even if on the first day they have to crowd around Shuuhei’s desk like schoolchildren, careful not to mix their work and not to let their knees knock under the table. The second they start off with a brief excursion to the Seireitei Monthly offices to borrow one of the desks, making it a lot easier for Shuuhei to focus. It doesn’t take long for them to fall into an easy routine—work, coffee break, work, coffee break, so on and so forth, until the working day comes to a close and Ayasegawa takes him to yet another one of his beloved dining establishments before Shuuhei has to leave for band practice.

Of course, there can only be so much overdue paperwork; only so much time before the next issue of Seireitei Monthly goes into print; only so many days before Ayasegawa receives a summons to the living world in the form of some nonsensical mission; only so many days before Shuuhei’s left with an empty office.

Well. Not empty.

“I’m starting to think we can actually make this happen,” Kira says.

He sits in front of Shuuhei’s desk, hands playing the chords to Nowhere Man. With practice called off for the near future because of the mission sweeping Madarame out of commission, too, they’ve decided to hold one with just the two of them.

Well—Kira has, showing up to Shuuhei’s office unannounced, guitar in hand, evidently trying to fill the void left by Madarame. Shuuhei’s mostly been trying to ignore him, though it hasn’t been very effective.

“Mhm,” Shuuhei hums in response.

“I was really doubtful, in the beginning,” Kira continues, as if Shuuhei didn’t know. “Even Madarame’s kind of good at singing. He’s got that,” he gestures vaguely in the air; Shuuhei shoots himself in the leg, actually bothering to watch, “that kind of hoarse voice that works. Sort of.”

Kira actually flushes a bit. Okay.

“Anyway,” Kira clears his throat, “I was thinking. We should probably start thinking about a setlist, if we want to actually play a gig sometime.”

Shuuhei stops writing, mid-kanji. Kira’s actually got a point. Though they’ve been sampling songs from all over The Beatles' discography, having such a wide selection means nothing. Well, not nothing. It means they’re spreading out their practice time for each song too thin.

“Right,” he says, pensive.

“Yeah,” Kira says. “I was thinking—since it’s practically Renji’s love letter to Rukia, we should focus on songs that go along a similar vein.”

“I think we should go by album,” Shuuhei says, two days later, to both Kira and Renji. Madarame’s still missing-in-action, so to speak, but the three of them figured they could get the preliminary discussion out of the way. “We start with their debut—Please Please Me—and work our way up.” He, thankfully, does not mention his far-fetched dreams of doing a tour for each album. “It even has a fair selection of love songs.”

“Spoken like a true fan,” Renji notes.

“I wouldn’t call it a fair selection of love songs,” Kira says. He’s holding the record in his hands, dragging his finger down the tracklist. “Misery, Anna…” he trails off, finding no more tracks to use as proof.

“We can skip those,” Shuuhei tells him. “Have you considered looking at the rest of the songs?”

Kira sends him a look. He sets the record down and Renji peers down at it curiously, though he doesn’t pick it up. “I still we should draft our own selection together,” he says. “and mix albums. I mean, there’s better and worse songs on each album, right? Why don’t we eliminate the middle man?”

“You can’t be serious,” Shuuhei says.

“I understand the idea, of going album by album,” Kira continues, “but it’s idealistic. And really, who’s to say this will last as long as you think? If the plan to get Rukia is to work, we should commit to it.”

“Renji should commit to it, you mean.”

“Yeah…?” Kira gives Shuuhei a quizzical look before it dawns to him what he’s getting at, and he turns to Renji. “Well?”

“What?”

Does everything need to be spelled out for him? “We’re going to need your input,” Shuuhei says. “We need a setlist. What do you think? Any suggestions?”

“Isn’t it clear?” Renji asks. “I think we should go with songs that are Rukia’s favorites. Since, you know. It’s for her.”

Oh. When he puts it that way, it does sound obvious.

“Oh,” Kira parrots Shuuhei’s thoughts, “that does make sense.”

“Yeah,” Shuuhei says. “So which ones are her favorites?”

As one could suspect, Renji does not know which songs are Rukia’s favorite. Shuuhei feels as though he could rip all his hair out—Renji’s or his own, though Renji’s already losing a battle against his hairline. At least the next step is relatively simple: all they have to do is find out Rukia’s list of favorite songs and then tweak it enough so it seems inconspicuous.

The problem is getting the list in the first place. Shuuhei finds himself at the doors to one of the offices in the Eleventh division, figuring that Ayasegawa could come up with a plan, before he remembers that he’s still gone. Right. And he’s back to square one.

+

They make very little progress with figuring out a setlist in the following weeks. One of their plans is having Shuuhei try to strike up conversation with Rukia about The Beatles, but the main issues with this are: one, Rukia’s obsession with The Beatles is kept on the down low, two, Rukia’s not supposed to know about the whole Beatles cover band thing until they’re ready to go public, and three, Shuuhei doesn’t want to do it.

It’s not that he minds the plan. Not particularly. A fan of the Beatles is a fan—er, friend of his, naturally, but a plan like this could take weeks if they don’t want her to start suspecting anything. Besides, there’s the fact that Shuuhei and Rukia are barely even acquaintances. Even if Rukia liking The Beatles was public knowledge, he doesn’t imagine the conversation going well.

“What if you ask her outright?” he suggests to Renji, on the walk back to their respective divisions after another meeting of the Men’s Shinigami Association. “Get her to burn you a CD, or something. Could work, couldn’t it?”

“It’s too obvious,” Renji says, “or it will be too obvious, when we perform the same set of songs she gave me. There’s elegance in being subtle.”

Shuuhei thinks he could strangle Renji there and there, listening to him parrot Kuchiki Byakuya’s words. What’s the point of being subtle, when the whole thing might as well be a confession? Whatever. Shuuhei makes the executive decision to shelve the whole discussion until Madarame’s return, figuring that neither he nor Kira are strong enough to deal with Renji’s contradictory character.

+

Madarame cares little about figuring out the setlist. “Leave it entirely to Renji,” he suggests, as if that’s ever a good idea. “Have him figure out what Rukia likes. He’s her friend, isn’t he? It should be simple enough.”

Should, but it never is, not with Renji.

“I think you should forego the idea entirely,” Ayasegawa says. He’s tagged along with Madarame to their latest practice-turned-meeting—something about Madarame losing a bet—and inserted himself right into the conversation like he belonged there. “Naturally, if you figure out her favorite songs, you should try to find a way to include them, but it is awfully inelegant to just throw together all her favorites like that.”

“So what do you suggest we do?” Kira’s face is sour, as it has been for the entire time since Ayasegawa walked in. “What’s your genius idea?”

Ayasegawa ignores his pointed tone. “You’ve got two options,” he says. He lifts one finger, tracks his eyes over the four in front of him, “one, since it’s essentially Renji’s love letter to Rukia, make it a full-blown confession. Fill the setlist with love songs, and love songs only. Especially ones that work in their context.”

Kira’s face only sours more at sharing a thought process with Ayasegawa, while Shuuhei nods, hanging onto his every word. “And two?”

“Two,” Ayasegawa lifts another finger, eyes snapping to Shuuhei’s, “pick the songs that make you look the most desirable. Make it a real show.” He drops his hands, resting them on his thighs, “of course, it all matters on how confident you are in your abilities. And how serious you are, about playing in front of a crowd.” He pauses, lets that brew, before looking at Renji, “and, I imagine, about Rukia.”

“A real show?” Renji asks, interest piqued.

“He’s got this whole idea,” Madarame says, “I told him that it’s not about that, that it’s all for your sake, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“That’s because it’s a better idea that just love songs,” Ayasegawa says. “That’d make sense, if Renji was singing. If he was a stand-in for Lennon or McCartney, but he’s not. Therefore, if you want this to work, you have to market him to Rukia. So to speak.”

“He’s not a piece of meat,” Kira says in protest. “We’re not marketing anything.”

“No, it makes sense,” Shuuhei says. Kira gapes at him at his side and Shuuhei knows he’s going to hear baseless accusations of being cockblind later, but Ayasegawa is making sense. “We should probably consider it less of a confession, and more an attempt to get Rukia to notice Renji. He may as well be a piece of meat.”

“Do I get no say in this?”

“Do you disagree?” Shuuhei asks. “It’s the most sensical plan we’ve had, so far. And if you want to go back to playing only Rukia’s favorites, you better produce a list of them.”

Renji leans back in his seat, sighs as he thinks about it. Shuuhei can practically see the gears turning in his mind and the rest of them wait, silently, before Renji’s skin reddens gradually, and he looks back at them.

“Fine,” he bites down, sounding unsatisfied, even if the red trailing under his uniform tells a different story. “Fine, it makes sense. We can go with that.”

“Great,” Ayasegawa clasps his hands together. “I’ll work on putting together the preliminary setlist, then.”

“I have one note, though,” Renji says. “I do think—even with this plan—we should include at least some of Rukia’s favorites.”

“Of course. Arrangements can be made.”

Renji nods, satisfied. Kira doesn’t produce anymore complaints, even if he still looks vaguely unhappy—though that’s just his resting face, Shuuhei’s come to find out over the years. Madarame glances around the rest of them before he stands, rolls his shoulders, and demands they get to practicing.

For some reason, Ayasegawa doesn’t leave, remains sitting in front of the table, even as Renji drags out the drum set, and the rest of them set their guitars in place. When he’s still there after they’re finished and about to start practice with their rendition of You’re Going To Lose That Girl, Shuuhei takes the opportunity Madarame’s untuned guitar gives him to pull him aside.

“Is he not leaving?” he asks, as Madarame plays with the strings, tightening and untightening them in turn. He holds out the little machine from Chad, and Madarame reaches to turn his wrist so he can read the output. “You didn’t invite him to stay through the whole thing, did you?”

“Hm?” Shuuhei repeats his words and Madarame scowls at him. “You’re being serious? Don’t tell me you have performance anxiety. If this shit actually works, you’re going to be performing in front of crowds, you dimwit.”

Performing in front of crowds is not as stress-worthy as performing in front of Ayasegawa, Shuuhei doesn’t say. Madarame wouldn’t understand the distinction.

“I don’t have performance anxiety,” Shuuhei goes with instead, and scrambles to follow up with something that sounds believable enough before Madarame starts comparing him to Renji. “We’re just not ready to perform in front of anyone. We still sound like dogshit.”

Madarame has the audacity to laugh, reaching out to thwack Shuuhei’s shoulder. “Hisagi,” he says, “you’re an actual Beatles fan. You’re always going to think we sound like dogshit.”

