"I watched the semifinals last night." Prussia broke the silence at the table, where him and Germany were having breakfast...Prussia practically stealing all buns and coffee from his younger brother.
"So?" Germany asked, raising his eyes from the tablecloth. He had not been able to watch the show because work had left him so exhausted he went to bed early. He didn't care about not watching it: he knew either Prussia or Italy would tell him as soon as he got up. Everyone would talk about it the morning after.
"Austria is out. Not surprising: I almost fell asleep during his performance. Switzerland and Belgium did pass. Australia, Russia, Poland, Ukraine...I don't remember who else, let me see..." Prussia grabbed his phone and checked. It seemed he had taken notes and all, to tell him. "Yeah. Turkey, Portugal, Finland, Belarus, Greece, San Marino, Israel, Norway, Croacia, Romania, Azerbaijan, Poland..."
"You already said that one."
"Right. Uhm, Macedonia and Czech Republic."
"Hm."
There was nothing else he wanted or needed to know about the previous night, since he knew now which neighbors and friends he would encounter at the contest and he had already listened some of the songs the others were going to present, so Germany's gaze and thoughts got lost again somewhere in the kitchen.
But it seemed Prussia had something else to say, because he kept staring at him in a way that inevitably attracted his attention and made him frown.
"What?"
"There's a lot of competition this year. They got rid of most of the boring ballads and left some good out but there are still some scary rivals. Have you rehearsed?" Prussia asked.
"Well, I have a lot to take care of. Winning a singing contest is not going to help me with the rising prices and the energy problem. It's like I have a hole in my wallet lately; I can't focus much on Eurovision. But I've done all I can."
"Yeah, sure. Always so busy. Doing things in a rush. That's why you always choose the worst songs the composers offer you."
"I like them." Germany frowned.
"West, open your eyes, all songs you've been sending these last years were shit, a shit so big it couldn't go through the door! And to make things worse, you let the guys from styling dress you like a character out of Japan's trippiest animes! Australia's got a staging that would give Broadway musicals a run for their money. Ukraine, I don't even know what the song was about, she was wearing a dress that makes all males and lesbians in the room howl like wolves in heat. Spain dances great. And what do you got? A song about bees! As if someone cared about the stupid bees!"
"I thought you enjoyed mocking me. You are usually the fastest to post memes about me on Twitter."
"It is fun, but it is also awful, because we are on the same boat. I want to win some time, eh?"
"Then do it yourself. Ah, no, wait, you can't. You're not a nation anymore."
Germany's words made Prussia's frown sharpen. It was almost fun to Germany, the pout Prussia made.
"That hurt and was completely uncalled for. But there's some truth in there: I am no one. My days are counted. I have these many years in the world, and I want to see you, my legacy, taste victory for once."
"I have already won. Two times."
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, I suppose you consider that not winning every year is being a loser and making a fool of yourself." Having finished breakfast, and having had enough of Prussia's nonsense, Germany stood up. "Well, sorry, but I have more important things to do than Eurovision. I am not a professional singer. We do this for fun, remember? And that's what I plan to do: have fun with my silly songs."
And he left the kitchen, leaving Prussia shaking his head.
Aw, Germany didn't understand! A lot of politics were involved. The winner received tons of tourists, which meant a juicy income. It was not fun. It was a competition! International exposure!
Rubbing his chin, Prussia started ruminating an idea.
Germany wouldn't win unless he bribed the whole Europe or the rest of the countries suffered a salmonella outbreak.
A grin started to grow on his face.
Yes...That was it...
England watched the trophies he had on the fireplace for a long while. Puppet on a string, 1967. Boom Bang-a-Bang, 1969. Save your kisses for me, 1976. Making your mind up, 1981. Love, shine a light, 1997. Not bad, not bad at all.
That was why this century was being frustrating.
Not only hadn't he won any festival ever since the new millennium started: he had tasted the last positions way too often. Two years before, he had gotten no points at all. The year before, he had just gotten one single point, from France.
Sure, the frog thought it was so funny...Having to 'owe' him that...It was way more embarrassing than if he had gotten nothing at all...
But not that year! That year, he would make the tables turn. He had worked his hardest practically from the very moment Sweden was elected the winner the year before. He had taken a lot of classes on singing and dancing.
Would that be enough? Who knew...Europe was filled with bastards who couldn't be convinced by a good voice...They were all contaminated by America's idea of what a show should be: jumping the shark, doing impossible things to replicate, the over-the-top...
That was why he had to make it spectacular, apart from good...
He caressed the spell book in his hands, a smile growing.
This year, he would make history, and he would have France's jaw dropping playing on a loop in one of those digital frames...
