Chapter Text
James
The irony of it all is that James doesn’t have anyone to go to Pride with this year.
Irony in the sense that it’s Brighton, irony in the sense that more than half his mates identify as some flavour of queer or trans or whatever endearing microlabel they’ve found.
It’s just that they’re all busy. Everyone’s just out of their minds busy, or running their own floats, or working, or whatever whatever whatever.
The long and the short of it is that James has befriended too many queer people with important Brighton Pride jobs, it’s two weeks from the event, and he’s staring down the barrel of having to go to Pride solo (cringe) or not going at all (especially cringe, especially considering the morality of it all).
He’d loved Pride in 2024. Slipped into the crowds, almost entirely anonymous with the huge groups of people he’d been surrounded by, coated himself in glitter and eyeliner and had a fabulous time. Felt comfortable in his queerness in public, held and supported and surrounded by it all. Ended up in a threesome the Saturday night too, which had been especially memorable.
He wants to feel it again.
It’s just a bit cringe to do it by himself.
So maybe he’s moping around the office a little the day they’re going to be drinking expired drinks. Maybe it’s obvious in his mood. Maybe it’s so obvious that an hour before Will decides to drink half a pint of a drink so expired it’s older than him and torpedoes his entire day, he asks what’s up.
“What’s got you so miffed?” Will asks.
The production team’s flatly hidden all the drinks from them, but Will’s still focussed on getting the parts of the setup (that he’s allowed to touch) ready, so he’s taping plastic along the edges of the wall, in the hope that if either of them does vomit, it’s not going to end up staining the baseboards.
The thought is nauseating. Not the Pride bit. Everything else. “Pride’s next week.”
“Oh yeah, you and your blue-haired lot going?”
“Well, it’s the biggest Pride event in the entire UK, Will, so I’d say there’d be a few people there.”
“Then why are you moping about it?” Will’s head down, tongue poking out between his lips as he focuses on taping. He’s probably not even completely listening, but that’s Will’s thing. He’ll retroactively piece it all back together after the fact if he finds a thread interesting.
“Got no-one to go with. Everyone’s busy.”
Will sits back on his heels and stares him down, taping forgotten. There’s an edge of amusement to his gaze. “You lost all your friends in the last week or so?”
“They’re all working at Pride. Or on holiday. Or someplace else. And I have no-one to go with which is awful- ” The words tumble out of him, and he didn’t really realise how upset he was about it until he’s speaking, “-’cause it’s the best time of the year, right, and one of the only times where I can be anonymous and queer and don’t have to worry about the viewers ‘cause the only ones who are there won’t be weird about it. So this sucks.” He sinks down into one of their filming chairs, feeling some kind of way that he can’t really identify, just lost and a bit despondent.
He doesn’t really expect Will to get it, but he’d had to say it all the same.
“I’ll come with.”
What? “Will..?”
Will shrugs. His brow furrows as he goes back to taping. The tape falls down crooked on the floor and he frowns, pressing at it. “I’m an ally, right? And it’s a bit shit for you to go alone.”
Will
He doesn’t even know why he said yes. It had been something about the look in James’ eyes, something horrifying and a little desperate. Will’s known for being a bit of a cynic, a bit rude, but at his heart, hates seeing people hurt, and he can tell that James is genuinely upset by this turn of events.
And it’s not even strange, right? He is an ally. Much more of a vocal one than people might expect. Has been ever since he was in secondary school, since his best mate had come out to him in year eleven when they’d both been sitting in the oak tree at the back of the school field, and he’d sworn, with something weird clutching at his heart, that he’d knock the gay jokes off and get in the way if anyone tried to batter his mate for who he was.
He’s a great ally. They have places for them at Pride, right?
The grateful look James shoots him is enough to make him very happy with his decision anyway.
August the second dawns and he’s almost regretting it. He doesn’t know what people wear to Pride things. Like he’s maybe got an idea of what gay people wear to look hot , it’s not like he’s not been to gay bars, whatever whatever whatever, but he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to look hot. It’s all so much admin, and he feels exhausted by it all.
What do i wear
He texts James about an hour before he needs to get on the train. James replies, within minutes, annoyingly.
You wanna look leng?
Unhelpful. Why is he like this? Will replies, feeling antsy about it all for a reason he can’t place. His skin is hot.
Shut the fuck up man don’t be useless - seriously what do i wear
He’s tried on three different shirts before James replies. He’s just sent a screenshot of one of their videos, the one where he’d worn both a mesh top and a crop top. The mesh top is circled.
This. Jewellery. Your pearls. You know what looks good on you. Bring a shirt for the train though, otherwise you’ll get hit on the entire way.
Then-
Oh yeah also sunscreen.
Well. That’s-
That’s options. There’s options. He briefly wonders why James knows he kept the crop top and the mesh top, and decides he doesn’t want to think too hard about it.
The train is crammed with people covered in rainbow memorabilia. It’s glitter and rainbows as far as the eye can see, and Will’s pressed up against the window, next to someone wearing a feather boa and another someone whose hair, nails and lipstick are the exact same colour of lurid purple.
The mood, though, is good. He doesn’t feel nearly as uncomfortable as he often does in the train, when some stranger gets on looking to cause trouble; this atmosphere is silly and joyous, and so full of love that even the cynical bit inside him warms at the conversations he hears and the glimpses of tender moments he sees around him.
Two women look over at the same phone screen, scrolling a Spotify playlist together. Someone helps someone else paint a rainbow flag on their arm. Two guys lean up against the window and share a kiss.
Fuck. He’s so fucking lonely, and that feeling utterly staggers him.
