Disclaimer: It's more. Yay.

Chapter One: Mr. Lucky

Now, let's take a moment of observation before this first chapter begins.

Ichigo displays amazing fortitude in his conviction of not telling his friends he is gay. Before this chapter, years have passed in suppression and silence until now when he is in his first year of college. If there is anywhere in the world that a person does not want to wander into sexually oppressed and desperate, it is this campus atmosphere. Someone as noticeable and emotional as Kurosaki Ichigo has things especially hard and ought to do the only thing for it, which is dash off madly in the other direction. Ichigo, however, is proud, which is a better way of saying he is immeasurably stupid. He doesn't run from any adversity or rapidly approaching doom. Ichigo takes obvious peril head-on and in stance, which, though amusing to observe, is not always the most tactical way to overcome. Once again, Kurosaki Ichigo is stupid.

This clarified, it shall now be noted that Ichigo is attending a local college, a pre-med sort of amble for the sake of his father and someday inheriting the Kurosaki clinic. He's in freshman year, somewhat more mature than the high school days of throwing tantrums over telling his friends he is gay or not, and actually graduated in the top eleven of his class. As the chapter opens, he is sitting in his fourth and final period, pre-calculus, listening as a fifty-something male professor explains the most amazing functions of x imaginable.

Now, onwards. Our story begins:

Ichigo couldn't have looked more uninvolved with what the professor was saying if he'd died. Pre-calculus was a joke, a mistake. Against reason, Ichigo's entrance exams to Karakura University had fallen dramatically short in mathematics. He'd already taken pre-calculus. Hell, he'd already taken calculus. What he hadn't taken was the entrance exam seriously. And thus, this.

You know, this is too stupid, even for you, Ichigo's self murmured tiredly as the professor began drawing again. One of the better things about college was the ease in which one could sleep through the soft thud of a marker instead of chalk boards. Karakura High had waited for Ichigo's class to graduate before installing their own marker boards, which was just fine, because Ichigo could've slept through chalk regardless. Sleeping through class was like some sort of terrible problem that had gotten worse with years. Ichigo had reached a point where he couldn't spend twenty minutes in a class before knocking his head onto the desk and slipping far, far away. His work as a shinigami didn't rob him of sleep successively enough to allow him to safely alter his sleeping schedule. Hollows were sporadic, and so was Ichigo's naptime. It was a real drag. His current stance of liquefaction over the surface of his desk was an example of how much of a drag it could be.

And basically, pre-calculus sucked even when he was conscious. His classmates didn't like him. He didn't like the class. He could hear them talking about him to their other friends majoring in things like social sciences and literature, the sort who boosted their poor GPA from failing math and science with stuff like handicrafts and miscellaneous arts. Yeah, that's Kurosaki-kun. He just sleeps and passes all the tests. What a loser. He should be taking a higher class if he's so good instead of taking pre-calculus and making all the rest of us look like morons.

It all pissed him off. And just as bad, his father still called him every week.

"You know, son, you did not have to move into an apartment with your friends." This was the usual start of the conversation. "There is room at home for you always and forever, and it breaks my heart to think you would not want to stay with us, your loving family who all miss you and think about you every day. There is a hole in all out hearts because you are not here. We cannot understand why a few minutes of extra travel time should compel our dear eldest son to abandon his poor father and little sisters."

And Ichigo would always argue back. Unfortunately, he consistently made the mistake of trying to rationalise with Isshin. "A few minutes? It's an hour commute from our home to the university, old man, and only in zero traffic. What are you talking about abandoning you? My first class is at eight, and in a total opposite building from the class forty minutes after it. An apartment is much more convenient."

Once the preliminaries were ended in a few more minutes of, "we miss you and you never come by anymore" and "I came by two hours ago, remember that?" there was finally a change in topic, usually from Isshin. Then, Ichigo would discover why his father had really called. "I'm going to send you some scans of your childhood photos where you look happy."

"Why?" Ichigo asked suspiciously.