England was his friend. True they had had a lot of...differences, to put it some way, in the past, but it was all over. They were good pals, cooperated in tons of issues. But at that time of the year France felt how his historical disgust towards England returned, all the bad memories returning, and made his blood boil at the mention of that cursed name.
Like England, he had won the contest five times. They were in a tie. There had to come a day when one surpassed the other. A day when it was finally settled which of them was the best.
He stopped for a second to glance at his reflection in the mirror. He saw himself with a lion's mane, his head up high, his eyes flaming in pride.
Obviously, that would be him.
"We take it from there, okay?"
France nodded.
Ever since 2000, he had not been much lucky in the contest. He had tasted the humiliation of the last place, and year after year he was always among the last ten. And he didn't know why. His staging was elegant, his songs and himself were refined. Not even experimenting with something a bit more playful worked. He had come to believe that his European fellows wouldn't have known talent if it broke into their houses and knelt them in the balls.
France drank, left the bottle of water aside and joined his partner.
But this time nobody would resist his charm.
He had gotten a great collaborator to make a duo with.
"That last note was a bit off key, but you're getting it right." David told him. David Guetta, of course.
"So, your brother made it."
Ukraine avoided looking at Poland and just kept on looking at the shop windows distractedly.
"I'm honestly surprised they let them participate in the first place. I thought we had rules preventing assholes from ruining our fun." Poland continued, not discouraged by her silence.
"I guess the organizers considered he could. I don't know." Ukraine evasively said.
"And Belarus passed too. You three are going to be together. How long it's been? A decade?"
"I don't remember."
"And how are you feeling about it?"
Poland waiting for her response, not minding about Lithuania, struggling to follow them with tons of bags—Poland's bags—in his hands.
"I feel nothing." Ukraine admitted. "Each of us will do their thing and that's it. What do you want me to say?"
"Considering how things have been between you guys, maybe you didn't want to be in the same room."
"I told you: we will be minding our own business. I have my performance to deliver—that's it. I don't want to think about my family problems all the time. Sometimes...the mind needs a rest."
"But all of us know Russia: he never minds his own business. I am sure Georgia didn't get to join us because he told her." Poland said.
"And the Baltics too. How curious that they were left out. I liked their songs, and I know people on Spotify listen to them a lot."
"Nah, that's because Latvia was boring to watch, Estonia was glued to the spot and moved like a freaking mannequin and Lithuania sang like a platypus with sinusitis." Poland ignored Lithuania frowning at him behind his back. "But seeing some of the guys that qualified, yeah, it wouldn't surprise me if he pulled some strings."
Lithuania left the bags on the floor and sighed with tiredness.
"Don't be scared, Ukraina. If he tries something during the show..." He said to Ukraine.
"Thank you, but you don't need to protect me. I can take care of myself. Also, I don't think Russia will try anything during Eurovision."
"Who knows? He loves to cross red lines." Poland said.
"He won't. I won't let him. Eurovision only happens once a year, and I'm not letting him ruin it for me!"
"Well said, girlfriend!" Poland smiled and wrapped an arm around her. "We're gonna have so much fun! You too, Liet. At home."
Lithuania glared at him a second time, and again Poland ignored him.
"I can count with your twelves, right?" He winked at Ukraine.
"Of course, I told you. Your song is my favorite." She replied, giggling.
"And you, Liet? I promise I'll convince Belarus to make you a call."
Lithuania blushed. "Sure, why not?"
"Good. That's what I wanted to hear." Poland smiled, satisfied. "You are good friends."
Eurovision cost an average of 33,6 million euros to organize; nations spent 500,000 in order to participate and in broadcasting rights. One could argue that this was a really expensive past time. But everybody knew it was an investment. Whoever got to host the contest, would not only win a trophy to brag about to the guests. It was a great investment in infrastructure, workers, sound and image effects; but it was true that the return was important. The hosting city would receive thousands of visitors, contestants and their staff and spectators. Tourism created jobs. Moreover, it was publicity for the city and the country—a publicity which meant more visitors along the year, investors, the host's messages and problems being listened to...
Sweden knew about the perks of being a winner very well. He had won six times.
And why did he win so many times? Because he put a lot of effort and care in everything he did.
Not only was he going to try to oust Ireland, the country which had won Eurovision the most times—by one win more than him. Not only was in his plans joining the select group formed by Spain, Luxembourg, Israel and, yet again, Ireland, of countries which had won twice or even three times in a row. No, he would rock the history of the festival by making Stockholm 20XX the best, most spectacular edition of all time.