“Hey.” Someone says, catching his attention through the hum of the train noise. It’s someone sitting two seats along next to where he’s standing. She’s a stunning drag queen maybe in her thirties, with tight curls of caramel-coloured hair, dark eyes, dark features, glitter coursing down her cheek, across her boobs, to her glittery jumpsuit and thick thighs. “You going to Pride?”
“Yeah.” He says, shuffling past people to move a little closer, and then feels compelled to add, “It’s my- uh- first time. Is this not giving pride?”
She laughs, full throated. “It’s giving summer holiday, but is that mesh under there?” She gestures for him to come a little closer, thumbs across the mesh line running under his collar. “That’s giving trying and failing to get into Berghain. Love the pearls though.”
“I mean- hey-” But she’s probably right. “How do I fix this?”
“You’re scared. I’d like to say I get it, but I’ve never been scared in my life. No-one’s going to judge you, baby.” She says, and her eyes are so kind that he can’t look away. “Look around you. You gotta be as big as possible or else they’ll try to take you down.”
He should stop her, he thinks. Tell her that he’s not queer, that he’s just an ally, that he’s just doing this for James. But he… likes the attention, and he wants to do his best for today, ‘cause he’s not blind, can read the news, knows how much it matters. “What can I do?”
“Aside from just having a good time at Pride,” she says, and pats her knee. “Come sit. You ever worn wigs?”
He eyes her knee for a second suspiciously, as the train bumps along. “Yeah, a bunch, actually.”
“You should wear more. They’d suit your face.” She replies. “Seriously. I don’t bite. Come sit. Not going to be weird.”
Fuck it. Standing in a crowd sucks anyway, and he’s not scared. Anxious, a little. A bit like he’s an imposter. But not scared. He settles down onto her thigh, feeling a thousand sequins press into his ass. Her gaze is wide and open as she looks over his face, like she’s examining him. “I feel like you’d balk if I gave you the full beat.” She muses. “How do you feel about makeup?”
“I feel all kind of ways about it.” He’s never had full glam. Never wanted to. But he likes skincare, how it makes him feel all soft and smooth, like a dolphin, all sensory pleasures, and he likes some of the lip and eyebrow shite he’s had to use for videos. So he really doesn’t know. This is all a bit surreal.
“Very unhelpful.” She replies. “Don’t be the kind of guy who batters me if you don’t like something, huh? Just tell me.”
“What-” Will starts, ‘cause he’d never, but she’s reaching out and grasping his chin, and the feeling of her long nails on his cheek stills him some, despite the rocking of the train.
This is surreal. He’s sitting on a drag queen’s lap in a train, surrounded by a whole bunch of people who he’d usually mainly see at one of Jim’s concerts, and there’s something being… brushed onto his face? He squints at the thing, which he can’t quite see from this close up, and then gives up, because in all honesty - it feels nice to be taken care of, to have something to focus on, to have someone holding him. Even if he doesn’t know what she’s doing. “If you draw a cock on my face I’ll… have a mild to moderate fit about it.” He says.
“People only should have cocks on their faces if they ask for them.” She replies, placidly, and fiddles with some other kind of tool from her bag. “Shut your eyes so I can get this done, okay?”
And so he does. She holds him there, one arm around his waist, as he sits, feeling her smooth creams across him, and doesn’t even feel panicky about it. There’s more than a small chance that someone could take a photo of him like this, that it could end up on Twitter and then end up in his boys’ groupchats, but he somehow… doesn’t mind? So what if they make fun of him. It’s not as though this is anything compared to some of the stuff he’s done.
He lets the movement of the train wash over him, lets the conversation from those scattered around sweep him away, and he’s drowsy and very warmed when she tells him to open his eyes.
“I’ve not done much.” She says. “Figured you wouldn’t want that, most laddy boys don’t, really. Though, I do have some stories-” She snorts, and pulls a little flip-open mirror from her makeup pouch. “For another time. You wanna see?”
Will nods, suddenly terrified that it’s all been a massive joke, that he’s going to look himself in the eyes and see something humiliating and ridiculous written on his forehead, but he sees himself and-
He’s pretty. Pretty in the way that James seems to effortlessly be sometimes, a bit elfin, otherworldly, strange. The queen’s done something to his edges, rounded them out so they’re a little less harsh, softened the creases around his eyes with a faint brown liner, patted shimmer across his cheeks. He looks genuinely good, in a way that’s unexpected, in a way that’s almost feminine and he feels- he… feels quite a lot about it, actually. “Uh-” He swallows. Doesn’t know what to say. Just stares at himself, and blinks a couple times, as his reflection wobbles. “Um. Thank you.” It comes out rough. Broken. A little wet.
“Don’t think too hard about it.” She says, and puts the compact away. “You’re lucky, I don’t usually have merch on me, but the spirit of the occasion…” She presses a piece of fabric into his hand. When he looks down, he’s holding a short rainbow bandana.
“Oh, I don’t need-” He starts.
“Take it. I have a thousand, and you’re wearing way too much black, they’ll think you’re a police officer.” She replies, and winds it around his wrist, tying it loosely into a wristband.
“Oh.” His throat still hurts. “I don’t even know your name.”
“Miss Andry.”
What. “Really?”
She winks at him. “Yeah. You’re lucky. I’m not usually this nice to lads. Shift now, I’m off to the loo.”
“Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry.” He shifts, allowing her to squeeze past him and into the throng of people.
“Might be a while,” she says, “Take my seat. These eyelashes are stroppy in this weather.”
Well, that’s kind. He sinks back into it with a sigh. “Thanks. For. Y’know. All this. The face stuff. Uh.”
“No worries.” She scoops up her bag, impossibly confident in her massive heels. She’s probably taller than he is. “It was nice meeting you, Will.”
She’s disappeared into the crowd before he realises he didn’t even tell her his name.