And so, whatever else Shuuhei can come up with falls on deaf ears, because Madarame is still in stitches after that simple proclamation. Practice goes on, and Ayasegawa stays at the table, shifting through records, not glancing up from them even once, so far as Shuuhei can tell. Shuuhei wonders if they’re so bad that Ayasegawa has to concentrate on shutting them out, and then wonders why he even cares so much, and then has to stop wondering because he’s stuttering to a stop in the middle of Devil In Her Heart, line forgotten, and Kira looks like he’s debating whether it’s better to kill him or himself.

Practice goes on.

By the time Madarame calls it quits, muttering something about official business and slipping out before any of them can contest—if anyone should have official business to worry about in their group of four, it’s much more likely to be the three lieutenants—it’s already late. Though practice can hardly be considered as exhausting as their other day-to-day activities, Shuuhei still feels worn-out as he hides his guitar in its case. His voice has grown coarse, scratchy from misuse, the kind of thing they’ve learned Kira’s collection of healing kidou doesn’t help.

“That last one is right on the money,” Kira says, referring to Slow Down. “Especially the lyrics at the end. Maybe we should include it?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Renji says. He doesn’t bother moving from his seat as Kira and Shuuhei start gathering up everything, in typical Renji fashion. “Rukia’d probably castrate me if I called her my ‘best little woman,’ even indirectly.”

Shuuhei thinks that’s a little presumptuous, considering the entirety of Renji and Rukia’s recent conversations are made up of smalltalk. Then he thinks of Rukia’s character, and figures that’s just about right.

“Lucky for you, Hisagi would be doing that instead,” Kira says.

“Ah,” Renji pauses. “Then yes, maybe?”

“It’s not even a Beatles original,” Shuuhei cuts in, after clearing his throat. He zips up his guitar case, leaves it ready to go by the door. In contrast to Kira and Madarame, he does not trust the chaos in Renji’s place enough to leave his beloved baby there. “We’re not playing it.”

That, and Rukia would probably blow over, even if the rest of the lyrics might as well have been written specifically for Renji and Rukia’s situation. Shuuhei does not particularly mind severing his ties with Rukia, even if Renji might, but he does mind severing his ties with Kuchiki, who’d probably make the rest of his life in the Gotei Thirteen a living hell.

“I think you should play it,” Ayasegawa says. Shuuhei does not get startled, nor trip into the wall. “It makes for a good drum performance. You need as many of those as you can get, if you want to spotlight Renji.”

“See?” Kira holds out his hands, the fact that he’s agreeing with Ayasegawa clearly not done processing yet. “We should include it.”

Obviously he doesn’t expect Shuuhei to agree with him but, judging by his already smug expression, he knows Shuuhei will drop it. Though the last thing Shuuhei wants to do is give him the pleasure of complying, he does so, anyway, figuring the stakes are low enough that he can ignore them for now and save the actual argument for a later time. Like when his vocal chords are fully functional again.

He still gets his fill of karma when the gears in Kira’s head finish turning and Kira’s face sours.

“Never mind, maybe you’re right,” Kira mutters, then leaves Renji’s place in record time.

Though they typically leave together, Shuuhei doesn’t bother following suit, instead stopping to peer over Ayasegawa’s shoulder. He expects to see a scrawled out setlist in progress; he doesn’t expect Ayasegawa to cover it with his hand.

“No peeking,” he tells him. “Everyone will get to see it in due time.”

Shuuhei’s not above begging to see it earlier, but he is above doing so in front of Renji. Unfortunately. “Just wondering if you added Slow Down. You really think we should include it?”

“If Kuchiki castrating you for it is a real possibility, I can be persuaded to drop it,” Ayasegawa says.

“I’ll castrate the both of you, if you don’t leave,” Renji says. “No persuading under my roof.”

+

They leave; Shuuhei hikes his guitar case over his shoulder, next to his zanpakutou, and Ayasegawa gathers all the records Shuuhei brought over in his hands, holds them gingerly in front of his chest. Other than the occasional shinigami out on patrol they run into, the Seireitei is quiet at this time, and Ayasegawa is needled into telling Shuuhei some of the songs he’d like to include on the setlist, like I Want To Hold Your Hand and Boys.

“I didn’t know you cared about the Beatles enough to help us with this,” Shuuhei says, when they come to a natural stop in front of the Ninth division. “I didn’t really know you cared about them at all.”

Ayasegawa smiles like he knows something Shuuhei doesn’t. “It’s a newfound interest,” he says. “I promise to be impartial when putting together the setlist, though. I won’t let my personal favorites sway me.”

“What are your favorites?”

“I’ll tell you another time,” Ayasegawa says. He readjusts the vinyls in his hands, hides the scrawled-on piece of paper when his list peeks out. “You sure you don’t mind if I take these with me? I can probably get Urahara to hook me up with all their CDs instead, if it’s a problem.”

“It’s fine,” Shuuhei says. He can at least trust Ayasegawa to be careful with them—and, with how he’s schooled the entirety of the Eleventh into obedience, he doubts any of them would risk doing anything to his belongings, even if on accident. “Are you planning on going through all of them?”

“Only if I need my memory revitalized.” Ayasegawa shuffles the records in his hands some more while Shuuhei shuffles his feet. The wind whistles in between them, and Shuuhei tries not to be aware of just how silent the rest of the Seireitei is. “You know, I’m glad the Renji thing worked out.”

“The drums, you mean?”

“Yeah,” Ayasegawa says. Shuuhei straightens, shifts his gaze from the ground back to Ayasegawa, who as always seems amused. “Otherwise, I’d probably be disappointed today. As it stands, though, I liked your performance.”

Shuuhei bites down on his tongue before he can blurt out something stupid like I didn’t know you were paying attention or I thought we were terrible. “Really?” and that’s considerably even worse, given how in need of praise he sounds.

“The rest of your band could stand to improve before you start actually performing, though,” Ayasegawa says. Shuuhei blinks, furrows his brows, and opens his mouth, but Ayasegawa smiles and he shuts it immediately. “Goodnight, Hisagi.”

“Goodnight,” Shuuhei parrots. Ayasegawa leaves; Shuuhei stands there until he’s gone from his field of sight, before turning to walk back to his place. Only after he gets there, brews some tea and stares into it, does he realize just how out of the way the Ninth division is, when you’re on your way to the Eleventh.

+

Ayasegawa becomes a semi-permanent fixture in their practices, taking on the role of their unofficial manager. More often than not, he busies himself at the table going through records or, a few times, going through overdue paperwork of his own. It’s rare that he pays attention to their playing—rare that he shows it, maybe, actually bothers watching. It’s even rarer that he requests they play a particular song but it happens, occasionally.

“I’ve Just Seen A Face is one of my favorites,” he tells Shuuhei after he requests they play it one practice. He says it like a secret, leaning in close to Shuuhei, his hand already resting in the crook of his elbow.

“Really,” Shuuhei says, striving to get the brick wall of the year award.

“There’s A Place, too,” Ayasegawa muses. He hums a bit of it into the otherwise silent night, fingers tapping along to the beat on Shuuhei’s arm as he walks him home. “I think of you and things you do, go ‘round my head, the things you said…”

Shuuhei leans in closer to catch his low singing, so close the feather by Ayasegawa’s eye tickles his neck. “You sure you don’t want to switch in for Madarame?”

“I think Ikkaku would kill me,” Ayasegawa says, “and you, for suggesting it.”

“I won’t tell him if you won’t,” Shuuhei offers; Ayasegawa laughs before accepting.

Their walk back to the Ninth becomes customary. Kira tags along a couple of times before he starts conveniently coming up with excuses to go his own way and Madarame tends to run off on his own as soon as practice ends. Renji never makes a move to leave with them—unless they’ve elected to go out to grab something to eat, of course, in which case he’s the first one out the door and telling the rest of them to hurry up.

Other than those rare occasions, though, Ayasegawa waits for Shuuhei without fail after every practice he sits in on, and Shuuhei obediently offers his elbow when they set for the Ninth. It’s stupid just how much he looks forward to it, Shuuhei is self-aware enough to pick up on that. Stupid, and so naive, so cruelly puppy love, but he can’t stop the way he perks up when Ayasegawa says his name and holds the door open.

“Like a damn dog,” Renji says, when he and Kira take advantage of Shuuhei taking them out for lunch to poke fun at him. “All he has to do is jangle the leash at the door and you’re following him out.”

Not true, Shuuhei has enough dignity left in him to insist, even as Renji and Kira fall into mindless giggles. Not true—really, Shuuhei’s not that bad around Ayasegawa. So what if he likes walking home with him? If he hangs on to every word Ayasegawa says? If he—okay, maybe Renji has a point hidden in there somewhere. But he doesn’t have any room to speak, considering he’s much worse about Rukia, anyway. And Shuuhei at least talks to Ayasegawa regularly, going past small talk; Renji can’t even say that.

Despite all that, Renji still somehow comes out with the upper hand, because of course he does.

It’s late. They’ve wrapped up since Madarame had to run off, again, and Renji has retreated to his futon, while Shuuhei and Kira shuffle over to his couch, and Shuuhei walks Kira through all the Till There Was You chords he still messes up. Their post-practice practice is short-lived, because half-way through the song Ayasegawa gets up, shuffles his papers, and clears his throat.

He doesn’t even need to say Shuuhei’s name.

“Get Madarame to help you with the rest of the song,” Shuuhei says, standing up so fast he nearly topples over, before going to stash his guitar in its case. “If you still can’t get it with his help, then you know where to find me.”

“Aw,” Kira says, laughter bursting at the seams of his words, “but I was getting it, just now. You really can’t stay till we finish?”

Shuuhei gives him a pointed look, embarrassed. Kira looks like he’s moments away from pissing himself, his entire face reddening.

“If you still can’t get it with his help, then give up,” Shuuhei amends. He glances at Ayasegawa, who looks privately amused as he lingers by the door, and tries not to wither; of course Ayasegawa has to catch note of the teasing Shuuhei gets, as if it isn’t enough on its own. “Consider my office off-limits.”

“That true for all of us?” Renji asks.

“I need my peace and quiet.” It’s the wrong thing to say. Kira snorts and tries desperately to cover it up with a cough, while Renji sucks in all the air around him to try and control his amusement. When Shuuhei and Ayasegawa leave and close the door, laughter explodes in the room like an ill-timed bomb.

Embarrassing, Shuuhei thinks, and forgets about it entirely when Ayasegawa anchors his hand on his elbow.

“Is it off-limits for me, too?”

“Hm?”

Ayasegawa leans in closer, making the rhythm of Shuuhei’s steps stutter. “Your office.” He says it like it’s an inside joke between them, like it’s at the expense of Kira and Renji instead of at the expense of Shuuhei. “Your peace and quiet.”

“You’re not them, are you?

He means to backtrack as soon as he says it, but Ayasegawa preens, satisfied, eyes shining when he looks up at Shuuhei through his lashes, and Shuuhei’s mind runs completely blank.