He supervised the stadium in which the festival would be held along with the hosts. Professional entertainers, well known in his radio and television, all with a perfect English accent. Two men and two women, of course—equality was mandatory. One of the designers was giving them a tour around, showing them everything.
"The stadium uses LED lights only, assuring a low energy consumption. We have installed plaques on the floor which turn the movement and heat of the contestants, staff and audience into energy, so not only are we wasting little, we are almost self-sufficient. There is space for around 7,354 spectators in the arena. There are recycling bins all around the arena, so nobody will have an excuse to litter."
A tiny, satisfied smile flashed in Sweden's face.
"I will show you now a sample of how the flag parade will look."
The man raised an arm, doing a sign for a worker who was waiting. Then, the lights of the stadium switched off and the LED screens that covered the stage and platform were illuminated with the blue and yellow colors of the Swedish flag in a sweep effect. The animation looked smooth and Sweden was happy with the result. He was dying for the week to pass quickly so he could walk in there, showing off his flag proudly.
"Wow, this looks awesome!"
He then turned around to find a little figure who had approached without anyone from the crew noticing. Sealand gazed at the flag with his eyes wide open.
"It's going to be terrific! I'm so excited I feel like I'm going to explode! Do you know who France has brought? David-Guetta!"
The hosts turned their eyes to Sweden; he knew what they were thinking.
"Aw, please, he's like someone big in the music industry, a colossus! Put a little bit of enthusiasm, dad! Hey, if you don't want France to overshadow you, you should bring someone as big or even bigger for the occasion, to perform during the interval...like...Abba or...someone a bit more trendy, less old...I know! Avicii!"
"None...of them are available, I'm afraid." The designer told him delicately.
"That's too bad...It's gonna be difficult to compete with something like that...But, hey, I'm sure you'll come up with something spectacular, and I will do my best! I will be a good sport, I promise; no envy, no nasty words or dirty tricks! I will be a gentleman whether I win or end up last!"
All the adults kept looking at Sweden, and he silently assured them with a gesture with his head that he had all of this under control. This was going to be difficult but he needed to be firm...
"Sealand..." Sweden knelt down in front of the micronation so he could look at him to the eyes. "You can't participate."
"I know what the EBU said, but you can surely let me in, right? Like...You are the one who's doing the whole thing, and I'm your adopted son in a contractual way..." Sealand's smile practically didn't change.
"Sorry. I can't. There are a series of rules we all must follow. You are not an officially recognized nation, so you can't participate."
With those words, Sealand's enthusiasm started to decay quickly.
"But...I have a song and all...I've been rehearsing for a whole year..."
"Sorry, Sealand. I'll get you credentials so you can go anywhere you like, and Guetta's autograph." Sweden said to him.
"But I want to be a contestant, not a V.I.P. spectator..." Sealand whined.
"I told you, there's nothing I can do."
Sweden placed a hand on the boy's shoulder then walked away with the crew, leaving him behind.
"It's a pity but we have to be firm. We can't let anything or anyone interfere." A designer said.
Sweden knew. He really hated to upset Sealand like that but...anyway, children needed to hear 'no' from time to time, so they don't become little tyrants, right?
But he had had Sealand under his watch for long enough to know he wouldn't just accept things as they were. He didn't have the heart to make him stay at home the day of Eurovision but he took note mentally of telling one of his bodyguards to take care of him...Just in case he thought of trying something...
"Mommy!" Frustration seemed to fade for a second from Sealand's voice, when he ran away, to greet someone who was approaching.
Finland opened his arms, welcoming Sealand in.
"I told you, I'm not 'mommy'..." Finland delicately tried to correct the boy.
"Mom, Dad won't let me join you this Saturday!"
"Aw, that's too bad, but I am sure you will understand it's not his fault. His hands are tied."
"It isn't fair..." Sealand protested.
Well, this seemed like Finland was in a better mood today. Sweden saw him approach, dragging his suitcase.
But first sign that it was not so: the sweet smile he had for Sealand fully disappeared the very moment they were face to face.
"Sorry to interrupt, Sweden."
Second sign: that 'Sweden'. No 'Mister' before the name.
"Don't worry." Sweden replied.
"I just landed and they told me you guys were here, so I thought we could go eat out."
"I still got things to take care of."
"Very well, I'll take Sealand with me, then, so he won't bother you. Keep doing what you were doing."
Third sign: no goodbye whatsoever. He just gazed around, his eyebrows furrowed a little and walked out with Sealand by the hand.
Sweden frowned. Of course he was mad that this was not Helsinki 20XX...
"Sir?" The technician called his attention.
"Yes, go ahead." Sweden turned to the staff.
He kept listening, but his mood had visibly dropped.