Jun Manjoume was having serious difficulties. Either his door key had expanded in the unseasonal spring heatwave, or the lock had shrunk. He concentrated hard, pushing the key to the plate, twisting it this way and that, but succeeded only in marking the metal. It had been a long night of drinking with his manager and sponsors and he really didn't need to be dealing with this right now. All he wanted was his bed.
The door opened. Registering that this wasn't his doing, Manjoume readied himself to apologise for waking up his flatmate, when he realised how perky Fubuki looked, still dressed in his day clothes. The smell of coffee radiated off him.
"You're still up?" said Manjoume, walking past (through) Fubuki and collapsing thoughtlessly on the couch. His eyes slowly focused on the picture on the television. A pretty woman in an improbably large and shiny dress appeared to be singing passionately to the gathered crowd, although there was no sound.
"Yeah," said Fubuki, picking up his headphones and plumping himself down next to Manjoume. "It's just started, so I'll be awake for a couple of hours yet. If the light bothers you in your room I can watch it in mine."
"What is it?"
"The Eurovision Song Contest."
Manjoume drew a blank. "Never heard of it."
"Countries from all over the world, it's supposed to be Europe but they had Australia a couple of times, send a song to represent their country." Fubuki grew animated, gesturing with his hands. "There's a massive celebration of love and peace and music for a week and whoever wins has to host the next competition."
It sounded dumb to Manjoume, but he was willing to countenance any interest of his master's at least once. "Is Professor Cronos thinking of entering you as a graduate from the idol course?"
"I wish!" Fubuki laughed. He held up an earbud to Manjoume and pressed the other into his own ear. Manjoume yawned, but accepted. He enjoyed the occasional close moment with Fubuki, even if he would pay for it in tortured self-analysis afterwards. Fubuki's hair tickled Manjoume's cheek as the short cable forced their heads together.
The lady on screen was just finishing, her high note slightly off-key, but the crowd were applauding and shouting regardless. Her dress seemed to be a different colour than when Manjoume had first seen it.
A vignette cut in, panning across mountains and forests, wolves running, finally landing on a group of tall, dark-robed, long-haired elvish creatures, engaged not in summoning a demon but playing a simple card game. Of course, in Manjoume's experience, the latter could lead to the former.
Fubuki explained quietly. "They introduce the group and the country they're from before each performance, while they're setting the stage. I've got the UK stream on, I understand a bit more English than Finnish, let's say, but the comments can sometimes be a bit mean. The British have this thing where they hate Europe and Europe hates them but they still show up to every party."
"Sounds like a duel commentator I know." The Finnish druids had taken the stage, performing a surprisingly upbeat song on electric violins, accompanied by a strange whirling dance. "It's not terrible, but is it really the best they could come up with?"
"Not at all!" Fubuki laughed. It was soft, but Manjoume could feel his shoulders shaking. "You don't win just with the song. You win with the whole concept. The act, the outfits, the staging, the message… There's some countries that don't want to win, apparently, because hosting it could bankrupt them, so they send something really weird to try to put people off voting for it."
"Then why enter at all?" Manjoume yawned again, his eyelids drooping, and let his head flop onto Fubuki's shoulder.
"And miss all this?" It was snowing on stage now. Fubuki put his arm around Manjoume and leant back on the couch to get more comfortable. "You know, you smell a bit boozy. You should probably get to bed."
"I can sleep here." The next song was a ballad in a language Manjoume didn't recognise. It was soothing, as was the warmth from Fubuki's touch.
"You'll get a crick in your neck," warned Fubuki.
Manjoume lazily flopped a hand across where he guessed Fubuki's face would be. "Ssshhh."