+

Kira doesn’t come by Shuuhei’s office the next day to beg him for help with the chords; Ayasegawa doesn’t, either. No one does, in fact, because the end of the month comes around and Shuuhei relocates to the Seireitei Monthly offices instead, trying his best not to sulk at his desk as Yamada presents him with the lists of articles missing. Ryunosuke is out on some farcical mission to the living world, while Sannen and Yagamo are somewhere out of Seireitei bounds for another. The rest of his subordinates are either completely busy, trying to make the issue presentable, or completely unreliable for tasks like retrieving articles from people like Matsumoto or Kyouraku.

Which means, of course, that the task of runner is left to Shuuhei. And it doesn’t even give him the excuse to stop by the Eleventh; Madarame’s already delivered the articles ahead of time.

“Ah, Hisagi!” Matsumoto exclaims as soon as Shuuhei enters her and Hitsugaya’s office, to Hitsugaya’s clear annoyance. Shuuhei shoots him a glance, but Hitsugaya doesn’t even bother looking up from whatever report he’s filling out as Matsumoto crosses the room to the door, hair still disheveled from what must’ve been her middle-of-the-day nap. “What brings you here? Business or pleasure?”

Eh. “Business, unfortunately.”

“And here I was, hoping you were going to invite me out for drinks,” Matsumoto teases, “or maybe that’s your business?”

Hitsugaya tsks from his desk

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, chastising both Matsumoto and Shuuhei in one go. Mild irritation brews under Shuuhei’s skin; though Hitsugaya outranks him, he still looks like a child. “It’s too early for drinking.”

“And too late to work,” Matsumoto says, but she’s not set on proving her point, smiling easily, perpetually amused. It’s not as enchanting on her—not anymore, at least—as it is on Ayasegawa, but Shuuhei still catches himself pausing. “For us and for you, Hisagi. Really, any place now would welcome us with open arms—”

“Matsumoto,” Hitsugaya chastises again, this time only her. She shares a private smile and eye roll with Shuuhei. “Be serious.”

“I came by for your Seireitei Monthly piece,” Shuuhei says. “any chance you have it ready?”

Surprisingly, Matsumoto does produce her piece. Shuuhei only skims it—Matsumoto writes well, usually, and it’s not like he’d give it back to her if it was bad, not willing to risk her going beyond the deadline when trying to rework it. Whatever she’s written will have to do. And, if not, Ichibanboshi is a great editor.

She follows him outside under the guise of fetching Hitsugaya whatever he wants, stopping him a few steps away from the door with a hand on his arm. “let me know when you’re free, though,” she says, “we should go out for drinks! With Kira, too. We haven’t gone out, the three of us, in forever… I feel like you’re always busy these days, off doing your own thing.”

“You know how it is,” Shuuhei tells her noncommittally, figuring it’s best if they don’t go out for drinks anytime soon, lest a drunk Kira starts spewing out all the misgivings of their Beatles cover band. Or lest Shuuhei starts doing that; that’s much more possible, unfortunately. Though… wait. “The three of us?”

“It’s much easier to drag Kira out than it is you,” Matsumoto says. “well. Nowadays, at least.”

Shuuhei eyes her, trying to figure out if Kira’s let their secret spill on one of those occasions that she’s dragged him out. It’s an open enough secret to begin with, but better safe than sorry.

“I’ll keep you in the know if my schedule clears,” Shuuhei says.

Matsumoto hums as if she understands, as if she’s going to let him off the hook. Because the universe is eternally against him and eternally with Matsumoto, they both spot Kira skulking across the street at the same time.

“Hah,” Matsumoto huffs, smile coming through in her eyes before it catches the corners of her lips. “You sure you don’t have enough time for a quick drink now?”

he doesn’t.

Inevitably, he ends up joining Matsumoto and Kira anyway. The three of them end up in one of the izakayas to be found in the Fourth division. The Fourth, because it’s the furthest from the Tenth and Matsumoto doesn’t want to risk Hitsugaya stumbling across them; because it’s far enough from the Ninth that Shuuhei can pretend the upcoming issue of Seireitei Monthly isn’t his responsibility; because Kira still carries a lingering affection for the division from his years spent there.

“You know, you never said what exactly you’re so busy with,” Matsumoto says. Her voice has turned into a low drawl, and she’s leaning heavily on Kira as she continues drinking, while Shuuhei sits and swirls the sake in his cup. He’s nursing it today, truly nursing it, and regretting the choice with every passing moment. “Is the Ninth in some crisis or something?”

Kira snorts into his glass. “Or something,” he says, equally as far gone as Matsumoto.

“Or something,” Shuuhei repeats.

“It’s not just Seireitei Monthly, is it?” Matsumoto asks.

“Not exactly,” Shuuhei says, before he snaps his fingers at Kira and sits up, faintly remembering the list Ryunosuke rattled off to him earlier that day. “Right. Do you have your next chapter ready for me, or do you need another extension? Because if yes, you should’ve told me two weeks ago.”

Kira sinks in his seat, gives him a look over the rim of his glass before he sets it down. “You’re not seriously bringing this up now, are you?”

“Ever the workaholic,” Matsumoto muses.

“We go into print tomorrow,” Shuuhei says; Matsumoto giggles, muttering something about the collective ‘we’ and the hive mind of the Ninth. “Do you have it ready?”

Kira sinks even further to the floor. If not for his story pulling in a surprisingly large amount of readers, Shuuhei would’ve axed it months ago. Ugh. Another thing Kira excels at, despite not bothering to put in more effort than strictly necessary.

“I… should probably make the deadline.”

“The deadline was yesterday,” Shuuhei says.

“Ah,” Kira says. He lifts his glass again, speaks into it, “then I will not make the deadline.”

“Right,” Shuuhei says. He’s still bitter over Kira pulling out last minute last month. Regardless of whether it was because of band business or not, it meant scrambling to find something to fill in the space left behind by his piece, meant Shuuhei getting berated by Kuchiki Byakuya for releasing a subpar volume. Again. He’ll never understand Renji’s obsession with appealing to him. “But you’ll have it done for next month?”

“Probably,” Kira shrugs.

Shuuhei sighs, knocks back his glass, and watches as Matsumoto rises to pour him another immediately. “Probably. Let me know ahead of time if you won’t make it, will you?”

“‘course,” Kira nods, but his eyes veer uncomfortably around the place until they land on Matsumoto. They linger on her before widening, and his smile spreads as he shoots a quick glance at Shuuhei. “Say,” he starts, “what do you think about The Beatles, Matsumoto?”

“The Beatles?” Matsumoto repeats.

“Kira, maybe you should—”

“Calm down,” Kira shoots him a look. I’ve got this, he means to say, and Shuuhei, against his better judgment, shuts his mouth. It’s good to suss out their audience beforehand—especially if they want the band to last beyond Renji’s confession. Do they want that? Shuuhei certainly does, if only as an excuse to continue the practices and long walks home. And because he cares about their band. Obviously. “So? What do you think about them?”

She’s quiet for a few long moments. Shuuhei, all of a sudden, nervous, doesn’t even notice he’s run out of anything to drink until he sets his cup down and Kira reaches to pour him another.

“Well,” she says, “aren’t they passé?”

“Passé!” Kira exclaims later, when Matsumoto veered her own way and he trailed after Shuuhei to the Ninth division, in a bastardization of Shuuhei and Ayasegawa’s pastime. “Passé. Can you believe she said that?”

“So what,” Shuuhei says.

He’s a little hurt, sure, but the hurt metabolized into irritation soon enough when Kira wouldn’t stop complaining. The discussion that followed Matsumoto’s declaration lasted long into their stay at the izakaya, too, and Shuuhei drank more than he meant to. The cold air is sobering and it’s been some time since his last drink, but he’s a lightweight to begin with; all of this is spelling nothing but misfortune for his division, when Seireitei either goes into print a day later than scheduled or prints with copious mistakes and Kuchiki chooses the Ninth as the target of his anger for the week. 

“So? So?” Kira says, incredulous. “I can’t believe this. You really don’t care?”

“Kira,” Shuuhei says, stopping in front of the doors to the Seireitei Monthly offices. “Why do you care so much?”

Kira stills. He pauses, narrows his eyes, opens and closes his mouth in turns. “I don’t,” he says after a moment, words awfully stilted. “I just don’t want our cover band to be a commercial failure. If Matsumoto thinks it’s passé—”

“It doesn’t matter what she thinks,” except it does, because Matsumoto’s opinion on pop culture—on living world culture—tends to rule the rest of the shinigami’s thoughts. Even so, there’s little time for Shuuhei to dwell on that, not after all the time he wasted entertaining her and Kira. For now, it’s the last thing on his mind. “It matters only what Rukia thinks, and she loves The Beatles, no matter how passé Matsumoto thinks they are.”

A part of Shuuhei feels bad for how Kira’s shoulders slope. “I guess,” he says, “whatever. I’ll see you at the Men’s Shinigami Association meeting tomorrow.”

Without thinking about it, Shuuhei gives him a salute; Kira doesn’t comment as he slinks away. Shuuhei tracks his movements for a moment, unwilling to open the door and disappear back into the world of Seireitei Monthly till the issue is passable. He stands there until he can no longer bide his time, and only then opens the door. The smell of paper floods his senses as he steps inside, and he heads for his chair, falling down in it and dropping the articles he’s managed to gather—most, but not all—atop of the rest of the papers on his desk.

He sighs.

In front of him, Ayasegawa clears his throat.

Shuuhei’s eyes snap up. Ayasegawa is sitting in front of his desk, eyes beyond amused and eyebrows raised, and Shuuhei nearly presses his hands to his cheeks to check if he’s flushed, still burning red from the alcohol that shouldn’t even be in his system.

“Not interrupting anything, I hope,” Ayasegawa says.

“Er… no,” Shuuhei says. He clears his throat, too, finds it uncomfortably tight, and sits up straighter in his desk. “Were you waiting for me?”

Ayasegawa spares a glance to his side—Shuuhei follows his eyes to spot Yamada curled up by his desk, sleeping soundly. “You don’t think I stopped here to visit Yamada, do you?”

“Did you wait long?”

“A bit,” Ayasegawa says. Shuuhei searches his face for any traces of annoyance and finds none. Or at the very least very little, though the way his feathers tilt seems worrying at best. “You’re not busy now, are you?”

Eh… he should be. Common sense tells him to urge Ayasegawa out and get on with this month’s issue of Seireitei Monthly. Practically every bone in his body tells him to do the opposite.

“Not really,” he says, before biting down on his tongue. “Sort of,” he amends, “why?”

“I finished the setlist,” Ayasegawa says. He emanates pride in place of reiatsu, holding what Shuuhei presumes to be the setlist to his chest, shielding it from prying eyes. “I thought you might want to take a look?”

“What happened to everyone seeing it at the same time?”

“You should never complain about having insider info,” Ayasegawa says, “or about having special privileges, lest they get taken away.”

