Two Less Crazy People in the World

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.

Title is taken from (hahahahaha! This is such a mush) Air Supply's hit single which we all know which anyway.

Summary: SenMitSen, in which we meet the abnormally hotheaded Mistui, his psychiatrist and the latter's suspicious methods, and a lone fisher guy with spiky hair; will sanity reign supreme? On going.

A/N: Other than Rukawa, Sendoh is the only person, I think, who deserves to be paired with Mitsui. If you really want to know why I think so, it's because Sendoh is the only anime character who comes close to Mitsui's hotness. I actually adore this pairing too. On a different note, writing's not too good. You may notice that this isn't as contemplative as the usual fics I come up with. But don't bother too much; it's just another onslaught of my writer's block. What the hell. Here you go.

And thanks to Hannah for the idea. By gods, I haven't been writing in this category for sometime now.

Chapter I

What people have refused to learn over and over again about Mitsui Hisashi is that his patience isn't something to try. Even now as he slouches inside Dr. Kuwaku's cramped office, with his back reclining on a sofa chair and his hands having easy access to the pillows lying about, he feels the nerves inside his body pulsate with noticeable speed. He sucks his breath slowly and deeply, doing what his past psychiatrists have told him to do whenever he feels tension. He half-wonders why it never worked for him. More than that, he wonders why he has to feel tension in the first place. Under such normal circumstance, he hastens to add.

'Uh, am I right in thinking that this is 5th session you've attended this month?' Dr. Kuwaku says calmly. He has on his 450-400 reading glasses which magnify the eyes behind them in a way that will make children laugh. Mitsui, however, finds it irritating and begins to imagine Dr. Kuwaku wearing contact lenses instead. He doesn't like the picture it projects inside his head either so he just shuts his eyes and indulges them on the blackness.

'Yes. It's on my record, didn't you read it?' Mitsui says. He takes another deep breath before he slackens the rise and fall of his chest.

'I see. And didn't any of them help?'

'What? The doctors or the sessions?' Mitsui says. 'No, they didn't. They're all quacks, every single one of them. It was the same old story all over; I go to school and I feel like hurting everyone in sight. I go to my shrink after that and he tells me to do this or think like this instead so I wouldn't be short on my temper anymore. I listen to him because I haven't got any choice, have I? I go home after that, sleep, wake up in the morning and when I see people around me I just want to beat the living shit out of them. Just like before, just like always.'

A month prior to this appointment, Mrs. Mitsui got it to her head to send her son to a therapist despite Mitsui's strong vehemence to this. She has noted the swift diminishment of the china wares in their house. Lately, Mitsui has developed the habit of sending anything breakable up in the air on random, which about causes not only continuous clamor all over the neighborhood but unusual gratification in him. His first stop had been Dr. Kawamura. He is known for his unflappable efficiency, rumored to be the upshot of graduating with highest marks in Abnormal Psychology and Gerontology from Stanford University. There wasn't a loony or a wino or a dipso or a maniac—or anyone unstable entirely speaking--in town who entered his office and walked out unchanged. Until Mitsui, who for his part earned the doctor's utmost disgust for causing major discrepancy in his healing-the-crazy-asses streak. He has diagnosed Mitsui as irredeemably and dangerously unsound while Mitsui spat back at him with curses and other words that sounded very much like 'swindling people by pretending to be a wall'. When he walked out of the doctor's office, the place looked as though a tornado just sped past it. The papers were scattered all over the floor, the chairs were all overturned, the frames that formerly hung on the wall were off the angle and the door was nearly screwed out of its hinges. It was a miracle that the doctor was alive and whole when the catastrophe ended, and Mitsui with only a dislocated thumb bone. Doctor Kawamura threatened a suit, screaming hooliganism, to which Mitsui replied 'You can't put an insane person in jail!' and laughed on his sides. By then, the doctor was wholly convinced that his patient was off the chain and on his way to a maximum security asylum for the incorrigibly psychotic. Mrs. Mitsui apologized profusely, bowing her head so low one would think she was trying to kiss the ground with her knees unbent, and offered to pay for the damages, which she did 4 days later without so much as a word of complaint. But this only strengthened her resolve to do something about the insubordinate son. In her heart, she knew there was still hope in Mitsui.

The post-Kawamura meetings proved sluggish and feckless and a mere replay of the first one. The shrinks that succeeded him were less and less helpful. Mitsui stuck to his stubbornness, keeping his head at level and talking only when plied with questions that require a yes or no answer, but otherwise stayed clear of his therapists as much as he could. Until one after another they started declining a second session with him. Time's growth seemed to be in proportion with Mitsui's insane meter as all assurances to recovery washed away and as the china wares incessantly decrease in number along with the many things that continuously got broken around him. At this rate, it wouldn't come as a shock if Mitsui's hands get a hold of the appliances and worse, of his family, something Mrs. Mitsui fears the most. Lost for choices and out of ideas and names of certified psychiatrists, she settled for Dr. Kuwaku, an eccentric healer whose doorstep is only occupied when the customer demands a refund, or a fight. She said she would double the pay should Mitsui's condition improve even in the slightest, something his contemporaries have consistently failed to do. She cringes at the thought that these medical professionals only did so much to worsen her son's behavior. Kuwaku's her last hope, ('last resort, more like,' Mitsui kept on saying), poor Mrs. Mitsui thought.

