A/N: I had plans of uploading this last night and then I was too tired. But here's Eurovision, a day late, and hopefully Magical Girl follows later. I've struggled a little with this cluster of prompts, gotta admit. I also need to admit that I know next to nothing about Eurovision, so you'll have to excuse anything that doesn't make sense in this fic lol

Day 14 | Enrique and Oliver | Rated: T

Eurovision

On his life, Oliver was going to figure out who he could sue for this. Bad enough he'd had to suffer the indignity of falling ill in public and Enrique dragging him back to one of his love nests because neither of them were sure he'd make it any farther without vomiting in the street. Now he was missing out on money; he couldn't get paid by a designer to show up to Eurovision in their look if he couldn't show up at all.

Enrique was no help at all.

"That's too bad," he said nonchalantly as he dumped Oliver into a bed he could only pray was clean. Someone did that for him, surely. He untied Oliver's boots and tossed them to the floor one by one, then twisted the knife in a little further: "Let me know if you need to borrow any money."

"It's the principle of the thing, Enrique," he huffed, trying desperately to ignore the churning of his stomach. "I was going to get to keep that beautiful coat. If I ever find out who gave me food poisoning, they'll never work in this country again."

"Maybe it's just the flu," Enrique suggested. He was going on Oliver's shit list for not being a good friend and playing into his dramatics.

"Please," Oliver scoffed, "I could catch worse things from this apartment." He didn't know how many women had been entertained here and he didn't care to.

"Hey, any biohazards are immediately disposed of." Enrique tossed a set of silk pajamas down on the bed and helped Oliver tug his shirt over his head. "On that note, try not to barf on the sheets. They're Egyptian cotton and I had to replace them last month already."

"You're disgusting."

By the time Oliver was changed, he was covered in a sheen of sweat. He felt a little like chewing Enrique out for choosing pajamas that wouldn't breathe, but decided to save that energy in case he really did need to be sick. His stomach was cramping ominously. He curled up on his side and breathed deeply through his nose.

"If you're comfortable, I'm gonna go watch and hope Germany tanks – I've got a bet going with Robert."

Enrique didn't wait for him to answer before leaving. He didn't close the door either, which meant Oliver was subjected to the muffled sounds of Eurovision on the television from the moment it was turned on. The last thing he wanted was to be reminded of where he should have been, where he would have been, if he hadn't insisted he and Enrique go eat first.

He groaned and let his eyes slide shut.

He lasted until the commercial break when Enrique started singing a hopefully purposely off-key medley of songs. Or maybe he just didn't know the words. Either way it was ramping up Oliver's nausea.

"Enrique!"

The awful singing cut off. If Oliver had the gumption he would have gotten up just to slam the door in his friend's face when he tried to come in, but he did not. He'd have to tolerate Enrique leaning in the door frame with that devil-may-care grin on his face. It made girls weak in the knees. Right now it made Oliver want to ruin the Egyptian cotton.

"I think I'll represent Italy next year," he said, probably to see the look of horror appear on Oliver's face.

"You'd have to buy your way in." He was starting to feel weirdly clammy. Kicking off the sheets and hauling himself up into a sitting position made his stomach roil. "I don't know why you'd waste money on bribes when you embarrass yourself for free every day, leaving the house dressed like that."

"I'll let you dress me if that makes you feel better," Enrique offered, inspecting his fingernails. "Promotional appearances and official performances only, though. I'm not wearing ruffles or silk on my own time."

There was sweat pooling in the small of Oliver's back, so he asked, "What's with these ridiculous pajamas then?"

"You bought those for me." Enrique raised an eyebrow at him and then smirked. "Bianca and Rosetta say they make me look like a sugar daddy."

Oliver made a noise of disgust that was ignored.

"So about my singing career–"

"Do the world a favor and stick to the mandolin," he advised as he struggled to his feet. The room was swimming around him. If he didn't make it to the en suite in time, he'd never hear the end of it from Enrique. Not that his friend seemed all that concerned with helping him.

The commercial break was over. As Enrique sang along to one of the songs in the recap and butchered the intended melody, Oliver felt the bile rising in his throat. He made a mad dash to the toilet and lost the contents of his stomach to the soundtrack of Enrique's awful soprano.

A/N: I haven't written Oliver and Enrique properly for a really long time, so hopefully the characterization is okay. On one of my rewatches of the European arc with roktavor, we realized how savage and unfiltered Oliver can be, so I channeled some of that energy. Also, randomly, I headcanon Enrique can play the mandolin. It's not the piano lessons his parents paid for, but it's better for yacht parties.

Thanks for reading! :)