Shuuhei’s throat runs dry. He risk a glance at Yamada—still sleeping—before his eyes flit to Ayasegawa’s. “Special privileges?”

“Are you going to use them or no?” Ayasegawa asks, and though his words are pointed, his gaze is anything but. Under the desk, he knocks Shuuhei’s foot with his own. “I can just save this till practice, if you’re going to be difficult about it.”

“I’ll take a look,” Shuuhei says. Instead of simply passing the setlist over the desk, Ayasegawa stands from his seat to join Shuuhei at the other side, leaning against it. He does a poor job of not letting his satisfaction show as Shuuhei skims it, making note of the titles and thinking of how well Renji would fare, performing them, how Rukia would react. Trying to, anyway; Ayasegawa, mixed with the alcohol residue in his system, is making it hard for him to think. “Mm… why Paperback Writer?”

“a bit of bias at play,” Ayasegawa admits.

Shuuhei hums. He turns in his chair and, when he looks up, Ayasegawa’s unnervingly closer than before. “I thought you were supposed to remain impartial. Is it one of your favorites?” he asks, though he figures that’s not the case as soon as he says it.

“Not exactly,” Ayasegawa says, before he leans further into Shuuhei’s space to drag his finger down the list, until it ends on I Want You (She’s So Heavy). he taps it twice, “anyway, what I really wanted to ask you about… I think I Want You should stay, but it depends on whether you think you could manage all the instrumentals.”

“Mhm.” Ayasegawa smells like smoke; Shuuhei wonders if the Eleventh division held a campfire today, in celebration of one thing or another. Smoke and musk, mixing in with inexplicable citrus. “I think we can manage.”

“Great,” Ayasegawa says and his finger slides down the list, to the penultimate position, where he’s scribbled in What You’re Doing and I’m A Loser. “Either of these should be included, though I’m divided on which one.”

“Specifically catered to Rukia and Renji?”

“Yeah,” Ayasegawa says. He leans back, “either one works. Renji’s the type to take too much offense from being told to play I’m A Loser, but Rukia’s the type to like it. What do you think?”

Hm… all Shuuhei thinks is that he can’t really focus, not with Ayasegawa continuously knocking his knee into his thigh. “Renji should probably grovel some, if we want it to work.”

Ayasegawa smiles. “So I’m A Loser?”

“We can leave the choice to him,” Shuuhei starts, before immediately backtracking. If there’s one thing Renji’s good at it, his mind clears for a moment to think, it’s choosing the wrong thing. “No, let’s go with I’m A Loser.” His eyes skip through the list again, desperately trying to find a topic that’s not the way Ayasegawa’s hair tickles his skin. “No Slow Down?”

“Not worth the risk,” Ayasegawa knocks his knee into Shuuhei’s thigh again, smile not easing any. “I was going to add All I’ve Got To Do instead.”

“Mm. Why didn’t you?"

“Thought Rukia might think Renji presumptuous,” Ayasegawa says. Shuuhei can agree with that. Besides, given Rukia and Renji’s long-lived history of miscommunication, it’s best to make things as clear between them as possible. “Still, you should play it on practice. I’d like to see you sing it.”

There’s only so much Shuuhei can do not to redden and, judging by how amused Ayasegawa’s smile becomes, it doesn’t work. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ayasegawa says. “You think there’s any truth to the lyrics?”

Shuuhei pauses. What? He runs through the lyrics of All I’ve Got To Do, tries to remember if there was any sort of backstory released for the song—ah. “Maybe,” he says, trying to think. His mind is too slow tonight for any sort of detailed insight, too overrun with Ayasegawa and the sake Matsumoto and Kira kept pouring him. “Definitely, so long as Kuchiki isn’t anywhere in proximity.”

It’s clearly not the response Ayasegawa expects; he blinks, before he straightens, leaning away from Shuuhei’s reach.

“Kuchiki?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Shuuhei says, “I mean, there was the entire near-execution debacle…” he trails off, wondering how much of Aizen’s mastermind planning he should factor into the equation; had it not been orchestrated by him, would Renji have acted differently? Does it even matter, in the context of The Beatles’ lyrics? Probably not. “Eh, whatever. It works, coming from Renji. I’m not sure whether Rukia would be as quick to offer Renji anything, but your guess is as good as mine.”

Ayasegawa kicks at the leg of Shuuhei’s chair. “I guess,” he says, nose faintly twisting before his face smooths over. His reiatsu pulses somewhere in the background, vaguely disappointed. “So, what do you think about the setlist?”

“Right,” Shuuhei’s eyes linger on Ayasegawa, before trailing down to the setlist. “Right. Uh… I think it’s fine,” he offers it back to Ayasegawa, “Kira might give you some trouble for it, but that’ll be just him being Kira.”

“Right,” Ayasegawa says. “great. I’ll see you at practice, then. Good luck with your work.”

“Thanks,” Shuuhei mutters. He worries his lip between his teeth as Ayasegawa turns to leave. He blew his chance, that much he can tell—just can’t figure out why or how or what exactly. “Ayasegawa,” he says, standing up so fast his chair skids backwards; Ayasegawa turns and, as Shuuhei searches for the right thing to say, he finds himself at a loss. Again. “Where are you headed?”

Ayasegawa gives him a funny look. “Back to the Eleventh.”

Shuuhei gathers the papers closest to him on his desk, shuffles them into a neat enough pile. “I’ll go with you,” he says, maneuvering his way around his desk to join Ayasegawa by the door. “I have some business with Madarame.”

“With Ikkaku,” Ayasegawa says, raising his brows, lips slipping into a smile. “Really? What kind of business?”

“You know…” Shuuhei trails off, hoping Ayasegawa will take it easy on him. He does not. “Band business?”

“Mhm,” Ayasegawa hums. He glances at the papers in Shuuhei’s hands and Shuuhei, knowing it’s a futile mission to begin with, does his best to subtly switch out the article that’s on top for something related to their Beatles cover band before Ayasegawa’s gaze trails back to meet his. “Don’t you have the next issue of Seireitei Monthly to publish? I imagine you’re not going to leave Yamada to do all the work.”

Seireitei Monthly. Right. Shuuhei glances over his shoulder at Yamada again, who’s still very much asleep by his desk. Right. Ayasegawa will have to wait, he thinks, and hopes his disappointment doesn’t come through on his face.

“No,” he admits.

Ayasegawa hums again.

“No,” he echoes, before he balances his hand on Shuuhei’s wrist for a moment, fingers resting fleetingly by his pulse. “Hisagi,” he says, “you know you can call me Yumichika, right? Not just can. I’d prefer it if you did.”

“Oh. Right. Yumichika,” Shuuhei says, involuntarily testing it out. Ayasegawa’s gaze runs praising and even if Shuuhei wanted to look away, he wouldn’t be able to. “Likewise. Naturally.”

Ayasegawa smiles, this time full-fledged and genuine, even if his eyes shine, teasing. “There you go. You want me to take any of those official band papers you have to Ikkaku, and save you the journey?”

“I’ll just go some other time,” Shuuhei says.

“Of course. See you at practice, then,” he says, again, “Shuuhei.”

He slips out of the office and silence fills it for a moment, broken only by the loud beating of Shuuhei’s heart that sends blood rushing past his ears with every passing second. He presses the backs of his hands to his cheeks, then, feels heat radiating off him in waves, before the quiet is cut off as Yamada honest-to-god squees, no longer pretending to be asleep.

Of course. Shuuhei hides his face in his hands.

+

Yamada spends the next thirty minutes forgetting how timid he is usually, and explaining the ten sacred fudanshi commandments to Shuuhei, who has to try very hard not to drive his zanpakutou through his own stomach.

+

It’s during the next practice that Yumichika presents his setlist; Kira finds several baseless problems with it and spends the next hour wasting everyone’s time debating them; the setlist stays. For the most part, Renji seems to be satisfied with it, even if he does whine a little about I’m A Loser being included. When Yumichika introduces him to what he calls the three main benefits of groveling, Renji shuts up pretty quickly and agrees it’s a good pick.

The rest of practice is spent going through all the songs on the setlist to see how well they fare. Madarame does great with Twist And Shout, and they let Renji on the mic to do some of the back vocals for I’m A Loser. He’s still whining more than he is singing, but: the sentiment is there. That’ll have to be enough for Rukia.

Despite their fair number of hiccups, they still manage to sound good. Not just better than before; actually good.

“Shit,” Madarame says, as they finish their rendition of Paperback Writer. “Shit, we might actually make this happen.”

“Shit,” Kira agrees, sweat matting his fringe to his forehead.

“You guys think it’ll be enough for Rukia?”

“If she’s not at least impressed, it’s her loss,” Yumichika says. He’s actually bothered to watch this practice; unnerving, if nothing else, his gaze heavy on Shuuhei, but he looks satisfied with their performance, too. “Have you thought about where to perform? I’m sure something can be arranged in Seireitei, but given how much time Rukia spends in the living world…”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Kira admits. The endorphins from practice haven’t dulled enough for him to start throwing hissy fits over agreeing with Yumichika—not yet, at least. Shuuhei estimates they have about fifteen minutes before he starts pulling faces and bitching about it. “She’s stationed down there, anyway. It’ll be easier for us to go to her instead of waiting for her to come to us.”

“We can grill the substitute shinigami for what she likes, too,” Shuuhei says.

Renji snaps his fingers. “Ichigo! Right, should’ve thought of him earlier. How soon can we get a permit to go to the living world?”

“Ask Kuchiki,” Madarame throws out, amused at the mere idea. “I’m sure he’d be willing to help.”

“Maybe you should ask for his approval on this whole thing, too,” Kira says. “Ask for her hand, that sort of thing. Only right to do that, no?”

“You think so?”

It’s all too easy to tune out their conversation, the way Kira and Madarame join forces to lead Renji on by now familiar, the way Renji doesn’t get in on the joke even more so. Shuuhei concentrates instead on stashing his guitar in its case, pressing it closed, and zipping it up, hands moving slowly. By the time he stands and hoists it over his back, Yumichika’s still sitting by the low table.

Shuuhei peers over his shoulder, at the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album laid in front of him. “Sgt. Pepper?”

Yumichika smiles, a faint thing, before he traces the four figures on the vinyl with his finger. “Have you thought about using the uniforms for the live confession? They’re the kind of showy that could work.”

Shuuhei peers at the album some more, at the path Yumichika’s finger takes, tries to imagine the four of them in the awfully bright uniforms. If they went by position, Renji’s red hair would clash terribly with Ringo’s hot pink uniform. He can’t imagine Madarame pulling off Harrison’s hat, either. It was in the talks months earlier and now, the more he thinks about it, the more glad he is the idea never came to be.

