One Wish For Christmas.

# three #

The third Christmas.

Today.

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Mark is hiding in the Napat's bathroom; door locked on the inside as he worriedly stares at himself in the mirror.

This year, he has a problem.

His best friend, Kris, had found out about his crush a few months back, and had made it his personal task to pester Mark about it every chance he got. Above this, he had also made it his job to threaten Mark to reveal his secret to his brother whenever he wanted to amuse himself; most times, fortunately, the boy was just joking, and he never actually did it.

Mark had also made it harder for himself when, last week, he had accidentally let slip what his real Christmas present was to him, in a moment of sadness and frustration after having seen P'Gun talking – quite closely – to a girl just outside his house. Kris had asked him to repeat it an uncountable number of times ever since, laughing his ass off after every single one.

“To hold his hand?” Kris had mocked him, tears streaming down his face from how hard he had been laughing. “Out of all of the things you could wish for, you want to hold my stupid brother's hand?”.

Mark had frowned, not pleased with how his friend was referring to his P’.

“He has a warm hand” had been his only justification. “A tiny, warm hand”.

And Kris had nearly collapsed from laughter.

So now he is here, staring at himself in a lonely bathroom, hiding from the large amount of people that are parading through the house just outside of it.

This year, the Napat's had made a little change, they had tried to spice things up a bit. So, instead of the usually small, personal gathering that they were used to having every Christmas, they had decided to invite more people over; mostly some family friends, with their spouses and kids.

And now Mark was in trouble because of mainly two things; on the one hand, after seeing P'Gun talking too closely to someone else, and after having had to bear this huge, fat crush for over three years without making one single step forwards, he had started to feel empty, uneasy, as if his P’ was being ripped away from him, as if the usual one time handhold would not be enough for him anymore; and, on the other hand, he had been wondering how on earth he was going to manage to hold his hand among such a large number of people, where everyone could see, and judge, and prompt P'Gun to run away from him, to get disgusted by his actions.

And Mark would rather die than letting than happen.

So he had come up with the perfect plan. A plan that would tumble down both of those worries, that would let him hold P'Gun's hand more than once, and that would not make P’ get freaked out by it.

Mark is now in the bathroom, giving himself his own pep talk in order to get enough courage to leave these four, lonely walls and go outside into the battlefield.

He breathes in deeply, holding the air inside his lungs for as long as he can. He can do this, he can make his way out of here and hold P'Gun's hand for the rest of the night. P’ is nice, he would want to help.

And so off he is, unlocking the door, grabbing the knob and yanking it open, stepping into the wildlife. Immediately, he is surrounded by dozens of people, all mingling, chatting, clinking champagne glasses, and just generally enjoying the few hours that are left to midnight. Mark becomes instantly on edge, highly aware of where he places his hands, and if he is standing up straightly enough, and if someone is watching him sauntering his way to his P’.