The Forty-Fifth Tale

"What the hell is up with you and holding hands? It's not like I have STD or something— what are you, five?"

"Look," an exasperated sigh escaped from his lips, "I have no qualms with holding hands whatsoever, but in public? Seriously, have you no shame?"

There was a long and uncomfortable silence that ensued between the pair, which Jackson seemed to be oblivious of. The younger teen gave him an incredulous expression, scrutinising the sullen look on his face before pulling his head back and releasing a guffaw that got others turning their heads around at his blatant display.

"D-dude, it's OK," Jackson reassured, wiping a tear that fell from his eye. "I'm just really cold! You have nothing to worry about, I don't swing that way."

Mark hardened his gaze. That wasn't what he had meant at all. He couldn't really blame Jackson for misunderstanding though. He found it incredibly difficult to convey his sentiments and contentions; and unfortunately for him, this only gave other people the impression that he was stand-offish and aloof.

"Hold my hand," his friend reiterated.

"For the last time, Jackson; the answer is no."

"Hold my hand."

"Shut up," he grimaced.

"Hold my hand."

"You aren't going to stop, aren't you?"

"N-ope!" Jackson grinned.

He sighed irritatingly. "Fine." 

Jackson beamed and eagerly reached for the older teen's hand. His face fell slightly, however, when Mark suddenly withdrew, only to find himself impatiently rolling his eyes. "B-but only for a few minutes and that's it."

"Pffft, whatever." 

Mark buried his face into his scarf, attempting to cover the glowing red across his cheeks. It felt quite strange, yet befitting how his hand fitted perfectly against Jackson's own. His hand was extremely warm, and Mark briefly wondered whether the brown haired individual had been lying or not. He didn't bother to contemplate about too much; what mattered was that Jackson was holding his hand and that he knew that he wasn't planning on letting go soon. He closed his eyes, feeling at ease as his friend hummed contently beside him. 

For a few moments, the pair remained in comfortable silence. Mark gazed at the cloudy sky, and wished for this moment to last forever. If it hadn't been for his friend's earlier antics, he'd have mostly likely described this day as peaceful. Awfully peaceful. Mark's eyes widened, yelping as he pulled his hand away. He glared heatedly at Jackson, pointing an accusing finger at him as he felt the heat on his face rising.

"What the hell —w-was that you?!"

"Uh, yeah?" Jackson arched an eyebrow. "Geez, it's like you haven't heard someone fart before. It's a common term for flatulence, if you didn't know. It's the accumulation of—"

"Shut up, Jackson! I know what a freaking fart is!"

"Then I don't see your problem."

Mark heaved a long exhausted sigh and threw his arms up in defeat. "I'm done with you."

Jackson's eyes widened. "What—wait, don't go! Come back! Mark, I'm sorry! I swear, cross my heart and hope to die, that I would never ever fart again! And if I do, I'll be very discreet about it!"

"Go home, Jackson!" Mark yelled, fastening his pace, "find a psychiatrist, you need serious help!"

The younger teen squawked in indignation. "I'm mentally stable, thank you! Mark, come back! I swear I won't eat your pies again!"

"That was— ugh, it. I'm done. I'm seriously done with you!"

"Mark!"

"Stop followi— ack! Jackson, get the away from me!" 

Hurray for Markson! ヽ(；▽；)ノ

The song Jackson was humming (and inspiration): http://youtu.be/n7tHw-ZXVio