“Renji wouldn’t pull off the pink,” Shuuhei says, “which would defeat the whole purpose, since Rukia wouldn’t spare him a glance. Or, if she did, it would only be to notice how terrible he looks.”

“Maybe she’d like it,” Yumichika says.

“You can’t honestly think that.”

“Eh,” Yumichika says. He folds his hands against his thighs, turns to face Shuuhei. Delight dances in his eyes, in the curve of his smile. “I think if this whole thing is to work, she has to have a thing for forlorn men to begin with.”

Despite himself, Shuuhei returns the smile, not even bothering to put up an insulted act. “You think we’re forlorn?”

Yumichika glances behind Shuuhei, where the discussion whether Renji should or should not ask Kuchiki for Rukia’s hand is still ongoing. “Renji is,” he says. “Kira’s woe-is-me hair doesn’t really help matters. and Ikkaku… he’s barking into the mic more than he is singing. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.”

“Sure,” Shuuhei says. “What about me?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” Yumichika tells him, as if compliments are ever a given with him. “Though… for what it’s worth, I think you’d look good in the green.”

“Not forlorn?”

“No,” Yumichika says. “Besides, there’s a certain appeal to men in uniform.”

“I’d imagine Rukia’d prefer Renji’s regular uniform to the hot pink one,” Shuuhei says.

“I’d imagine you’d be surprised,” Yumichika mutters.

The actual uniforms—if they can be called that—that they decided on get delivered to Shuuhei’s office less than a week later. The big, brown box they’re in is waiting for him by the door as he returns from a lunch out with Yumichika, momentarily giving him pause before he tears it often to see the carefully folded clothes and the mocking note from Urahara. They’re the exact kind of thing that calls for an emergency band meeting.

Naturally, Shuuhei calls an emergency band meeting.

Renji is unimpressed, peering into his mirror from different angles. “You really think this looks good?”

Madarame claps his back so hard Renji almost stumbles into the mirror, nearly adding another seven years to his back catalogue of bad luck. “You don’t?”

“I just don’t know if Rukia likes this sort of thing,” Renji says. He shifts to make way for Madarame, who grins at himself in the mirror. Shuuhei wishes the measurements were done wrong and the suits came back ill-fitting, if only so Madarame would look a little less self-satisfied. At least Kira looks unhappy, tugging at his collar and frowning at his slacks. “Maybe the Sgt. Pepper’s uniforms would’ve been better. More ornate.”

“Maybe if you wanted to get with Kuchiki,” Kira says.

Renji scowls and Shuuhei catches him by the shoulders before he can go stomp off to sulk. He’s finally figured out through extensive trial and error how the ties work and so he steadies Renji in place before popping his collar and reaching the flimsy material around his neck. To Renji’s credit, he does at least pull off the suit. Or he would, if he bothered not looking like he wants to kill everyone in the room.

“Do we have to include the ties?”

And also if he acted like less of a child. One step forward and two steps back.

“Would you rather look disheveled?” Shuuhei asks. He purposefully fastens the tie too tight and has to hide his gloating when Renji is too prideful to reach to adjust it immediately. “You want Rukia to think you’re putting at least some effort in, don’t you?”

“I don’t want her to just think that,” Renji says, “I want her to like it. There’s a difference.”

Right. That might be asking for too much, considering Renji couldn’t even figure out her favorite songs, but whatever. Shuuhei’s not going to be the unlucky soul that points that out.

“Of course there’s a difference,” Shuuhei says. He reaches to adjust Renji’s bandana, pulling it high enough to cover his widow’s peak, and has to try not to frown at him in the mirror. They’re going to have to do something about his hair, probably… maybe he can just let it down, for the real thing. “But it’s better to look like you put some effort in, anyway, isn’t it?”

“Not if it doesn’t pay off,” Madarame says. Shuuhei thinks he could strangle him.

“And there’s a certain charm in looking effortlessly good, isn’t there?” Kira adds. “Maybe Renji should aim for that. It might work better for him, too.”

“If Renji shows up on stage looking like he just rolled out of bed, Rukia’s not going to spare him a second glance,” Shuuhei says, though he has to struggle not to trail off. With his limited knowledge of Rukia and her tastes, maybe she would prefer it if Renji looked disheveled. If they made him look too put-together, it’s all too possible that it’d turn her off. Hm. “Look. If she likes The Beatles, she’ll like this.”

“And if she’d have preferred the Sgt. Pepper get-up?”

“Then we’ll do it next time,” Shuuhei says. Renji still stares unconvinced at his reflection and Shuuhei bites back a sigh, turning to Kira who shrugs at him. Of course; leave it to him and Madarame to be absolutely helpless when it comes to Renji.

“You know,” Madarame says, joining Renji by the mirror again and throwing his arm around his shoulders, “if you’re that worried about how you look, the best option is getting some outsider opinions.”

Getting some outsider opinions, to Madarame, means waltzing down to the Eleventh division’s cafeteria and pulling an impromptu performance there. When he suggests it, Kira looks beyond mortified at the idea, no doubt already imagining the inevitable fall-out that would occur. Shuuhei only has to think about it for a moment to know it’s not happening.

Even so: a dress rehearsal isn’t necessarily the worst idea. Just not in front of the all the unranked members of the Eleventh division. Maybe not in front of any Seireitei inhabitants, either; if Matsumoto’s notion that The Beatles are passé is widespread enough, they wouldn’t have any success, and Renji would lose his nerves completely and call the whole thing off.

Luckily, Shuuhei knows just who they can go to.

+

Shuuhei’s penchant for The Beatles and their music is the natural end goal of a short series of events—him picking up his first guitar and haunting the living world; Chad offering to teach him the basics; Keigo, exiled from his own home, joining them for one of the lessons; Keigo, during a break, as they’ve slipped into easy conversation about what music they actually enjoy, saying, “you know, I think you might like the Beatles, Hisagi.”

It was fate. Or something like it, at least.

Keigo seems much less eager to consider it fate.

“You know, I’m not so sure this is the best idea,” he says, watching with wary eyes as they set up camp in the middle of his living room, the furniture pushed up to the wall to make space for Renji’s drum set, brought to the living world with Urahara’s newest overpriced invention. Shuuhei remembers Yumichika mentioning that he and Madarame stayed with the Asanos during their living world missions, and the familiarity between them definitely shows, even if not in the best of ways. “And, uh… you’re not hoping to crash afterwards, right?”

“No,” Madarame says. Both he and Keigo give a sigh of relief. See? “No, but Renji’s getting stationed here for the time-being, so you’ll be seeing him more and more in the near future.”

“Stationed here?” Keigo asks. “As in… not in my house, I hope?”

“No,” Shuuhei says. He joins Madarame and Keigo by the door, crosses his arms, feels uncomfortable with the way the blazer material bunches around his skin, and uncrosses them. He watches as Renji continues fussing over the drum set, interspersed with the way he fusses over his tie. “He’s staying with—ah, it doesn’t matter. Not here, though.”

Renji being stationed in the living world for the near future came as mostly a surprise, because Kuchiki didn’t bother warning him about the plans until a week before the send-off. Though it’s inconvenient when it comes to their regular practices, they’ve fallen into a good enough rhythm that practicing on their own should be enough. Probably. Besides, Renji being in the living world makes it much easier for the rest of them to get permits to come down; they don’t have to worry about what Kuchiki would say, after all.

There is the issue of Kira and Shuuhei being functioning captains—but so long as they can get an actual captain to sign off on it, getting a permit to the living world is relatively straight forward. Yumichika’s perfected the art of getting Kenpachi to sign off on whatever he wants, so that part’s practically solved for them, too.

The permits remain short, though. The next issue of Seireitei communication looms in the background, too, and they’ve already wasted enough time in the living world today, stopping by the Kurosaki home to question the substitute shinigami on all things Rukia and coming up shorthanded.

“Renji’s not the worst roommate to have, though,” Yumichika says, knocking his shoulder into Shuuhei’s. In contrast to the rest of them, he’s not in a constricting suit, though he’s not in his typical uniform either. His turtleneck and sleeves are nowhere to be seen, replaced with a simple tee from Keigo’s closet that stretches across his shoulders. Shuuhei has to concentrate on not letting his eyes flit to the expanse of his neck. “As far as roommates go. Last I heard, Urahara had him running cleaning drills from dawn. If not for those kids he had working shop, I bet Renji would still be stuck behind the counter.”

“Urahara? You mean the—”

“Oh, maybe we should’ve gotten Urahara to make original uniforms for us,” Madarame says.

“Then you’d become a walking advertisement for his shop,” Yumichika says, “or it’d be something terribly gaudy—you’ve seen the way he walks around. There’s not a grain of subtlety in that man’s body.”

Shuuhei peers at Yumichika, in time to catch him cull his self-satisfied smile. “You sound like Kuchiki,” he tells him.

“So? There’s elegance in subtlety,” Yumichika says, this time letting his smile curl his lips. Part of his hair is pushed back, clipped above his ear with two pins he must’ve swiped from somewhere. “Even Kuchiki is right, twice a day.”

“You think Kuchiki would like the suit get-up?”

“I think Kuchiki would kill himself, if he heard the two of you,” Kira cuts in, making Shuuhei’s gaze swerve off Yumichika’s hair back to Renji, who’s still struggling with the drums. Kira, of course, is still pissed that Yumichika tagged along for, essentially, nothing, citing manager privileges. “Or saw the two of you, for that matter.”

“Right, sorry,” Keigo says, curling in on himself when they turn to face him. “What is with the suit get-up? It’s not some new thing with… you guys, is it? Ichigo and Rukia still wear their kimonos.”

“No, it’s for the band,” Yumichika says. “Obviously.”

“Right,” Keigo says. “Obviously.”

“It’s to emulate the Beatles,” Shuuhei says, watching as Renji continues struggling with the drums, progress slowing down due to the fact that Madarame’s joined him. At this rate, they’ll never get to the actual dress rehearsal. “Their early performances. You know. The suits.”

Keigo eyes him.

“Right,” he says again, after a pause. “Aren’t you emulating them by… playing their songs?”

Is it really that hard to understand? Shuuhei turns to face Keigo, and gets a front row seat to Keigo emulating Ryunosuke, what with the way he sinks back a little, eyes running to the ground. “You think the suits are a bad idea?”

“Well…” Keigo runs off, scratching at his neck. He tugs on the collar of his shirt, fidgets uncomfortably under Shuuhei’s gaze. “Well, not necessarily. But… they’re just a bit out of date, aren’t they? A bit gauche.”

“Gauche,” Kira echoes. “Maybe we’re just out of touch.”

At this point? Probably. Still, Shuuhei looks down at his suit, then at Kira, at the way the blazer sleeves crease down the length of his arm, the way his slacks end just over this feet. All in all, he’d thought they didn’t look terrible. Not gauche, either… maybe they should reconsider performing in the living world.

