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Getting ready for Pride in the tiny bathroom of Pen’s apartment feels like a ritual. There’s Fleetwood Mac playing from her bluetooth speaker, pots of glitter and sunscreen, and the overwhelming sense that today will be a good day.
Colin watches as she braids her hair into two long plaits, already frizzy in the humidity. It’s too hot to bother with proper make-up, just a lick of the most heavy duty waterproof eyeliner and mascara she’s got, but she applies it with careful diligence anyway. Then the glitter gel to her eyelids, her cheekbones, swiping it across the top of her tits and through Colin’s chest hair for good measure. They somehow manage to use a whole pot every single year, but Colin wouldn’t have it any other way.
And then Pen’s declaring them both ready with a swish of her peasant skirt and a quick tug to check her bikini top won’t come undone. She looks beautiful, stunning, an absolute vision in oranges and pinks, but then again she always does. She always has.
There’s one thing that’s different about this Pride though.
It’s the way she loops her arms around Colin’s neck—dragging him down just far enough that their faces can meet—and snogs the living daylights out of him.
—
He needs new pins.
He’s still got his progress flag on his lapel and he has no intentions of taking that off any time soon, but his ace flag doesn’t feel like home anymore. It’s close of course, but not quite right and that not-quite-right feeling has been niggling at him more and more lately.
Pen drags him down row after row of stalls on the hunt for the perfect pin. First past the corporate sponsors, with their mediocre merchandising and overly enthusiastic but deeply soulless workers. Then the organisations, full of gusto but lacking in diversity of product for Pen’s tastes. No, she wants something specific, and Colin knows when she finds it because she reaches back for his hand and practically drags him to the booth to trawl through the jars of colourful metal.
“I told you we’d find something better than the plastic crap,” she says as she digs her free hand in deep. He’s about to argue the point that there’s nothing objectively wrong with the plastic crap but she’s already pulling pins out and spreading them across the trestle table. Sapphic pins, intersex pins, pronoun pins.
Colin watches as her fingers linger for just a moment on a shiny bright she/they pin, but then she’s picking up a flag pin and offering it up to him flat on her palm like a gift. “Ta da!”
Fuck. Okay.
It’s real and it’s beautiful, all shiny metal and those familiar purples, blacks and greys, but that triangle. Fuck, that fucking triangle, poignant and vibrant and right.
“Yeah,” Colin says, and he probably should be embarrassed about the way his voice kind of breaks, but Pen’s only looking up at him with a delighted grin. “Yeah, it’s perfect.”
—
Colin and Pen have been attending Pride together long before they were Colin-and-Pen. Just Colin and his best friend Penelope, two hopeless queers at the city's biggest queer party. Penelope has always seemed at home here, throwing flirty glances at cute girls and dancing with anyone who takes her fancy.
Colin? Well, Colin has a tendency to sit back, let it all happen. He can dance as good as the rest of the half drunk crowd—that is, poorly, but with enthusiasm—but he’s never felt particularly one with them, always just a little off centre. He’s a people watcher, a chatter when someone comes past and wants to make small talk. But he’s never one to throw himself into the centre of things, not like Penelope.
And that’s true now, as the oppressive sun beats down on them and Colin lies in the shade below the tallest trees, eyes closed beneath his sunglasses. He’s undone his shirt buttons, anything to get that little bit of breeze cooling him down as the speakers blast dance music and his heart thumps in time with the baseline.
He could get used to it here, he thinks, feeling the sun on his shins and the crackle of human existence in the air. All he needs is a giant slushie to cool him down and another three layers of sunscreen.
Which reminds him, Pen is probably overdue for more sunscreen.
He pushes himself up on his elbows, gazing out across the open field that is the dancefloor. She’s impossible to miss, with her floppy sun hat and that flaming red hair. She twirls and sways and grinds up against pretty girls when the beat asks for it and she is beautiful.
That’s the love of his life, right there, out in the middle of it all, right where she should be.
Except she must have some kind of sixth sense, because right as Colin finds her, Pen’s eyes lock with his too, that cheeky grin of hers splitting her face. All the most gorgeous people in the city are at her disposal, right there for her to touch and move with, and she’s out here grinning at him.
You alright? she mouths across the crowd, the music too loud to be heard.
He nods, smiles. I’m alright.
And maybe that should be enough. It is enough, simply watching her find her rhythm, beating out the quiet drum of her existence. He never wants to weigh her down, make her feel like she’s any less queer or whole in her identity just because she’s chosen to be with him.
But part of him wants to be there too, holding her close, letting her energy sweep him up in the moment. He’s one of them too, isn’t he? Just as queer as the rest of them. Could he do it? Stake his claim on the space? Disappear into the energy of the crowd and just dance with Penelope?
She’s still watching him, a curious expression on her face, and her eyebrows furrow as she looks at him. Her hips are still moving to the rhythm mindlessly, but her attention is entirely caught on him. And then she’s mouthing more words. Just three of them, rather simple.
Dance with me?
Colin doesn’t feel himself moving. It’s as if the tide of energy is dragging him towards her, leaving behind the safety of the little space he’d dug out in the shade. He might be safe there, but is he expressing himself there?
The dance floor seems to part between them, making way for him to reach her and Pen’s hands find him easily, pulling him close as they begin to move together to the music. There’s something heady and lush in the hot air, in the press of sticky bodies. Pen’s hand’s find his shoulders, slide down his chest as she moves against him. Where before she had been surrounded by women, now it is just the two of them in the middle of the crowd, dancing together with that same sweaty, fluid grace.
Penelope laughs, a bright sound that cuts through the music and she’s tipping her head back, catching the sun’s rays on the freckles of her cheeks. She is beautiful, gorgeous, and Colin’s palms find the curve of her waist, digging into the soft flesh there, moving them together.
It’s sensual and sexy, but there’s nothing titillating about it either, which surprises him a little. They move in perfect harmony, shifting and rocking and swaying and it connects them both, connects them to each other and every other body on that dance floor and every person here at the carnival today, a feedback loop of interconnectivity, in the way only a place like Pride can seem to manage.
Colin holds Pen tight and feels more queer than he’s felt in a long time, even if on the outside he’s never looked more straight.
Then she’s spinning in his arms, leaning back into his embrace and her fingers are in his curls as his own pool across her belly and she’s leaning up on her tip-toes to say into his ear: “Fuck, I love you.”
He laughs, a bright easy sound that almost surprises him, free and alive and alight. It bubbles up, escapes him, but once it’s free he can’t seem to stop. He’s tipping his head up to the sky and grinning like a fool and holding Pen as close as he can, the whole weight of her against all of him. Him and his sunshine girl, a bright little spark in this sea of vibrant bright sparks, all screaming out with joy.
“I love you so fucking much,” he calls out, shining it out to the entire crowd and then she’s laughing too.
—
It takes a long time for the song to shift, the world moving syrupy slow and heartbeat fast around them. But finally it does, one beat being replaced by another, and Colin slides his hands down the steamy warmth of Penelope’s arms to tangle their fingers together.
“Babe,” he says into the curve of her throat, and he can feel her hummed reply more than hear it. “We definitely need to get you some more sunscreen.”