"You've abandoned us here and we must survive however we can. It's decided that we must have a poster of our successful student son who is too successful to stay with his family, so that when people visit they can say hello."

Ichigo gaped into the phone. What was with that man and enormous laminated memorials? Ichigo hadn't even died. Or, not permanently. "Like…mom's…stupid…poster…?"

"No," Isshin said, though Ichigo expected it wasn't reassuring. Nothing could be trusted which went on in that man's head. "This is going in the clinic where everyone can see it. It's hard choice, though. Karin, Yuzu, and I have narrowed it down. I'm sending five poopey diaper playtimes, two where your mother dressed you as a girl in a kimono, and the photo from your freshman high school yearbook."

"WHAT? I thought you treated people in a clinic, not traumatised them."

"Cute little baby Ichigo playing with his poopey diaper is not traumatising. It's adorable."

Ichigo begged to differ. "You're not showing anyone that photograph, old man. You're not showing anyone any of those photographs. I will kill you."

"But you looked so happy."

"I. Will. Kill. You."

And the call progressed steadily onwards in this tone of threats and obliviousness until Ichigo became too far frustrated and hung up. A day later, the mail would arrive and he would be starting at eight embarrassing photographs wondering who he'd killed in his past life to have them reincarnated as Kurosaki Isshin. He'd have to hide the photos from his dorm mates (who were coincidentally enough his high school friends, Chad, Keigo, and Mizuiro), which would ultimately fail for no reason in particular other than Ichigo was really terrible with hiding things. Then, Keigo would have a field day and Ichigo would observe the world as it blew up around his ears.

This time, however, Ichigo had a better solution. "Chad, hide these."

It was a horrible thing to do, implementing Chad in Ichigo's own desperate attempt to conceal that he had once been a human child and that his father was psychotic. Why couldn't Isshin be funny crazy? Dangerous crazy? Why was he instead oblivious and eccentric crazy? There was no answer. All Ichigo had left was an ageless bond of friendship with the trustworthy Sado Yasutora, a bond that he depended on in the most dire of situations.

"Hm?" Chad asked. Looking down at the photos he'd been handed, his eyes widened. "Ichigo…these are bad."

"What can I say? I'm not very cute in a kimono."

Ichigo was right. It had taken his mother two photographed attempts to realise this, however. It took five photographs to realise maybe the baby needed something more hygienic to play with than his own dung.

"Should I burn them?" Chad asked carefully. Ichigo shook his head.

"If I agree to that, my father would know," he said. Chad's face was blank. "He would just know, okay? Don't argue with me. I know this man." Chad's expression didn't change. "Fine! If it's that hard, I'll take them back. Just thought I'd ask a friend. Didn't think I was asking a dog to have kittens…."

Chad blocked Ichigo from snatching the photos back. "I will take care of it," he assured him. There was such resolution there that Ichigo couldn't doubt him. It suddenly dawned on him as it always did in such moments: Sado Yasutora was a good person and a great friend. And anyone who didn't think so needed a swift kick in the face.

Peace would reign in the two apartments then until Keigo and Mizuiro returned with Keigo fantasising about the attractive women he saw in his last class, a class which had an excellent view to the volleyball gym's warm-ups. Keigo, a passionate advocate of women's volleyball and all-women's gym classes, made a point to sit nearest the window and thus nurture his appreciation. Those who did not understand his reasons and somewhat honest dedication seemed to consistently mislabel him a sad pervert. A sad pervert was not just any pervert, either, but one that when he was caught staring, was not chased away or reprimanded because he was simply too pathetic and too overbearingly harmless to reward with that sort of an effort.

"Oh, man, have you ever met Miyako Outo?" Keigo asked, returning triumphantly from another successful day of volleyball infatuation. Ichigo didn't remember what Keigo's last class of the day was anymore, and he suspect Keigo had done the same.