“Maybe not gauche,” Keigo backtracks. “But it’s—have you considered regular clothes? You know, just normal tees. Or whatever. Like erm… like what Ayasegawa’s wearing?”

“I think there’s a charm to the suits,” Yumichika says. He reaches to pinch the material of Shuuhei’s tie between his fingers, tugging it, lips pursed in thought. “But if they’re outdated… maybe we could accessorize?”

Naturally, Kira pulls a face. “Accessorize?”

“Er, that’s not…” Keigo trails off, eyes the feathers by Yumichika’s eyes, the pins in his hair. “I’d say the simpler the better, personally.”

“Elegance in subtlety,” Yumichika grins, giving Shuuhei’s tie another tug. “Didn’t I say?”

+

Keigo continues frowning and twisting his nose at most of their band choices, though he does end up liking their performance. Renji ends up leaving immediately afterwards, the leash Urahara has him on no joke, as does Kira, using his short living world permit as an excuse, as does Madarame, using Keigo’s sister’s return home as an excuse. Shuuhei and Yumichika stay at the Asanos, sit down with Keigo and listen to his list of notes.

As soon as Yumichika mentions that the whole thing is a ploy to get Renji and Rukia together, Keigo’s excitement skyrockets through the roof.

“Oh, this changes everything,” he says, pressing his palms together in front of his face. “Okay, I can get behind the suits, then. Okay, okay…” and so go on maybe thirty minutes of him changing his mind, while Shuuhei sits and tries to follow his train of thoughts. They end up switching some of the songs on the setlist, axing She Loves You and bringing in Any Time At All instead.

By the time they leave, it’s less so their choice and more Mizuho forcing them out.

“I think you can pull it off,” Keigo is saying as Shuuhei picks up his guitar case and Yumichika tugs on his shoes. “Renji, I mean. The Rukia thing. The Rukia scheme! Oh, man. Wow. You’ve got to let me know when you book an actual gig somewhere. I’ll make sure Rukia comes.”

Mizuho barks a laugh from where she’s watching them at the other end of the hallway. “Yeah, right,” she says, “when’s the last time you got someone other than Mizuiro to hang out with you?”

“Ignore her,” Keigo says, “really, if you let me know, I’ll make sure that—”

The rest of his sentence is muffled as his sister gets him in a headlock, and Yumichika and Shuuhei nod their goodbyes before slipping out, thinking it pointless to wait for them to finish. The evening air is cold, biting, and Yumichika zips up the front of his jacket and hides his chin, while Shuuhei reaches to loosen his tie.

“The Rukia scheme,” he muses, “you think it’ll work?”

“Mm,” Yumichika hums. He sticks his hands into the pockets of his jacket, “maybe. They seem to be stuck in a stalemate now, so maybe if this works, it’ll get them out of it. One can only hope.”

“A stalemate?”

“You know how Renji gets,” Yumichika says. “It’s clear both he and Rukia care for each other, but neither of them can actually work up the courage to make a move. Which is rich, considering they’ve been dancing around each other for the past century or so.”

Shuuhei nods, pensive. Yumichika’s right, probably. Definitely; all it’d take to resolve the Rukia and Renji situation would be one confession, from either side. Knowing Renji, though, and having heard enough of Rukia, Shuuhei’s sure that won’t be happening anytime soon. Well; unless you count the whole Beatles thing.

Whatever. They’ll figure it out someday, Shuuhei’s sure. Maybe. He rubs his hands together, lacking the comfort Yumichika’s jacket provides, trying to keep his gigai’s appendages from falling off. If Urahara got on with making the self-heating model… eh.

“Where’d you even get the jacket from?” he asks.

“Stole it off the Asanos’ coatrack,” Yumichika grins. He still has his chin dipped into the collar, and his hair is still pinned back, and his eyes still shine amused when he looks up at Shuuhei, then down at his hands. “Are you that cold?”

“Myy gigai has poor heat circulation,” Shuuhei says by way of explanation, though it comes off as more of an excuse. Privately, he thinks that Urahara must’ve seen to it that Shuuhei got a faulty gigai but saying that would make him seem petulant. Judging by how Yumichika’s smile only widens, Shuuhei guesses he already comes off as petulant. “Or maybe I’m simply not used to it.”

“Probably just that,” but Yumichika stops, anyway, and reaches to envelop Shuuhei’s hands with his own. He rubs them together and leans down to blow in between them. “Should’ve gotten you gloves.”

“Or a jacket,” Shuuhei mutters. “Thanks. You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” Yumichika keeps holding Shuuhei’s hands in between his own. His fingers are warm but he doesn’t complain any about how cold Shuuhei’s must be. “You know,” he says, “I’m happy Keigo’s had us add in Any Time At All.”

“From A Hard Day’s Night album,” Shuuhei says, his capacity to add anything meaningful to the conversation decreasing exponentially by the minute. “Why?”

Yumichika blows on their joined hands again, his breath coming out as white smoke.

“Well,” he smiles, gentler around the edges, “it’s a bit like All I’ve Got To Do, isn’t it?”

He hums part of the song under his breath and Shuuhei pauses, brows knotting together as he listens to the dips and turns of the melody. The guitar case is heavy against his back as he watches Yumichika, eyes him carefully. It’s dark, as it always is after practice, though Yumichika’s face now is illuminated not only by the moonlight but by the Karakura streetlights as well, harsh orange bleeding into his dark eyes and darker hair. Shuuhei thinks back to Yumichika stopping by the Seireitei office, to him leaning so close their reiastus may as well have merged, to Yamada’s ten fudanshi commandments—er. Maybe not those, but everything else, all the vague things Yumichika says, all the vague things he does.

His mind churns to a stop.

“Ah,” he says.

The angle between Yumichika’s feathers runs kind as he taps his fingers against Shuuhei’s, as he leans in closer. Now more than anything it feels like a test, but for once Shuuhei feels like he actually knows the answer.

“The two together read like a conversation,” Yumichika says, voice so low it’s almost lost to the low whirr of the street. “The lyrics are laughably simple in both, though… you think there’s any truth to them?”

“You don’t mean about Rukia and Renji,” Shuuhei says.

“No,” Yumichika’s smile turns praising. “Have you figured it out, then?”

He says it like Shuuhei’s just discovered the world’s greatest secret, kept under careful supervision. His hands still against Shuuhei’s before he lets go of them completely, finding hold in the lapels of Shuuhei’s blazer instead.

“you weren’t exactly being subtle,” Shuuhei says.

“It still took you a long time to understand,” Yumichika bites back. He tugs on Shuuhei’s blazer, pulls him closer. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

As he reaches to cup Yumichika’s face, Shuuhei thinks the answer is clear enough.

+

Urahara is full of unabashed glee when they make it to his place and drop the gigais off. His leering eyes follow their movements all the way through the senkaimon Yumichika unlocks, and  Shuuhei steeps in the embarrassment well in on their walk to the Ninth, gaze running away every time he glances at Yumichika.

In turn, Yumichika just seems amused by the ordeal; kindred spirits, him and Urahara, Shuuhei thinks, though he finds himself unable to grow bitter where Yumichika is involved. 

“So,” Yumichika says, when he walks Shuuhei up to the doors of his place. Amusement still hides in the sharp lines on his face, though he mostly just looks satisfied. Not satisfied; content, Shuuhei thinks. “Are you going to invite me inside?”

+

Shuuhei does.

+

In the morning, Yumichika lounges around in Shuuhei’s yukata like he owns the place. He must’ve dragged it out of his closet while Shuuhei went through his admittedly brief morning routine; he must’ve, but when Shuuhei sits down next to him on the futon, Yumichika looks as though he’s never gotten up. The soft material of the yukata is creased behind his back and around his neck, starkly pale against the dark hair splayed in a halo around his head. His feathers are missing from their usual spots, set aside with his neatly folded uniform, letting the curves and angles of his face breathe. His lips are lightly parted, dusted pink, and his eyes are closed, lashes long and sharp against his cheeks.

In short, he looks like a dream.

When the sun peeks in, he shields his eyes with a hand, the only sign he’s awake. 

“You’re going to have to get up eventually,” Shuuhei tells him. He catches Yumichika’s hand in his own and pulls it away from his face; Yumichika screws his eyes shut in an effort to fight off the light, and Shuuhei presses his lips to his knuckles in a makeshift apology. “You can’t stay here all day, browsing through my things.”

It takes a visible effort for Yumichika to fight back his smile.

“Why not?”

Good question, Shuuhei thinks, mind briefly occupied as he drags his gaze across the sharp lines of Yumichika’s sun-kissed profile. The creases in between his brows and along the bridge of his nose relax when Shuuhei moves to block the sun; as a reward for his goodwill, Yumichika peeks at him. His smile bleeds onto his lips, a soft and silly thing, before his eyes trail down and it grows amused.

“You’re already in uniform,” he laughs, reaching to tug on Shuuhei’s kosode. He twists his fingers in the dark fabric, hides them in the collar. When his hand trails back to the nape of Shuuhei’s neck, Shuuhei obediently leans in closer. “Ever the workaholic. Matsumoto’s right to get on your case about it.”

“There’s a lot of work to be done in the Ninth,” Shuuhei says.

Yumichika hums, clearly not buying it. “There’s a lot of work to be done in the Eleventh, too, and you don’t see me clocking in as soon as the sun rises.”

The Eleventh is an outlier, Shuuhei thinks but knows better than to say. The Eleventh is an outlier, and Yumichika is an outlier, and, if he continues dwelling on it, he’d come to the conclusion that the Ninth should probably be considered an outlier as well.

“You’re a fifth seat,” he tells Yumichika instead.

In return, Yumichika scrunches up his nose and narrows his eyes, pulls on a fistful of Shuuhei’s hair. “Fine,” he says, “you don’t see Kenpachi clocking in as soon as the sun rises. And certainly not Yachiru nor Ikkaku, either. Happy?”

“Very,” Shuuhei says.

Yumichika eyes him, before his face calms into a smile. He eases his grip on Shuuhei’s hair, lets his fingers tickle his nape, skim across his skin. “Very,” he repeats with a sigh. “Do you really have so much to do?”

No, Shuuhei wants to say, but he knows the stack of papers in his office has only grown since he clocked out early yesterday for the sake of invading Keigo’s home. Besides, all the Seireitei Monthly deadlines are just around the corner and, after the near-thirty hour delay the previous issue had, Shuuhei doubts Kuchiki will be lenient when reading the next one. That, and there’s no doubt in his mind that all the damage reports Yumichika looks over must have doubled in the past day, too, knowing the Eleventh’s track record.

But—with the way Yumichika keeps his fingers on Shuuhei’s neck, the way he looks at him, the way Shuuhei’s yukata falls around his shoulders, there’s very little influence Shuuhei has on what actually comes out of his mouth.

“Erm,” he stammers. Right. “You know.”

