Konnichi-wa, minna! Well, I finally decided to take a stab at shounen-ai. It is very tame, no lemon or anything, and this is a short prologue. It is called "Therapy" because Heero is in the loony bin, but it is actually quite seasonal. It was inspired by my watching Heero and Duo put up Christmas lights a few days ago. Hope you enjoy it!

By: Keiko-chan


Heero Yuy sat in a small folding chair in a colorfully decorated room. His eyes grazed over the purple and yellow walls painted with geometric shapes of all types, sizes, and colors. It reminded him of a kindergarten class. His seat was one in a circle of about twenty, each occupied by someone with a problem. Some were thin, frail, shaky, their nerves obviously frazzled and pushed to the limit. There were those who had recovered from those extremes and were now helping others. Then there were those like Heero, who didn't believe they should be here at all.

One by one the people stood up and bared their soul, their horrendous flaws, to those around them. Heero failed to see how such public humiliation could possibly be beneficial to the diseased psyche, so for their benefit he ignored them and turned his thoughts to other matters. He recalled the battle of a few weeks back; one that he had been loosing. He'd been left with no choice, no option but to prevent himself from being captured. Fortunately, Duo had found him and nursed him back to health. His mission may have failed, but the battle had been won, and the war raged on outside these laughing, clown-like walls.

Things would have been fine, and he back on the battlefield today, if Relena hadn't intervened. She had insisted that he consent to seeking psychological help, and he had found himself in no position to argue at the time. Duo, of course, had tried to stop it. "You don't understand, Relena! He did what he felt he had to do, and any of us would have done the same thing. You would have too! Please, you can't do this to him. We need him to help us win the war...we're struggling as it is. We can't do it without Zero! You can't just take him away..."

"Oh, but I can, Mr. Maxwell, and I will. I think it is you who doesn't understand. This repetitive, self-destructive behavior of his is a real disease, a sickness of the mind. And just like any illness, it needs to be treated by professionals in a protected environment." Heero, lying in the next room, could hear her voice crack. "I simply love him to much, Duo, to let him continue this way. I know that deep inside is a kind and gentle boy who wants to live. I feel obligated to help him find that will to live in any way I can. Please, try to understand." Understand...Understand...The words rang like a death bell in his ears. Then he had been brought here, placed among this collection of nuts and bolts.

Finally, the group session was over. Heero couldn't wait to get away from the painful yellow and aching violet of the room. Fate had not a quick escape in store for him, though. "Mr. Yuy. May I see you for a minute please?" Heero disobligingly turned back to speak to the doctor, a plump man who always wore a shirt and tie without a jacket. That annoyed Heero to no end. "Well, congratulations on surviving your first group session. I hope you found it enlightening."

Heero felt like laughing in the man's face, "Hn."

The doctor sighed, withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbing his damp forehead. This was going to be a difficult case. "The first thing I want to say about you is that you seem to have trouble communicating. You haven't been responding well to couch therapy, so I'd like to try a different approach with you. I'd like you to write me a little essay. Do you think you can handle that?"

Heero glared at the man icily. He had no choice but to do as he was told, and he knew that the doctor knew that. So why the pretenses? If it was supposed to make him more comfortable, it was failing miserably. "What about?"

"About you, and why you are the way you are. Namely, why you have this fascination with death. You see, I can't help you fix what's wrong with your mind until I know how it works. So that's what I want you to do. Write about death. What goes through your mind when you think of death. What you think you like about it, and why you want it so badly. Do it any way you want and even have fun with it. Write for yourself, not for me, and be honest with yourself. Do you understand?"

"Yes." He turned to go, making a hasty retreat from the horrible room. Suddenly he hated everything in the building, the hospital and everyone in it, with a passion that surprised even him.

Walking down the hall, he considered his new assignment. Now he had to fabricate an obsession that he didn't have, and write about it convincingly. He began to think. If so many people believe I have an obsession, then maybe I do. He turned the knob of a door slowly, enjoying the clean clicking sound as the catch pulling in and the hinges squeaking like a mouse, as he entered the room that would be his home for the next several months. Heavy dark curtains hung over a window on the far wall, his bed pushed up to the top wall, the foot close to the door. A small desk was also on the far wall, directly under the window.

Heero went to the desk and pulled out the drawer. From it he took a notebook of paper and a pen, setting them on the table's surface. Then he pulled back the drapes, allowing the brilliant sunlight to illuminate the room. He stared out through iron bars and mesh at the world for a moment, taking in it's summertime perfection. He considered the turquoise-blue sky, dotted with fluffy , creamy white clouds. He watched some beautifully singing birds fly gracefully into a tree, hidden by a veil of vibrant green leaves. He pressed the back of his hand to the clear pane of glass, feeling the almost scorching heat that the August sun had transferred to it. Now Heero understood just what he had to do, what he needed to do, for himself and those who really cared about him. He sat down in the padded seat, opened the notebook, raised his pen, and began to write.

I love the winter.