Type sat on the bed, amidst a mound of clothes, ruffling his hair in frustration, regretting to have agreed to go to that Kirigun's party.
Tharn Thara Kirigun, 26, was none other than, Type's father's godson. Conventionally, there ought to be some kind of a bromance between them, but they were miles away from such a relation. albeit Tharn was found at Type's house most of the times, yet They never talked in more than tongue-tied hi(s) and hello(s), that too only when Type would emerge out of his room and then they would occasionally stumble into each other. Furthermore, the uncanny in all this was the kind of gazes with which Tharn, unaware to Type, looked at him, those were some really adoring ones, as though seeing a possession prized more than his dear life.
The party was held to exult about Tharn being culled as the CEO of one of the most sought after companies in Thailand; he was just 26 for heaven's sakes and also it was his birthday. The latter part was known only to Type's family.
Now the question stands, that why was it Type, who was spared into this. It, most aptly ought to have been his father, but the man was out of town for a business summit along with his wife. Type also had an elder brother Rambo, who was 19, and like a best friend to Tharn, but he had a college trip, that he had looked forth to since the beginning, so even he couldn't come. Someone had to go and the one left was Type, who was persuaded only after much of beseeching and upbraiding. Even dawdling wasn't working. every bit felt like it was darn destined to fall in place, everyone had to leave for the same spell.
Previously speaking of the pile of clothes, though Type was a much of a connoisseur and aspired to a stylist or dress architect in the future, yet he was unable to decide as to which apparel to adorn to the gathering. A part to him wanted to dress to impress, Tharn of course, and the other half, which mostly was his ego, wanted him to dress in the most odious and obtrusive way possible. Anyhow he ended up dressing in a black, mesh fabric shirt with vertical patches of patterns, coupled with sleek black trousers. No soul could even gauge that he was a 16-year-old.
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Unexpectedly, he had gotten too conscious about the way he looked and checked himself out in the life-size mirror until he could finally remark himself as dashing. He felt a bit narcissistic, but that, he believed was ok. Moreover, he got some pictures shot by, Mild, his most trusted housekeeping staff, who then aided him to single out a suitable scent. He couldn't look appalling; after all, he had an 'image' to keep up to, and that sounded more like an excuse.
He engaged in all the self embracement, till he realized that it was already past five, he was late, but it was ok, there was no one to tick him off, and all this was just a formality, a drudgery after all.
It took four helpers and two rounds to place all the gifts in the Benz, all were likely fragile and of whopping sums. Type's father had sent an enormous, personally customized collection of rare, handwritten journals belonging to successful and renowned personalities. Type mother presented an exquisite, premium collection of men's accessories, which included diamond-studded 18-carat gold watches, platinum wristbands, and chains, together with amber cufflinks and gold lapel pins. Rambo sent some kind of action toy, he knew Tharn treasured them, so he got him a limited edition, which was specific to the manufacturing country, and there too the production had stopped years ago. Rest was bric-a-brac - branded, quaint, glass, and porcelain. Lastly, it was Type's, who had undergone much brain-racking to select a present to present.