“Sure,” Yumichika says easily. “Any chance I could convince you to stay?”

Shuuhei thinks if he wanted, Yumichika could probably convince him to do just about anything. It’s ill-advised to show your cards, least of all from the get-go and least of all when you already know you’re playing a losing game, so Shuuhei steels his face and tries to ignore the way his eyes involuntarily dip to Yumichika’s lips, the way Yumichika’s smile only widens.

Needless to say, he’s rather unsuccessful.

“If you have a good enough bargaining chip,” he says, and Yumichika very clearly does, not bothering with a reply as he pulls him into a kiss.

+

And so practices continue, either in the living world or without Renji; the walks back home continue; Shuuhei continues inviting Yumichika inside. Kira and Madarame continue, though less frequently than before, setting up camp in Madarame and Yumichika’s office, and Yumichika continues seeking solace in Shuuhei’s—though he stops looking for excuses and starts simply dropping by instead, lounging on Shuuhei’s couch or in front of his desk until he can persuade him to leave. It gets to the point that Shuuhei develops a pavlovian response to the way Yumichika knocks on his door, automatically straightening in his seat and calling him inside before he can even think about it.

Humiliatingly enough, Renji’s knock sounds about the same.

“Hisagi,” Renji says, oblivious to Shuuhei’s embarrassment as he has to bite down on his tongue to stop Yumichika’s name from slipping out his lips. Well. At least he’s not barking. “Hisagi, we have a problem.”

Renji’s problems range from actual problems that tend to fall far out of Shuuhei’s jurisdiction to minor things that he could’ve solved on his own, had his brain been a normally functioning one. As he steps inside Shuuhei’s office, Shuuhei searches for a good enough excuse to get out of this—until he spots Kira trailing in on his heels, and involuntarily falls back in his seat. He checks the time and sighs; it’s early enough that there’s little chance of Yumichika dropping by and getting him out of this, and he doesn’t even have Seireitei Monthly to fall back on, not with there still being three weeks till the next issue.

Eh.

“Of course we do,” he mutters, leaning back in his seat. “What is it?”

“The Beatles are passé,” Renji says.

“Passé,” Shuuhei repeats. He looks at Kira, whose eyes sweep the floor instead, and folds his hands over his chest. “You let him talk to Matsumoto?”

“Listen,” Kira says, “it’s not just that—”

There’s no time for him to finish, because Renji stalks up to Shuuhei’s desk and slams the heels of his palms into it, making the entire thing shake. “The Beatles are passé,” Renji repeats.

Shuuhei stares at him, silent, wondering if he’s ever going to elaborate. When he doesn’t, he sighs again. “Renji,” he says, as Renji keeps towering over his desk. “What does it matter that The Beatles are passé, if Rukia likes them?”

“She doesn’t,” Renji says.

The words hang in the air between them. When Shuuhei opens his mouth and nothing comes out, Renji leans back, falling into one of the chairs in front of Shuuhei’s desk. Kira lingers uncomfortably near the entrance like a ghost, his reiatsu pulsing nervously, before he comes to join them, taking the other chair.

“She doesn’t,” Renji repeats, when Shuuhei remains silent.

“What? No,” Shuuhei says. He glances at Kira, who is solemnly staring at his hands, and then back at Renji, who looks increasingly more and more pale. “No, she does. What—no, of course not. Did Matsumoto tell you that?”

“No,” Renji says, “Rukia did.”

“What? No,” Shuuhei says again and Renji nods miserably. Of course this would happen to them, Shuuhei thinks; and of course it would happen now, after months of work, when they are practically ready to perform. “Maybe you misunderstood her?”

“She couldn’t have been more clear,” Renji says.

His voice slips into a whine but Shuuhei doesn’t even find it in himself to criticize him for it. Instead, he sits quietly and listens as Renji recounts what happened: him and one of the substitute shinigami’s friends devising a plan to figure out Rukia’s favorite tracks; them putting A Hard Day’s Night on; Rukia politely nodding along to I’m Happy Just To Dance With You; Rukia then pulling Renji aside to tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he should not encourage Inoue’s infatuation with The Beatles, lest she started insisting to play them more frequently.

“She said it’s unlistenable,” Renji says, “said they can’t sing, that their lyrics are too basic. So on and so forth. Once she started, she couldn’t seem to stop.”

Shuuhei folds his fingers together, presses his thumbs to his temples, and tries to think of anything that could salvage the situation.

“Yumichika’s also thought their lyrics simple,” Shuuhei says, “and he likes their songs.”

“All his playlists good when you haven’t fucked yet?”

“She didn’t just say their lyrics are simple,” Renji counters, the two of them ignoring Kira as per usual. “She said that their lyrics are simple and that their melodies are simple, and that the simplicity of everything they produce is beyond pathetic. That they’re the worst band she’s had the displeasure of hearing,” he pauses, rubs his face, “that they’re passé.”

Shuuhei nods. The situation is, very clearly, unsalvageable.

“I was thinking she could’ve been jealous,” Kira offers.

“Of what,” Renji says.

“Of the human girl,” Kira says.

“The fifteen year old?”

Kira pulls a face. “Maybe not,” he says, “but… shit, I don’t know, Renji. You have a tendency to make everyone around you annoyed. Maybe she was just mad at you and wanted to use The Beatles as payback?”

As Renji replies with a pre-loaded library of excuses, Shuuhei closes his eyes. Though Kira’s got a point—Renji definitely does have a tendency to piss off everyone around him—he doubts it would warrant such a reaction from Rukia. Or maybe…

“Renji,” Shuuhei says, cutting into Renji’s incessant monologue, “what even made you think Rukia’s obsessed with The Beatles?”

“Er,” Renji shifts uncomfortably under Shuuhei’s eyes. “There’s a funny enough story about that…”

“Renji,” Shuuhei repeats.

“I mistook Inoue’s records for hers,” Renji says. Shuuhei stares at him, and stares, and stares, and thinks he could burst every blood vessel in his body if he tried. He thinks he could smash his guitar over Renji’s head, if he didn’t care for the damn instrument so bad. “Not just that, though! She was raving about them with Inoue, too! How could I have known she was only being nice? You know, if you look at the silver lining, then… at least she’s nice?”

“So you think she could tolerate a Beatles cover band concert,” Shuuhei says.

Renji’s eyes shoot straight down to his hands, as he scratches at his nails.

“No,” he admits.

“We could still try,” Kira says. Shuuhei shoots him an annoyed look and he shifts in his seat, hitting Renji’s elbow. “You know, maybe she could tolerate it. Or like it. If we sold her on it enough… maybe if we just invite the substitute, and Inoue, and all their other friends, then Rukia will end up tagging along anyway.”

“And she’ll spent the entire time we’re playing annoyed,” Shuuhei says. “Think for a moment, would you, Kira?”

“I don’t see you having any better ideas,” Kira mutters.

“Look,” Renji says, “I think we should trash the whole thing.”

“We can’t just trash the whole thing,” Madarame says, less than an hour later, after he receives the hell butterfly summons the three of them send him. Renji pulled over the spare desk chair for him and after they got through the short explanation, Madarame stared at the floor for five minutes, then paced around the office for fifteen, then fell into the chair and remained silent until now. “We can’t. We’ve been doing it for the better part of the past several months. We can’t just the trash the whole thing.”

“And what else do you suggest we do?”

“We trash the confession aspect of it,” Madarame says. He pauses before he nods and leans back in his seat, finally satisfied. “So Rukia hates everything about it. So what? Whatever. We don’t have to let that stop our grind.”

“The whole thing was for Rukia,” Shuuhei reminds him.

“Ah,” Madarame says.

“Yeah,” Kira says.

“I think you should still go along with it,” Yumichika says. Renji pauses rubbing his temples, hopeful eyes shooting up to follow along as Yumichika shifts from where he’s leaning against Shuuhei’s desk. “It’s not… optimal, of course, that Rukia doesn’t like The Beatles to begin with, but it’s not something you can’t work with. She can still be impressed, after seeing you perform.”

“But she won’t enjoy it,” Renji says, dragging the words out in a whine.

“Obviously she won’t enjoy it,” Yumichika snaps, his patience running thin after spending the past twenty minutes in the company of an extremely downtrodden Renji. “The end goal was never her enjoying it, that was simply the byproduct. The end goal was her finding you attractive. The end goal was her noticing you enough to hear out a confession. The end goal was her caring enough to hear out a confession. Even if she doesn’t enjoy it, she can still be impressed.”

Shuuhei rests his chin in his hand, eyes following the way Yumichika throws his hands around. Though the last thing he wants to do is call everything off, he finds it hard to believe that the whole thing can still work without Rukia possessing a preexisting fondness for The Beatles. Finds it hard to believe that the whole thing can still work with Rukia actively disliking The Beatles.

From the looks of it, Kira seems to be on the same page, his grimace only strengthening. Madarame doesn’t look convinced, either, though he does seem more eager to believe Yumichika. and Renji—well.

“You think so?” Renji asks, before he scowls and falls back in his seat. Renji’s busy bargaining. “No, see—I don’t want her to see us play, if she’s not going to enjoy it. There’s no point if she’s not going to enjoy it.”

Yumichika sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The space between his feathers contracts, spelling out nothing but trouble. “Even if she doesn’t enjoy the music, she can enjoy you,” he says. “Have that be your grand gesture.”

“It’s not a grand gesture if she hates it,” Renji says.

“You cannot be this purposefully difficult,” Yumichika says. He folds his hands together over his face, before he crosses his arms. “It’s either you grit your teeth and go through with it, or you call it off. Your choice.”

“We should still go through with it,” Madarame insists. “We’ve come this far. We’d be stupid as hell to spend hours practicing chords and lyrics only to not do anything with them.”

“I mean… maybe it’s run its course,” Kira says. It’s clear he’s upset about the whole thing, and just trying to play it off, fiddling with his hands in his lap. “The band, I mean. Obviously. Maybe it’s better to let it peacefully die out then to have our last run together be catastrophic.”

That only serves to make Renji look, somehow, even more miserable. Madarame’s vague annoyance burns deeper and tension digs itself into Yumichika’s spine, jagged against his figure. Shuuhei, frankly, wishes he was anywhere but here, in his office, beating the topic into the ground.

But: there’s nothing he can do except see this through.

“Okay,” he says, and tries not to flinch when all eyes land on him, “there’s only one possible way I see this going.”

+

Kira is the first to leave Shuuhei’s office, dragging his feet on the ground; Madarame follows soon after; Renji nearly sprouts roots in his chair before Shuuhei’s able to properly kick him out. Taking full advantage of his special privileges, Yumichika lingers. He’s still frowning as Shuuhei sits back down after finally getting rid of Renji, the feathers on his face cocked to a dangerous degree as he thinks.

