Be proud - part II

Michael welcomed Pablo with a smirk and a firm handshake.

"Didn’t think you’d really show up," he teased.
Pablo shrugged, trying to play it cool—but his eyes were already wandering, drawn to the rows of harnesses, the glint of polished metal rings, the scent of raw leather in the air.
"I figured... if you can own it like that, maybe I can too," he muttered.
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Damn right you can."
He stepped closer, nudging Pablo playfully. "Careful, though. That smell? It gets into your head. And once it does…"
Pablo laughed, a bit nervously. "Yeah, I can tell. It’s… intense. But kinda hot."
Michael leaned in, grinning. "Told you. It’s not just gear—it’s freedom."

As Pablo stood there, half-amused, half-awestruck, Michael knew he’d taken the first step. And maybe—just maybe—this wouldn’t be the only time they walked into this store together.

Pablo stepped out of the changing room—nervous, curious, but with a growing spark of pride. The black leather clung perfectly to his frame, sleek and smooth, as if it had been waiting just for him.

Michael's eyes lit up.
"Hot damn," he said with a wide grin. "You were made for this."

Pablo laughed, smoothing his hands down his chest.
"I thought it would feel... weird. But it doesn’t. It feels right. Like second skin."

Michael nudged him playfully.
"Told you. You don’t wear leather, you become it."

The two of them stood in front of the mirror, side by side, matching in form and fire. Pablo caught his own reflection—and smiled.
Not just because of how he looked.
Because of how he felt.

Free. Confident. Unapologetically himself.

Later that afternoon, they sat side by side at a small café just off the main street, the scent of espresso and leather still clinging to Pablo’s new shirt. He couldn't stop smiling.

"I bought it," Pablo said, almost like he still didn’t believe it. "All of it. The whole outfit."

Michael raised his glass. "You looked proud. And damn hot."

Pablo chuckled. Then, after a moment, he added:
"I want the cigars, too. And... maybe even the haircut."

Michael leaned back in his chair, amused.
"Easy, tiger. One step at a time. It’s a process. You don’t have to rush it."

But Pablo shook his head, eyes glinting with something new.
"I don’t know. Something feels different. Like... I’ve been holding back for so long. And now that I’ve started—"

Michael pulled a cigar from his inner pocket and handed it to him, unlit.
Pablo took it. Turned it between his fingers. Brought it to his lips.

It didn’t feel silly. It didn’t feel like pretending.
It felt right. As if the missing piece had always been there, waiting.

He looked at Michael, grinning.
"No, really. I think today is the day."

They stood in front of the shop.
Military Gay Barbershop—bold letters on the glass, a red-white-blue pole slowly spinning above the door.

Michael looked confident, his cigar clenched tight between his teeth. Pablo, on the other hand, tried to copy the same stance—but the flutter in his stomach was undeniable.

"You sure about this?" Michael asked, half-smiling.

Pablo nodded, slowly.
"I'm nervous as hell," he said, exhaling a thin trail of smoke. "But yeah. I want this."

Michael pulled him in by the shoulder. "Then let’s do it. And no matter what—you're pulling it off like a natural already."

Pablo took one last deep breath. He still wasn't sure how short it would go, or how he’d feel sitting in that chair with his long hair falling to the ground.

But one thing was clear:
He wasn’t going back.

Michael stood beside the barber chair, arms crossed, cigar clenched in his teeth, looking every bit the drill sergeant he half-joked about being.

Pablo sat back in the chair, relaxed, a crooked smile on his lips. The cigar in his mouth danced slightly as he grinned.

“So?” Michael asked, narrowing his eyes. “What are we doing here? Bit of a trim?”

Pablo let the question hang for a beat. Then he turned, locked eyes with him, and said with a glint of mischief:

“I didn’t come here for a trim, mate.”

Michael let out a low whistle, lips curling.

“Oh really now?”

“Let’s just say,” Pablo said, puffing out a cloud of smoke, “I’m ready to look like I feel.”

Pablo couldn't stop grinning.

He ran his hands over the freshly shaved sides of his head, the strip of dark hair on top sharp and bold like a badge of honor. The cigar wobbled between his teeth as he laughed, deep and carefree, his whole body vibrating with the thrill of it.

"Fuck," he said, eyes shining. "That feels incredible."

Michael, watching from the corner of the barbershop, let out a low whistle.
"You actually did it."

Pablo turned his head slowly, letting Michael take in the cut from every angle.
"Feels like me. Like... the me I’ve been keeping under wraps for way too long."

He leaned back in the chair, leather creaking, a puff of smoke curling toward the ceiling.

"This is it," he said. "I’m not going back."

The street buzzed with the clinking of glasses and scattered voices. Rainbow flags fluttered above the bar as Pablo and Michael sat on the terrace, cigars between their lips. In front of them: a freshly opened humidor box and a cold beer Pablo barely touched.

“You know this is all your fault, right?” Pablo said, glancing over at Michael.

Michael raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, really? Which part exactly? The leather gear? The cigar? Or that damn sharp haircut?”

Pablo grinned, took a slow drag, and let the smoke roll from his lips.
“All of it. I never thought any of this… I mean… could feel this right. This me. Thanks, man. Really.”

Michael leaned back, eyeing him with quiet pride.
“You opened your own eyes, Pablo. I just showed you the door.”

A brief moment of silence passed between them. Then they tapped their cigars together.

“To new beginnings,” Pablo said.
“And to damn good leather,” Michael added.

They laughed.

“And while we’re at it… owning what we’re into…”, He leaned in and kissed Michael — slow, unapologetic, and firm. The street noise faded for a second. Only leather creaked and the soft exhale of breath remained.
“Yeah. That’s what I call commitment.”

They both chuckled, cigars still smoldering, proud and perfectly at ease in their skin — and in their leather.