It was the smell of cigarette smoke. I think that's what woke me. That and the loud squawking of the nesting seagulls on the roof, piercing my ears. My eyelids struggled to open, glued together by sleep and last night's matted gloss I failed to remove. Finally peeling apart, the blurry, out-of-focus world begins to form: mismatched furniture, potted plants, and an occupied futon. Still knackered, a lazy hand reaches for my glasses, knocking the pill bottle to the floor. Yellow capsules spill everywhere.
“Shit.” My mouth feels dry, and a sickly metallic tang catches at the back of my throat.
Finding my glasses upturned between the lamp and a copy of The Arcana Fantasia, I slip them on. I yawn, stretching wide. My whole body aches. My neck is cricked, my back hunched, my fingers locked, and my toes tingling—not the pleasant tingle, but the dull one.
“Shit,” I repeat, cracking my knuckles. Instinctively, I light a cigarette and begin to smoke, huffing in the nicotine. “I need coffee.”
The still-smoking remnants of last night’s cigarette are smouldering in the ashtray as I stub out the orange and yellow stick. Blackened ends and curled-up rollers lining the already hefty cinders. I am careful as I dab, not wanting to upset and overspill the contense—partly to avoid burning the carpet or bedding, and partly because I know a doozie of charms that requires ash.
Throwing off the blanket, I stand up, careful not to step on my meds as I cross the room to the snoring bundle that is Beano.
“Oi. Wakey wakey. Oi. Mate, wake up.” I shake the bundle, only to be met by a solitary middle finger.
“F’r fuck sake, John. Lemme sleep.”
“You know what day it is, don’t you?”
“The day ya let me sleep in?”
“That’s every day, you lazy wanker. Nah, it’s Pride, mate. Come on up and give us a kiss.”
“You can get one when I’m up and not before.”
“Fine. I’ll just kiss Veronica then.”
“Go do that then.”
Veronica is draped over the arm of the sofa, still in her black fishnets and spiked denim jacket. Her dog leash and chains trail across the floor.
“Mornin’ beautiful. Fancy a kiss to start Pride?”
“You’re such a slut.”
“Love ya too.”
“Fine. I warn you now, something may have died in my mouth.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
I lean in and kiss her. She wraps her arms around my head, her fingers running through my hair. Her breath tastes of tomato, Worcestershire sauce, and egg.
The moment is spoiled by the sound of retching from the ensuite. I look over to see the door open. Chaz has his head in the toilet bowl and, from the sounds of it, is puking up a lung.
“Need me to hold your hair?”
“Fuck you.”
“Is that a…?”
“Get over here and hold my hair if you’re offering.”
I obey, giving Veronica a wink as I go. She rolls over to make herself more comfortable.
We sit on the bathroom floor for the next twenty minutes. Chaz is sick twice. I keep his hair away from his mouth and rub his naked back. His clothes, save for his black Hugo Boss briefs, lie in a pile inside the shower.
“God, that’s the last time I drink.”
“You said that last week.”
“Well, this is the last time.”
“’k.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Ain’t my place to say nor judge. I’m not the big man upstairs.”
“Hah. None of us are goin’ upstairs.”
“Then might as well make the most of it before we go down. Speaking of going down—Happy Pride.”
“Happy Pride, John. Happy Pride.”
“Wanna give me a Pride kiss? Beano’s holding out on me.”
“I said I’d kiss ya later, ya clingy bastard,” Beano’s voice calls from the next room. I can see he hasn’t moved; his voice is muffled slightly by the pillow.
“Have you seen Gazza?” I ask, gently tousling Chaz’s hair.
“Out in the garden. I think he shot up. That’s what it looked like he was doing. Then again, I was too busy running in here to notice.”
“I owe him a Happy Pride too.”
“What’s gotten into you this morning? You’re normally such a grumpy bastard. Now you’re … peppy.”
“No, I’m not.”
“No? Just yesterday you yelled at the seagulls, and I quote, ‘Quiet down you flying rats, or I will turn you into hat stands.’”
“Did I really say that?”
“Yes.”
“Hah.”
Chaz smiles at me weakly.
“I like this softer side to you. You’re cute when you’re not a miserable sod.”
I get up, helping Chaz to his feet. He leans on me as we make our way back to the bedroom. Beano is still face down on the futon, snoring softly. Veronica has taken over the couch completely, sprawled out and already scrolling through her phone. The light from the screen casts an eerie glow on her face. She looks exhausted, her makeup smudged.
“Coffee, anyone?” I ask, heading towards the kitchenette.
“God, yes,” Veronica groans, not looking up from her phone.
“Make it strong,” Chaz adds, collapsing onto my bed.
Starting up the coffee machine, the whirring and grinding is not welcome. In my state, clearly hungover from a night at the clubs, it sounds like a jackhammer banging through concrete. The smell of fresh coffee fills the small apartment. As I wait for the machine, I clean up the spilt pills, carefully picking up each capsule and returning them to the bottle. The last one I swallow, shuddering with disgust as I feel it sliding down my throat.
The coffee finishes brewing, and I pour five mugs, adding a generous amount of sugar to each one. I hand the first mug to Veronica. The second goes to Chaz, who immediately starts sipping, his face relaxing with the first taste.
I take my own mug and sit on the edge of the futon, nudging Beano with my foot. “Coffee’s ready.”
He grumbles but finally sits up, rubbing his eyes. He takes the mug I offer him, and we all just sit there, sipping our coffee.
“So, what’s the plan for today?” Veronica asks, breaking the silence.
“The parade starts at noon,” I say. “We’ve a couple of hours to get ready.”
“Think I’m going to need all of it,” Chaz mutters, looking down at himself. “Can I borrow some pants, mate? I didn’t pack any.”
“Bottom right.” I look over to Veronica and ask, “You still got your outfit ready?”
“Yeah, it’s in the wardrobe. Just need to not feel like death warmed over,” she replies.
“Beano, you going to join us or sleep through it?” Veronica teases.
“I’ll be there, don’t worry,” he says, stretching and yawning. “Just need to wake up proper.”
We finish our coffee and begin the slow process of getting ready. Veronica disappears into the bathroom to freshen up, while Chaz digs out his outfit from under the bed. I pick up my Bisexual Pride flag from where it’s draped over a kitchen chair and start folding it carefully.
As the morning winds on, the room begins to get more festive. I’ve put on a glam rock playlist, singing along into an empty kitchen roll tube. Beano is at the sewing machine, adding the finishing touches to his outfit. Veronica is on the floor making placards. She has done four: “Fuck the Tories,” “Pride is forever, not just a month,” “Trans Rights are Human Rights,” and “I put the HOMO in Homo Magi.” Her hands are slick with glue and glitter. Renee, Chaz’s wife, is applying his eyeliner with a pencil, holding his head still as he nods along to the track.
Gazza Lester comes in. He is stoned.
“What’s all this then? Someone’s puked rainbows and glitter.”
“Happy Pride, mate.”
“Oh yeah. Happy Pride. I fuckin’ love you, mate.”
“Oi Lester, help me with these placards. We need six,” Veronica calls him over. Some of the glitter has splashed onto her face.
“Coming, love. Let me give Johnnie boy a kiss first.”
He pecks me on the cheek before joining Veronica on the floor.
By the time we’re all ready to leave, the apartment looks like a vortex has passed through it. Clothes, card, paper, and glitter are strewn everywhere, and the air is thick with the scent of various perfumes and colognes. We do our final checks.
“Yep, six queers. Everyone’s here,” Chaz says with a smirk.
“Right, you horrible lot. Let’s get this party started.”
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