So now here is Mitsui Hisashi, slumped in front of a practicing psychiatrist whose questionable performance wouldn't make Mitsui think twice about it had not his loving mother insisted he see him. Actually, Mitsui is already convinced that 4 different shrinks are enough evidence to Kawamura's accusation, 'irredeemably and dangerously psychotic'. He forgot 'insufferably'. He sits still, the minutes agonizing their way into an hour, the sun outside disappearing behind the horizon as his eyelids feel like they're going to tumble down in no time at all. It's quite late in the afternoon, I should be home at this time, Mitsui thinks.

'But have you ever tried doing what they said?' Kuwaku asks.

'I hope you didn't mean that as an insult.' Mitsui snorts at him.

'There's no room for insults here, sir,' Kuwaku chuckles. 'unless the guest brings them inside. Anyway, on to the point; did you follow their advice?'

'What'll happen if I don't answer that?'

'Well, we're going to miss a step on your recovery. That's what.' Kuwaku looks at him with pleading eyes. 'Mitsui-san, I hope very much that you'd cooperate because every little step counts. I want you to remember that.'

'Yeah. My mom said all I have to do is to listen to you guys. She didn't mention anything about following every goddamn shit you told me to that's why--'

'That's why you didn't do as you were told.'

'Hard to pretend you're insane, you know. Those guys were giving me the hopeless treatment.' Mitsui runs a finger on his hair so it's pushed back to his forehead. God, he feels like an idiot.

'Well, I'm not. We're going to bend their rules this time. It may surprise you that my methods are nothing like theirs; you just wait,' Kuwaku smiles at him. 'So, did you do as you were told, even for once? I suspect you tried at first.'

'Yeah. For a while, I did, was willing to cooperate if it meant making my family happy. But their shitty instructions just got more and more ridiculous that I was sure I was better off without them manipulating my schedule and messing up with my plans.'

'Plans, what plans?'

'Chill out with my friends. Instead of going out for a drink I was stuck in some book or silly activity they wanted me to do. God, it bored me like nothing else.'

'I'm pretty sure they were meant to have you rooted, not stuck.' Kuwaku says with a smile. Mitsui sees his eyes twinkle behind those thick prisms. Is he making fun of me? He asks himself as he marks the sudden rise in his temperature.

'What's so funny?'

'Nothing. Mitsui-san, what in particular were those activities?'

'Attending group sessions where everyone was just about as nutty as a banana cake.' Mitsui utters. His face is vapid and a bitter laugh threatens to jerk out of his throat. Like a film reel, he plays the tormenting experience inside his head. 'Everyone was crying where there wasn't the least necessity to. It was so stupid.' Mitsui starts to make impatient gestures with his hands. 'We were asked to speak, one by one; they said we should let it go, release the anger, when that's what I've been doing all along. I mean, why should I be there when I could just go berserk someplace else? So I told them I have a crappy temper and all that. Some of them I just made up—you could see what lame lies they were on the first letters--but they bought it anyway. Dumb asses. And then we were asked to listen to some soap-like monologues and before I knew it, everyone was embracing everyone. And I was like, 'what the hell is wrong with these people?' but nobody seemed to share the same opinion so…'

'So, what?'

'I don't know. It just happened. I…' Mitsui's words trail. It just happened; everything does, take it or leave it. Just like his temper, cascading out of him faster than he can say stop; or his fist, paving its way onto somebody's face even before his logic gets there. He sighs again before he lunges at the next sentence, 'I just started heaving the chairs--you know, those plastic ones they use in backyard parties; they're kinda light and easy to lift---and I threw them all across the room and at everyone and sooner than I could catch myself, several arms were grappling me.' Mitsui composes himself. 'They banned me from further meetings and the shrink who got me into it turned down any more sessions with me. Predictable.'

'Did you know why you exploded like that or even as an afterthought, do you want to find out why you're prone to these fits?'

'Yeah, that's easy. Those people were just straight stupid. I couldn't just stand there with everyone treating me as though I were like all of them. No two ways about it.' Mitsui harrumphs. 'Hell, I'm no teary-eyed wacko. I was so normal I could see how crazy those bastards were.'

'Oh, I see. So you don't want to be considered likewise, like you're one of them?'

'Exactly.'

'Did you feel guilt afterwards?'

