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“Are you sure?” the voice asks. “You won’t remember.”
“Yes. I just want to make him happy,” Bojan says.
“As you wish.”
And his world turns to black.
“One hundred and eighty… three!” The arena erupts.
“We have a winner, and it’s Finland!” Graham Norton shouts and Bojan can’t believe it.
He’s been saying it all along. Käärijä can win. But still, when it happens, it’s surreal. Deep down, he was so sure Loreen had this in the bag, despite his encouraging words to Jere along the way.
His bandmates are jumping up and down beside him, but Bojan is trying to see. He’s there, on the screen being hugged and lifted and everyone’s shouting and crying and Bojan is craning his neck trying to get a glimpse. There is no getting anywhere near him.
He is escorted away down to the corridors of the arena, to get ready for his winner’s performance. And Bojan is here, stuck on this couch, when all he wants to do is run to him, hug him, ruffle his hair and yell that he always knew it, he knew when no-one else did.
It feels like ages before he is on that stage. And Bojan watches him perform again, all giddy, making a mess of the choreography, going overboard with his dancers, driving the crowd wild. Bojan is dancing with everyone else, screaming for his name, so goddamn proud.
Afterwards, Jere is whisked away to a million interviews. Bojan chats with other contestants, everyone so surprised and in awe.
He goes to the afterparty, of course. It’s the longest time before Jere even shows up, and when he finally does,everybody wants a piece of him. Bojan just wants to give him one long hug, wants to make him laugh, even though he’s not sure why. Jere is laughing, all the time, even though his eyes are tired. He has to be exhausted.
Bojan gets one quick congratulations in with a pat in the back, before Jere has to go again to talk to someone else, to listen to people tell him how they always knew, who pretend to be his best friends, all of a sudden.
He keeps downing the drinks that are now flowing freely, and staring at the backs of whoever is surrounding Jere now, daggers in his eyes.
Bojan can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right, like he’s not supposed to be here, not like this, he is supposed to be touching Jere and… consoling him?
It’s an ugly thought, when it rises. Bojan realises that all this time, he not only didn't expect him to win, but also, maybe, he didn’t want him to win, either. Because Jere the Eurovision contestant belonged to him. Käärijä, the Eurovision winner, belongs to anyone and everyone else.
Bojan feels awful just thinking about it. He slinks away, a strangling feeling in his throat.
Jere keeps looking for Bojan. There’s always someone he needs to talk to, some interview to give, even after the press conference that dragged on forever. This was supposed to be his big moment, his triumph, but it feels all wrong. It feels like he cheated, somehow.
And Bojan, where is Bojan? When the party is winding down he finally has the space to properly look for him, but he is nowhere to be found. Jere figures he has already left. Without saying goodbye.
Bojan’s bandmates find him in the bathroom, drunk and crying his heart out out of guilt over his stupid, jealous thoughts. Don’t they know that he’s the one who’s supposed to be there at his side, not those assholes who don’t even know what he’s been through, don’t know how hard he’s worked? They don’t even know him like Bojan does, but now everybody wants a piece of him, don’t they know that Jere is only going to give and give until there are no more pieces left?
And Bojan knows he’s only supposed to be happy for Jere, but how can he, when Jere used to be his but isn’t anymore?
His friends say that they understand, they know. And they take him to bed to sleep it off.
The next morning, he wakes up to a hangover, and frantically searches for his phone before realising it’s right there, on the nightstand, like it is every morning. Why wouldn’t it be?
At the airport, he looks at Jan wearing a Käärijä shirt and feels like he’s seen it somewhere. Which is ridiculous; he’s seen dozens of Käärijä shirts over the last few weeks. Everything feels like a dream, a little hazy, like walking through a fog.
The following week Bojan watches as Finland embraces Käärijä’s win by effectively ripping Jere to shreds. They exchange a few texts, but Jere is in a constant hurry, there are so many interviews and appearances it is impossible to keep up.
There’s a big homecoming celebration at the square where tens of thousands of people show up in the biggest public gathering Helsinki has ever seen, or so he reads online. The black box gig has been upgraded to include the whole arena, and tickets sell out in a flash. Bojan watches the stream and feels his heart swell - he hasn’t really listened to Käärijä’s other music that much, and he bets the audience hasn’t either, but the way Jere captivates them and makes them lose their minds is amazing to watch.
Bojan feels like an exotic bird has escaped its cage and he can only watch as its wings flicker against the sun, taking it further and further away by the minute.
