Be proud - VIII

The streets felt different now—open, warm, real.
Next to him walked Jonas, elegant as ever in his tailored navy suit, but with that familiar glint of hesitation in his eyes.

"You keep looking at my kit," Martin said with a smirk.
Jonas shrugged. "Hard not to. You look… like you."
"I am me," Martin replied. "For the first time in years."

Jonas gave a soft laugh. "I used to sneak into my brother's room just to try on his shiny gold tracksuit. Thought I was insane."
Martin stopped walking. Turned to face him.
"You're not. You’re just waiting to stop pretending. I did. So can you."

Jonas hesitated. Then: "You think I could pull it off?"
Martin grinned. "You already are. You just need to own it."

They continued walking, side by side. One in full sportswear, the other in a suit—yet both carrying something new.
And this time, Jonas didn’t look away when they passed their reflection in a window.

Jonas stared at the wall of golden jerseys, his fingers brushing the sleeve of one. The fabric shimmered under the store lights — bold, unapologetic, proud.

Martin, still in his full kit, gave him an encouraging nudge.
"This is your chance," he said softly. "You’ve dreamed of this look since forever."

Jonas hesitated.
"You really think I could pull it off?"

Martin raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious? It’s Pride season. If not now, when? You told me to be proud, Jonas. Now it’s my turn."
He stepped closer, voice low but firm.
"Be proud."

Jonas smiled — the kind of smile that starts unsure but ends real.
He reached for the hanger.
His hands no longer shook.

Jonas hadn’t really known what he was getting himself into when Martin had told him to come along.
"Just trust me," Martin had said with that dazzling grin of his — the kind that could disarm security systems and melt the most rigid self-doubts.

They’d met on campus, during a casual football match. Jonas had been all reserve and restraint, his shirt tucked in even during practice. Martin, by contrast, radiated confidence — his athletic build, the ease of his movements, the sheer glow of someone utterly at home in his skin. He wasn’t just out. He was loud, proud, and unapologetically golden. Literally.

Now, standing together in the middle of a sportswear store, Jonas felt like a mistake in a catalogue. He wore his tailored navy suit like a shield. Martin, of course, had changed into the new Barça kit already — tight red shorts, electric blue jersey, white socks pulled high. He looked like he’d stepped off a poster.
Jonas adjusted his tie awkwardly.

Martin turned to him. “You know this is your chance, right?”

“My… chance?”

Martin’s eyes softened, but his voice stayed firm. “To stop pretending. To stop hiding. It’s Pride season, man. So be proud.”

Jonas swallowed. He glanced around. The shop was empty except for them. He exhaled. “I… I don’t even know where to begin.”

Martin smiled again, that knowing grin. “Then start here.”

Fifteen minutes later, Jonas stood in front of the mirror, barely recognizing himself.

The suit was gone. In its place: a skin-tight, metallic-gold outfit — short shorts, slick shirt, golden socks, golden sneakers. It clung to his body like a second skin, unapologetically loud, unapologetically queer.

Martin looked at him approvingly, arms crossed. “See? You look amazing.”

“I look like… a pride float,” Jonas muttered.

“Exactly,” Martin laughed, and nudged him. “And you’re glowing.”

They both burst out laughing. The tension dissolved. For the first time in a long time, Jonas didn’t feel like shrinking. He didn’t feel like apologizing. He felt seen.

They left the store together, walking through the city streets in full color — Martin in his football kit, Jonas in liquid gold. People turned to look. Some stared. A few smiled. One woman gave them a thumbs-up.

Jonas felt his heartbeat quicken. Martin slid his arm over his shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Let’s make it official. Time for the hair.”

“The… hair?”

At the barbershop, Jonas sat nervously in the leather chair while Martin stood behind him like a proud stage mom. “Relax,” he said. “You’ll love it.”

Jonas watched in the mirror as the clippers buzzed to life. A confident barber with a practiced touch began reshaping his once-conservative side part into something far bolder. Shorter. Sleeker. Sharper.

Bit by bit, hair fell to the floor. Bit by bit, Jonas' old image vanished.

And when the barber applied the final touch — a precise platinum-blonde gloss to the perfectly sculpted cut — Jonas blinked. Stared. Smiled. And winked.

Martin leaned in. “Told you.”

Later, at a café under rainbow flags gently fluttering in the breeze, they sat close together, sipping iced drinks and laughing over nothing in particular.

Jonas crossed one leg over the other, completely relaxed in his golden kit. Martin sat beside him, hand casually resting on Jonas’s thigh. There was no awkwardness anymore. No hiding. Just two young men, glowing with joy, bathed in sunlight and celebration.

Pride wasn’t just a season.

It was a feeling.

And for the first time in his life, Jonas felt it in full.