'No.' Mitsui says. His voice is rather flat, an indication that his answer is sincere, no more, no less. True, he's not familiar with the word guilt. What the hell is that?

'Why?'

'Because I told you; they asked for it. You don't get sorry when you do what people want you to do to them.' He says, seeming proud of what he did or confessed he did. He feels himself lighten a little bit but catches the eerie glint on the surface of the doctor's eyes. 'Don't tell me you're going to make me go to that sort of shit again because if you do I'd have to split now.'

'No, no, no. Rest assured, Mitsui-san. That's not my style.'

'Really? So how do you do it then?'

'Let's just get over with a few more questions here—'

'Why don't we drop the formality shit and you tell me which medicine I should take?'

'That's not the way to do it, Mistui-san. There are things that I need to know first and I can't know them unless you tell me.'

'Alright, I get it.' Mitsui stretches his legs and raises his arms to yawn. 'I've been through this ancient lecture over once and believe me, it didn't work. If it did I wouldn't be sitting in front of you, you know. But since it's your lucky day, fire away.'

Dr. Kuwaku looks at him nervously. He fingers his eyeglasses before he proceeds with the question.

'How're you doing at school?'

'None the better.'

'What do you mean by none the better?'

'Same ole, same ole. I'm doing as well as a turtle does without its shell. I don't get good grades; in fact I don't get anything that can remotely be called a grade all around. I don't get along well with my team mates but they're nice enough to ignore me. And the teachers hate me to bits and they can't stand ignoring me so they kick me out to the corridor or to the detention room. I might've spent more hours outside the classroom than inside during this month.'

'I guess you can tell me now why people act like that around you, can you?'

This is going more like an interrogation than a session, Mitsui thinks as he recalls a number of crime series he's watched in the past in which investigative proceedings such as this were given weighty regard and depicted elaborately. Half of the show's time would run unheeded with the police questioning a suspect and crushing every bone in his body and eventually bullying him into confession or into saying what the bastards want to hear. He quickly associates himself with that beat-up poor thing, being in the same shitty quandary where the only way out is forcing lies on his mouth and labeling them as truths. Furrowing his brows, it doesn't take a minute for Mitsui to realize that this is grating on him huge time.

'Because I'm just a barely tolerated presence. Nobody wants me there and that's all there is going to be to it. I suppose that's what you're dying to hear, isn't it?' Mitsui snaps. There's a bitter tang that's rising out of his throat and when it gets on his tongue, it stays just there, making his eyes narrow and his face frown altogether.

'Oh no, sir. That's what I'm keeping you away from.'

'Why do I have the feeling that people would just keep on lying to me even if they know the truth?' Mitsui sneers. Right now, he sticks to what he knows best; harassing people. At this point he realizes that he can't fit in the role of the poor thing getting reduced to a bloody pulp.

Kuwaku keeps a forward face, a conspicuous dint to let Mitsui's insult go by the board. 'Will you describe the mood with which you confront these people?' He goes on. Damn, they still have plenty to go.

'Uh, let's see.' Mitsui pulls his lips to his teeth and looks at the ceiling as though to look at the past. 'Uh, I'm often pretty violent. I don't know why but it seems the only way to make me feel okay.'

'Violence...mmh. That's interesting. How about verbally? Do you hurt people with what you say?'

'Of course I do. I spend my sleepless nights listing down things that people hate to hear most. And in the morning I rehearse the dialogues so that in the---'

'Mitsui-san, I just asked you a crucial question. I hope you wouldn't think of being remiss so often.' Kuwaku locks Mitsui in his gaze. Mitsui feels something climb up to his spine and finds himself stirring uneasily under Kuwaku's scrutiny. What a humorless prat, Mitsui thinks. All I'm trying to do is to lighten up this boring chat and this is how he talks back? Shit, he wouldn't recognize a joke if it was on him. I hate his guts.

'Yes, those fucking charlatans said my sharp tongue is also something to work on, though that's just a second nature to me.' Mitsui says, drastically veering his gaze away from the doctor. 'well, it can't be helped; it isn't what I came here for.'

'What do you think is the reason why you're here, Mitsui-san?'

'To manage my temper, not to trim my vocabulary down to curse-less goody-two-shoes euphemisms.' Mitsui seethes.

'But didn't you know that the words you use have a lot to do with what people think of you?'

Mitsui glares at him. 'Let's set the record straight here, sir; I'm not here to find a substitute for my Good Manners and Right Conduct teacher. Generally I don't care how people see me. I just want a more flexible temper than this shitty one I have and that's all. Okay?' He almost growls.

'Alright.' Kuwaku says. 'Here's what I think, Mitsui-san; you're not satisfied with what you do. You're not happy with the results of whatever effort you exert. If you could just get something out of it, maybe you'd feel better. Maybe all you need is a proof that'd say it's worth doing what you do. By then you might learn that taking it on your environment—your personal failures, whatever they might be--isn't something a sensible person considers doing.'

