Shuichi x Kokichi One-Shots!

made you up

I didn't have the luxury of taking reality for granted. And I wouldn't say I hated people who did, because that's just about everyone. I didn't hate them. They didn't live in my world. 

But that never stopped me from wishing I lived in theirs.

(a'ight that was short soooo)

That night before my first day of senior year at Hope's Peak High School, I sat behind the counter at Makoto's diner, my eyes scanning the dark windows for signs of suspicious movement. Normally the paranoia wasn't so bad. I blamed it on the first-day thing. Getting chased out of the last school was one thing-- starting at a new one was something completely different. I'd spent all summer all the Makoto's trying not to think about it. 

"Yo know, if Makoto was here, he'd call you crazy and tell you to get back to work."

I spun around. Rantaro leaned against the door to the kitchen, hands jammed in the pockets of his apron, grinning at me. I would've snapped at him if he weren't my only informant about Hope's Peak-- and my only friend. Gangly, bespectacled, hair green as an avocado and always perfectly brushed, Rantaro was a busboy, waiter, and cashier here at Makoto's, not to mention the smartest person I'd ever met.

He didn't know about me. So saying his saying that Makoto would call me crazy is pure coincidence. Makoto knew, of course; his sister is my latest therapist, the one who'd gotten me this job. But none of the other employees-- like Fuyuhiko, our mute, chain-smoking cook-- had any idea, and I planned to keep it that way. 

"Har Har," I replied, trying to act cool. Beat down the crazy, said the little voice in the back of my head. Don't let it out, you idiot.

The only reason I'd taken the job here was because I needed to appear normal. And maybe a little bit because my mother forced me to take it. 

"Any other questions?" Rantaro asked, walking over to lean against the counter next to me. "Or is the crusade over?" 

"You mean the inquisition. And yes, it is." I kept my gaze from wandering back to the windows. 'I've been in high school for three years already-- Hope's Peak can't be that much different than Hillpark." 

Rantaro snorted. "Hope's Peak is different than everywhere. But I guess you'll find out tomorrow."

Rantaro was the only person who seemed to think Hope's Peak wasn't the perfect place to be. My mother thought a new school is a great idea. My therapist insisted I'd do better there. Dad said it'd be okay, but he sounded like my mother had threatened him, and if he'd been here and not somewhere in Africa he would've told me what he really thought.

"Anyway," Rantaro said, "weeknights aren't nearly as bad as weekends."

I could tell. It was ten-thirty, and the place was dead. And by dead, I mean it was like the entire possum population of suburban Indiana. Rantaro was supposed to be training me to work nights. I'd only worked the day shift during summer, a plan concocted by my therapist that my mother had quickly blessed. But now that school was starting, we'd agreed I could work at night.

I grabbed Makoto's Magic 8 Ball from behind the cash register. My thumb went for the red scuff marks on the back of the ball, trying to run it out like I always did whenever I got bored. Rantaro was now preoccupied with lining up a pepper shaker cavalry across the hostile regiment saltshaker footmen.

"We'll still get a few stragglers," he said. "Creepy late nighters. We got this really drunk guy one time— you remember him, Fuyuhiko?"

A thin line of cigarette smoke trailed through the short order window and up to the ceiling. I'm response to Rantaro's question, several large puffs clouded the air. I was pretty sure Fuyuhiko's cigarette wasn't real. If it was, we were breaking a hundred health codes.