Best thing to do would be to let him steep in his thoughts, lest the blowback from his annoyance gets Shuuhei, one way or another. Even so, he didn’t stay to sulk in silence, did he?

Shuuhei knocks his knee into Yumichika’s, slips his fingers behind the cloth belt of his uniform before he can think better of it. “You played a strong front,” he says, and Yumichika shifts in his place to face him, frown easing up slightly, “but be honest with me. Do you really think this will work?”

“Do you think I spent the past hour lying non-stop?”

Possibly, Shuuhei doesn’t say. Instead he tugs on Yumichika’s belt again, waiting for Yumichika to relent and continue.

“Yes. Obviously,” he says finally, “I think the hardest part is getting Rukia to show up, given it’s a Beatles cover band concert. But if she shows up, and stays for the performance, then I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t work.”

“Even if she hates The Beatles?”

“Were you listening? Yes, even if she hates The Beatles,” Yumichika says. “it’s not going to look as romantic—and maybe that’s for the best, considering this is Renji we’re talking about and Rukia shouldn’t come out of this with her expectations too high. But even if she hates The Beatles, she can still be impressed by his drumming ability. And him in general.”

Shuuhei pauses, gives it some thought. “You think Renji’s that good?”

“I don’t think it matters how good he is,” Yumichika says. Shuuhei peers at him, trying to discern if Yumichika’s actually been hoping the plan fails all along. “I think it matters whether Rukia wants him—and she does. And if she does, she can definitely suffer through a short enough band gig.”

Though Shuuhei’s thinking matches Renji’s more than it does Yumichika’s, he can see the point in there. Somewhere. The whole thing would be much easier to pull off if Rukia either liked The Beatles, or wasn’t as averse to them as Renji said she was, but it’s not like what Yumichika’s saying doesn’t make sense.

Worst case scenario, their cover band turns Rukia off from Renji completely… but she still likes the human girl, doesn’t she?

“The fact that it’s The Beatles is secondary to everything else,” Yumichika insists, and Shuuhei stops playing with his belt to grab onto his hand instead, thumb slipping beneath his sleeve. The sharp edges of Yumichika’s expression soften considerably. “Trust me. All that matters is how Renji’s going to look on-stage, and how much Rukia already wants him.”

“You seem convinced,” Shuuhei says.

“Call it personal experience,” Yumichika says and doesn’t clarify.

+

Lt. Hisagi’s Lonely Hearts Club Band has its first and only real performance the following month in some hole in the wall establishment in Karakura. It’s set up by Yumichika, with the help of one of the substitute shinigami’s friends, and when Ryunosuke accidentally overhears Shuuhei and Yumichika talking about it in the Seireitei Monthly offices, he enlists Ichibanboshi’s help to needle the details out of Shuuhei and insists on creating posters.

“Maybe we should hang some up in Seireitei,” Yumichika says, when Shuuhei shows the end result to him one evening, the two of them sitting by the low table at Shuuhei’s place.

He’s too amused by the ordeal. Delight dances all over his face, even in the low light, as he peers at the poster, at the sketched out forms of everyone in the band. It’s not a bad poster, not exactly; it’s just so much, the colors tearing into Shuuhei’s retinas the longer he stares. It comes off more as an advertisement for another one of Urahara’s seedy products than it does a band gig announcement.

“You can’t seriously think that’s a good idea,” Shuuhei says.

Yumichika smiles. He’s taken to slipping out of his uniform when at Shuuhei’s, changing into one of his yukatas, too lazy to bring his own, and leaving the uniform, as well as his customary turtleneck, sleeves, and feathers, on Shuuhei’s dresser. The lack of everything makes his sharp features run soft; or maybe that’s just the rose-colored glasses Shuuhei wears.

“It’s a poster. Why not use it?”

“Have you seen the way it looks?”

“It’s not too bad,” Yumichika says; Shuuhei wonders if he has some rose-colored shades of his own. “Ryunosuke did good with your likeness.”

“You think?” Shuuhei can’t stop himself from asking, and Yumichika passes him the poster prototype. There, amongst all the typography clutter, his eyes jump over Madarame, Kira, Renji, before landing on himself. He presses his fingers against the paper, wishes he could zoom in; Ryunosuke has drawn his face pulled into a severe expression, eyes sharp and brows sharper. “I don’t look like this.”

“No,” Yumichika says, “well. Not usually.”

“Not usually?”

“There are times, like when the Seireitei Monthly deadlines are coming up or when you’re too concentrated, that you look more irritated than clueless,” Yumichika says. He lifts his cup of tea, eyes Shuuhei over the rim, “in combat, too, though that’s rather obvious.”

“I wouldn’t call this just irritated,” Shuuhei says. On the poster, his features look downright murderous; is this how Ryunosuke sees him? Maybe the stress of Seireitei Monthly is getting to him—wait. Shuuhei pauses. “You think I look clueless usually?”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

Yumichika only grows more amused when Shuuhei frowns. “You really think so?”

“You look a bit clueless now,” Yumichika tells him. Shuuhei’s gaze flits to meet his, realizing a beat too late that Yumichika’s taking the piss out of him again. He sets his cup down, rests his hands neatly on his thighs as he leans forward to peer at the poster again. “Ryunosuke had to choose between you looking too serious to be in a Beatles cover band and this… don’t you think this is better?”

“I’d prefer it if I wasn’t scowling,” Shuuhei says.

“It’s not so bad a look,” Yumichika says, the teasing lilt of his tone not letting up any, though the way his reiatsu thrums in the background betrays his sincerity. “I like it.”

Well. If that’s the case, who’s Shuuhei to protest?

Regardless, the poster doesn’t wind up being used, partly because Kira, Renji, and Madarame are able to maintain their working brains even when in conversation with Yumichika, and partly because Ryunosuke ends up redoing it, this time with the help of one of the actual designers of the Ninth. The final result does end up plastered over Karakura, though Kira sets his foot down and uses the power of veto to not let the rest of them spread it over Seireitei.

Not that Shuuhei wants to. Really; he could spend the rest of his days without Kuchiki finding out about the band or, worse, actually bothering to check out their gig. Him or Kyouraku, who’d find a way to get it spreading through all the Gotei Thirteen gossip channels.

Fortunately, as he peers out into the audience now, he spots neither of them in the crowd—maybe crowd is too generous a word for it, but the point stands: he doesn’t see any shinigami on the floor, other than the substitute and, by some miracle, Rukia.

“Well? Is she there?” Renji asks, when Shuuhei shuffles back backstage. They’d forbidden him from leaving the room, in fear of him getting cold feet, and not to spoil the surprise for Rukia. Or something; Kira’s reasoning seemed flawed, but Shuuhei agreed with the idea that Renji needed to stay put. “Or should we call the whole thing off?”

“We can’t call it off now,” Madarame thwacks Renji’s arm, “don’t be stupid.”

“She’s there,” Shuuhei says.

“Shit,” Kira says.

“Shit,” Renji agrees. The nerves of his face fall behind his skin as he steels his face, lets his brows set sharply over his eyes—and how come he wasn’t the one with the brutish expression on the poster? Shuuhei decides not to go down that path as he reaches to fix Renji’s tie, then his collar, then the lapels of his blazer, hoping he doesn’t mess them up too much. At least not before the performance. “You think it’ll work?”

“Yumichika definitely does,” Shuuhei says. He pats down Renji’s blazer, satisfied, only reaching up to readjust Renji’s bandana. “Just believe him, will you?”

“Yumichika’s borderline insane,” Renji says, at least having the tendency to lower his voice, though his expression doesn’t falter any, even when Shuuhei gives him a pointed look. “I’m asking if you think it’ll work, not him.”

“If he does, so do I,” Shuuhei decides on, figuring it’s better to give a weak defense than to chastise a dead horse. “Don’t think about Rukia and whether this whole thing will work or not, and instead concentrate on the drums. You can worry about the rest after.”

“If there is an after,” Renji grumbles. Okay.

Shuuhei pats his shoulders, holds him down, and Renji school his features into an impassive expression again. At least he’s not completely falling apart; that’ll have to do. Shuuhei pats his shoulders again before he ventures to Madarame, making sure his suit looks fine, too, which means naturally fixing the way his shirt is tucked into the waistband of his slacks and pressing his collar down flat. He heads to Kira after, and notes that he looks the most put-together of them all. Figures.

Just as Shuuhei’s adjusting his own tie in the mirror and Kira’s practicing the opening chords of Everybody’s Trying To Be My Baby with Renji perched on the couch armrest when Yumichika slips into the room.

“You have five minutes,” he says, gaze sweeping over the room before it lands on Shuuhei. He’s got an amiable smile pulling on his lips and his hair is slicked back, out of his face. “Rukia’s in good spirits. She’s looking forward to seeing you perform, Renji.”

“Shit. Really?”

Instead of replying, Yumichika hits the back of his hand against Renji’s bicep. “You better not disappoint her,” he advises, “this is the chance of a lifetime. Don’t fuck it up.”

“You’ve got this, Abarai,” Madarame chimes in.

While the three of them form an Eleventh division circle of sorts, their reiatsus thrumming jovially in the small room as their conversation continues, Kira sets his guitar down and gets up to join Shuuhei.

“You think Rukia actually said that?”

From across the room, Shuuhei watches Yumichika, the sharp set of his eyes, the curve of his smile. “I think whatever she said, he probably embellished it enough to sound favorable,” Shuuhei says.

“Sounds about right,” Kira says. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard Rukia be as positive about anything.”

No; Yumichika definitely embellished it.

“Well, so long as it keeps Renji from double-guessing himself,” Shuuhei says. He crosses his arms, leans against the counter as Kira fixes his hair in the mirror, runs his fingers through his fringe. “In any case, we should be happy she bothered to show up.” 

Kira hums. “So you don’t think she’ll wind up spending the whole time we’re playing irritated?”

Eh… Shuuhei faintly remembers shooting down Kira’s initial suggestion of going through with their original reason for founding the band and getting Rukia to come see their performance somehow, before agreeing to it entirely shortly after Yumichika proposed it. In his defense, Yumichika at least supported his argument with back-up reasoning, no matter how far-fetched it might’ve seemed.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he says. “Hopefully she’ll be willing to look past the actual songs we’re playing to enjoy the performance.”

“To enjoy Renji,” Kira amends, smiling at his own reflection in the mirror, before Madarame waves them over for a half-assed cheer and Yumichika wishes them all good luck, squeezing Shuuhei’s upper arm before they step on-stage.

Renji’s smile falters briefly when it lands on Rukia, but it widens when Inoue starts cheering and urges everyone around her to do so as well when Shuuhei readjusts the mic and gives their trite introduction. Rukia joins in on the cheering as well and Shuuhei can hear Yumichika’s words on blast in the back of his head. Whatever happens, happens, he thinks, as his fingers find the beginning chords to I Feel Fine.