"I doubt you have," Ichigo said unenthusiastically while searching the cabinets for a ramen flavour a bit more promising than original. Original required an actually strategy of what to put in it, as opposed to chicken and vegetable which was fine on it own, even if Ichigo was by now convinced that those little slices of green and orange were not vegetables by any definition in any culture of the world.

"Miyako Outo?" Mizuiro asked in recognition. Mizuiro joining Keigo's fan-boyish babble was never promising. "I had a thing with her a while back. The volleyball coach? Not as spunky and fun as you'd think."

Keigo was crestfallen. "You enjoy killing my dreams, right? Is that why you keep doing it, you bastard?"

"I'm just letting you know these things before you get involved."

"Oh, don't say anymore! You're just breaking my heart and dashing my fantasies to pieces on the cold stone that lines the shore of your wicked soul," Keigo cried in anguish. Ichigo supposed it had been thing phrase about getting involved that had set him off. Keigo had yet to accomplish getting involved with anyone before he died young of the shame. "You've killed enough dreams already, Mr. Killer-of-Dreams."

Only Chad was cool enough to take this idiocy head-on without considering the many combative usages of unwrapped plastic forks and knives. He didn't, which was why he liked to believe that he was growing more and more accustomed to living with the adolescent double act across the hall that was Keigo Asano and Muzuiro Kojima, but he couldn't so openly lie himself like that. The guys were great and everything that could be expected from old high school buddies, but the pros and cons of that relationship meant that you not only knew them well, but that they knew you well and could keep an inside joke running and inescapable for decades. Thus, Ichigo was paranoid of giving them anything truly terrible to run off gleefully into the world of mockery and amusement with, since Keigo especially would make sure he never lived it down. It was one of the great downfalls of being friends with someone who was so unlucky in life and yet surrounded by others with all the luck in the world; an unlucky friend would cling zealously to anything that brought others closer to his level.

"Will you two take this to your apartment before I give you a hot ramen facial?" Ichigo threatened in the most normal tone of voice. He always sounded irritated about something.

"Well, sorry, grumpy-Ichigo," said Keigo, ready to pour into one of his dramatic spills which had nothing whatsoever to do with anything anyone was ever saying. "All that fancy math class you take does it piss you off everyday. Everyday you complain too much about it not being good enough. It's so depressing for us normal guys," and here Keigo motioned to himself and Mizuiro. "We're not geniuses. And we already know you're smart (though Chad's a lot smarter) because we're not that stupid as you'd think." Keigo smiled optimistically, "So don't take it so badly. You're still frustrated when we show up. It's not good for you; am I right, Chad?" He turned to the giant man at his right. "Am I right?"

"You must like to prove that you're a moron," said Ichigo, picking at his ramen and only half listening. "I'm not frustrated about pre-calculus when you show up. I'm frustrated that you show up."

"It's just a class," said Keigo, still deluding himself that Ichigo couldn't be irritated at him. "I just don't know why you have to take it out on your dear friends."

"Maybe my friends are really annoying and nosy?"

"Don't be mean, Ichigo," Mizuiro intervened, but was overshadowed by the now excited Keigo.

"Well, we may just be really annoying and we may just be really nosy, Ichigo, but it's because we care. Though, fine! Shun the people who care! We're leaving," Keigo grabbed Mizuiro by the shirt collar and began pulling the smaller boy to the door. "We can see when we are not wanted by those too hung up on themselves to notice his friends' concern. I hope you fail the brainiac class and learn your ultimate lesson. We'll be waiting across the hall. Two losers who used to care."

Keigo stormed out simultaneously with his preaching. The last words were enunciated with defiance and pseudo-wisdom, and concluded with a harsh slam of the apartment door. Ichigo watched, unmoved, and returned to his ramen preparation.

"What's Keigo majoring in again?" he asked Chad.

"Acting," said Chad, "and a minor in psychology."

"Yeah," Ichigo agreed, watching the ramen bowl rotating merrily in the microwave, "something like that."

Endnote: If Miyako Outo isn't a name, I don't care. I just made it up right before I published this since I couldn't be arsed to look up a real name.