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Shi-gatsu.
Ichigo Kurosaki lived in two worlds and while he had mostly gotten used to the revolving door his life had been for the past six years, there were some aspects he didn’t think he’d ever adjust to. They were trivial, to be sure, but a bunch of tiny nuisances could build up to be one giant pain in the ass.
Literally.
His stupid wardrobe, for instance. He was as appearance-conscious as any young man, but he had twice as much clothing as he wanted, although it was all necessary.
For the Living World he had somewhat trendy twenty-something outfits, slightly edgy, since he liked to look good. At least those were, for the most part, comfortable.
For the Soul Society he wore a shihakusho, like any Shinigami: juban, kosode, hakama -- and fundoshi.
The fundoshi took some getting used to.
Scratch that, it took a lot of getting used to.
Ichigo didn’t notice it so much when he was fighting for his life. Other things were more important, like getting stronger than his enemies so he wouldn’t get killed, and rescuing whoever needed rescuing at any given moment.
It was later, when Ichigo had mostly settled at the Soul Society (with occasional visits to Karakura Town to see his family) and attempting to court a seemingly oblivious Rukia, that he became uncomfortably aware that the Shinigami uniform essentially included a thong.
(Which may have explained any number of things about Byakuya’s behavior, Ichigo thought, snickering internally. Although his mind veered away in horror at contemplating Renji in one. Or Komamura, for god’s sake. Some things were better left alone, even mentally.)
Ichigo was reminded a hundred or so times of day that he had a twisted rope of fabric in his asscrack and there was no way to get rid of it because it was supposed to be there. There was no help for it, though. Boxer briefs showed through the sides of the hakama. They looked stupid and wrong, not to mention untraditional and against Gotei regulations.
It wasn’t only the thong aspect that Ichigo had a hard time getting used to. It was everything that went along with it. Like the fact that every time he walked, the silky hakama fabric would slide across his ass, which was disturbingly sensual. Being a 21-year-old guy was difficult enough without shit like that adding to his self-control burden.
Or on windy days, when the breeze found its way up the wide legs of his hakama, swirling around everywhere, no matter how tightly his juban and kosode were tucked and tied. That was definitely not sensual, but it was disturbing.
Ichigo resigned himself to enduring the discomfort unless he was in his quarters, where he could wear pajama pants with nothing underneath. Getting free of the weird discomfort of the fundoshi was bliss. Whenever he visited the Living World, he would heave an internal sigh of relief at being able to wear normal underwear.
Ichigo didn’t think he would ever find a way to do more than put up with wearing a fundoshi. His sartorial future seemed pretty bleak when he thought about having to wear it for the rest of his life in the Soul Society. Even if that future included Rukia.