Sheith. The spiritualist movement. (1840s-1910s)

Waking up in the little wooden room above a spiritualist’s shop should come with more alarm than Shiro grants himself. Swindlers—Adam had called them. Swindlers each and every one of them. Conmen and women praying on the grief and desperation of vulnerable citizens, leeches siphoning from the hardworking folks of the world. Shiro scowls. If Adam was so worried about Shiro’s vulnerability he shouldn’t have died.

Shiro feels a swirl in his gut and he keels over, onto his side with one propped elbow, as a wave of nausea washes over him. He hasn’t slept with anyone since Adam was lost at sea, at least not until now, and the brunt of the sudden weight sends his mind spinning with…

“Don’t dwell in your guilt,” a voice calls from a little table in the corner. A slight figure with a robe falling down his shoulder and a breakfast plate before him. “It will consume you, Shiro.”

“Right,” Shiro says. “Thank you, Keith. I’ll keep that in mind the next time I sleep with the psychic who’s pledged to contact my—“ he falters. “Best friend.”

“Don’t mince words,” Keith says, from his little table and one-shouldered robe. “Your tongue will get stuck beneath the mallet.”

“Do you make it a habit to speak in ominous advice,” Shiro asks.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“If I’m still serving as your guide to the spirit realm.”

Shiro sits himself up in bed. His hands tug at the features of his face and up the crest of his hair. He pulls himself out of his own grip, as if cresting an unseen surface.

“…No,” Shiro says.

“Then no,” Keith says. “I don’t have to do shit.”