Mitsui steadies his glance at the doctor. He may be right, he may be wrong. But for what it is, Mitsui feels compelled to listen for the first time in his life. He respires as if to wag away the fog that's been inside him too long, too unhealthily.

'What're you going to make me do then?' Mitsui blurts out. The last thing he wants is someone to tell him what to do, to point a finger to this and that direction, neither of which Mitsui is willing to take, ever.

'Think of something, a pastime or a hobby that at the end of the day will make you smile to yourself and say, 'I'm okay this way'.'

'A fistfight?'

'No, no, no. Something less physical. Something relaxing and fulfilling,' Kuwaku starts to make exaggerated gestures with his hands, swinging them in the space before him, and closing his eyes as though a beautiful music were humming inside his head.

'If sparring doesn't work, I don't know what does. Why don't you suggest something? You're the expert here.'

Kuwaku opens his eyes as he snaps out of his reverie. He taps a finger on his forehead, unsure of what expression to assume. He looks back at Mitsui who sits languidly on the sofa. Any minute now his impatience is going to take its toll on both of them, and who knows? The pieces of furniture in this office may catch themselves statically floating across the place in the next moment and a half. Kuwaku opts to spare Mitsui the puzzle and himself the similar disaster his predecessors had with the boy.

'Have you ever gone fishing, Mitsui-san?' He says in the very attempt to break the ice.

'No, and I bet it sucks ass anyway.'

'That's beside the point.' Kuwaku says. This time there's a flinty tone that mingles with his voice, probably aimed at Mitsui's focused attention. 'Fishing is optimum pleasure and a steep challenge all the same. Once you've had your catch, there's no better feeling than topping it on the grill and making a tasty dinner out of it.'

'So you're saying that I should fish?' Mitsui gulps. He hasn't gone fishing all his life. The closest he got to it is making fun of the bona fide old men who sit all afternoon long by the bay with rods in grips waiting for some stupid marine shit that's crazy enough to take interest in the lifeless worm hooked at the end of the nylon. They're just there, unfailingly, rain or shine, low tide or high tide; Mitsui can't even tell if they do it for pleasure or they just do it because that's the next worst thing to dying. Sorry excuse for killing time they got there.

'I'm not pushing you into it, Mitsui-san. You can try or not. If it doesn't work we can think of another solution.'

But with the way the doctor quivers, Mitsui knows for certain that he hasn't thought and can't think of anything else. Mitsui looks around him, noting as he goes on the startling contrast between the appearances of Kuwaku's neglected office and those of his erstwhile shrinks whose plushy and newly upholstered sofa beds, neatly painted walls and marbled floors are a clear testament of their success. Whatever earnings Kuwaku gets from his profession, they sure don't find their way to his office's maintenance. The shelves at the far corner of the room are filled with hard-bound leather books that have gone shabby of overuse or over-reading. Some of them are as thick as Mitsui's Physics book, which measurement he estimates at 2 to 3 inches, and some seem to have fewer pages. But none are slim enough for Mitsui to imagine himself poring on them. He's read all that crap and fishing is the only idea he can come up with? Mitsui thinks, shocked at the notion that's slowly agonizing its way to his head. He blanks it out altogether before he can shout the word 'DUPE' in capital letters.

'I see you're not happy with it. But there's no easy way out of it, is all.' Kuwaku says all of a sudden upon reading the vague expression on his patient's face.

Instead of relieving himself of the curse jerking behind his throat, Mitsui decides to take everything in a stride. There's no harm in trying, he tells himself, though he knows full well that he'd rather hang out in detention than fish.

'It's fine. I'll just do it.' He says, not so much as for his sake as for his mother's and family's. He sees Kuwaku's face brighten up with what unmistakably looks like delight.

'I'm glad that you'll take my proposition. It works, I assure you. You just ease off and let everything go its way. After all, we're just on the experimental stage.'

'Right.' Mitsui says contritely as he recollects the pathetic old men by the shore, their backs hunched and their faces looking farthest from taking pleasure in what they do. Oh brother, what have I gotten myself into? He sighs futilely.

'Alright then. Thanks for bearing with me, sir.' Kuwaku stands up, extends his hand to Mitsui and gives him the kind of smile one uses when he just defeated someone in overkill. 'See you next week.'

Mitsui moves to the door. He feels his joints cluck from long sitting and his temples ache a little. There may be too much blood pumping in his veins now for all he knows.

'There won't be next week, wacko.' He says out of earshot as he gently closes the door behind him.

TBC

A/N: This fic is already finished. I'm just revising the following chapters because they're such an eyesore. Anyway, I'm going to upload all of them at once soon as I'm done editing them. Okay? Thanks for reading.