Shuichi x Kokichi One-Shots!

made you up

yeah second part bahaha 

this whole thing is in kokichi's pov cus mmyes fight me. 

also new headcannon: shuichi has freckles but it's just very little and very faint

it randomly came up but ehhhhhhhh who cares its cyute bye-

last thing-

mono, gene, and death succ pp

bahaha

Made You Up Part 1, Chapter 1: The Tank 

Sometimes I think people take reality for granted. 

I mean like how can you tell the difference between a dream and real life? When you're in a dream you may not know it, but as soon you wake up, you know that your dream was a dream and whatever happened in it, good or bad, wasn't real. Unless we're in the Matrix, this world is real, and what you do in it is real, and that's pretty much all you ever need to know. 

People take that for granted. 

For two years after that fateful day in the supermarket, I thought I'd really set the lobsters free. I thought they'd crawled away and found sea and lived happily ever after.  When I turned ten, my mother found out that I thought that I was some kind of lobster savior. 

She also found out all the lobsters looked bright red to me.

First she told me that I hadn't set any lobsters free. I'd gotten my arm into the tank before she'd appeared to pull me away, embarrassed. Then she explained that lobsters only turn bright red after they're boiled. I didn't believe her, because to me they had never been any other color. She never mentioned Yellow Eyes, and I didn't need to ask. My first ever friend was a hallucination: a sparkling entry on my new resume as a crazy person. 

Then my mother had taken me to see a child therapist, and I'd gotten my first ever real introduction to the word insane. 

Schizophrenia isn't supposed to manifest until a person's late teens, at the earliest, but I'd gotten a shot at it at just seven years old. I was diagnosed at thirteen. Paranoid got tacked on about a year later, after I verbally attacked a librarian for trying to hand me propaganda pamphlets for an underground Communist force operating out of the basement of the public library. (She'd always been a very suspect type of librarian-- I refuse to believe donning rubber gloves to handle books is a normal and accepted practice, and I don't care what anyone says.)

My medication helped sometimes.  I knew it was working when the world wasn't as colorful and interesting as it normally was. Like when I could tell the lobsters in the tank were not bright red. Or when I realized that checking my food for tracers was ridiculous (but did it anyway because it calmed the prickle of paranoia on the back of my neck.) I also knew it was working when I couldn't remember things clearly, felt like I hadn't slept in days, and tried to put my shoes on backward.

Half of the time, the doctors weren't even sure what the medicine would do. "Well it should lessen the delusions, and hallucinations, but we'll have to wait and see. Oh, and you'll probably feel tired sometimes. Drink lots of fluids too-- you can get dehydrated easily. Also, it could cause a lot of fluctuation in your weight. Really, it's up in the air." 

The doctors were oodles of help, but I developed my own system for figuring out what was real and what wasn't. I took pictures. Over time, the real remained in the photo while the hallucinations faded away. I discovered what sorts of things my mind liked to make up. Like billboards whose occupants wore gas masks and reminded passersby that poison gas from Hitler's Nazi Germany was still a very real threat.