Jere feels Bojan is a bit distant, but he doesn’t really get a chance to dwell on it, because he doesn’t get a chance to fucking sleep, either. Bojan had promised to come to Finland if he wins, but neither mentions it in the few messages they do send to each other.
It was probably one of those summer camp things, Jere thinks. You go home and the promises get forgotten, and it’s normal, totally natural. Bojan said so many things, they laughed and joked and roasted each other; he probably didn’t even think twice about it, even though Jere is ready to move heaven and earth to make it happen.
And then three days pass without a message. A week. Two
Back home after some amazing gigs in Dublin, Bojan can’t shake the feeling that something is not right. He feels like he forgot something important, like turning off the stove or a dentist appointment, or a test at school.
He watches clips from Käärijä’s gig, like he has a habit of doing, and sees that Jere has brought the dancers along this time, and watching them do their choreo he feels something twitching, like a ghost of a hint of a pull towards something.
He considers texting Jere, but it’s been a while since the last one, and besides, Bojan doesn’t want to bother him. He’s probably got everyone and their mother up in his dm’s anyway. They had made all these promises to keep in touch, but it was probably just a fluke. That kind of talk was common in the last days of Liverpool, and most of those connections have faded out quickly.
Joker Out’s autumn tour over Europe is put together in a haste. They talk about the Nordic countries, and ultimately decide against Finland - there’s some interest from a promoter to include a small Helsinki venue, but flying over there only for that seems a bit extreme, so they decide on Denmark instead. Bojan doesn’t argue the point.
When Bojan deletes his Instagram, Jere loses sight of him. He still keeps up with what Joker Out is doing, catching glimpses of Bojan on stage, screaming out his demons.
But it’s fickle, and it’s not enough, and in the middle of what should be the best summer of his life, he feels like drowning, and he doesn’t understand why.
In September, Bojan starts dreaming about Jere. It’s little snippets, hard to remember in the morning. He sees Jere on stage, singing Cha Cha Cha, or himself, petting Jere’s head, and his head is blue for some reason. And Jere is ruffling his hair and groping him, but it’s not… sexual, exactly, even though Bojan can feel sweat on his skin and the adrenaline pumping through him, enough to feel out of breath when he wakes up.
All through the autumn Bojan feels like there’s so much bent-up energy in him he doesn’t know what to do with it. They are on the brink of huge things happening in their career, but Bojan is fidgety and restless and cranky.
He can’t even seem to be able to relax when they’re on holiday in Thailand. The feeling of something pulling him away, or towards something, is constantly there and Bojan can’t figure out what it is. Everything is going so well - Stožice was a success, their calendar is booked and next year is shaping up great. Only the longing Bojan feels clouds everything, like he can’t enjoy their achievements properly, like nothing is enough to fill the pit that is carved somewhere around his chest.
There are no more dreams. He watches Jere conquer Europe through his phone, still proud, but with a dull sort of indifference, like he’s watching scenes from someone’s life who is not even real.
Jere is selling out tours in minutes, but somehow it all blurs together. He’s working like crazy, determined to make the most of his success, make it last long enough to leave his mark.
Christmas is spent with family, and Jere gets some rest at last. After a good week with nothing but sleep, he finally has time to actually feel something. Is it loneliness? How can it be, when he’s constantly surrounded by people?
The months fly by.
In the springtime, Käärijä’s second European tour rolls around, and Bojan keeps staring at the dates. The one in London sits nicely in a break between their own tour dates, between Amsterdam and Dublin, and surely, even if they haven’t spoken, their old friendship counts for something? It would not be a big deal to go see him, would it?
But when he tries to text Jere, it turns out the number is no longer in use. It makes sense; so many people had that number and in the months following his win it must have gotten too much, so it only makes sense to change it and only give it to those he is in constant contact with.
Which obviously doesn’t include Bojan, so he decides he needs to forget about it. It was a silly idea anyway.
That night he dreams of Jere, for the first time in months.
He doesn’t even see his face, but he can smell him. Bojan’s head is buried in his neck, and Jere’s arms are around him, and they are in bed, hiding under covers, and there’s no one else in the world, just them.
Bojan doesn’t know how he knows. But when he wakes up, he just does. That is where he is supposed to be, right at this minute. Not here, in his own lonely, miserable, single bed with only his laptop and sad Eastern European gay porn keeping him company.
So he picks up his phone, and downloads Instagram. He hasn’t missed it much, but right now, he needs it. He logs in and all of it is there, his pictures and his followers and Jere, that story bubble glowing like always.
And he prays to god Jere will actually see it when he types a greeting in his dm’s.
me
Hi! Long time no see :) How are you brother?? I noticed you have a gig coming up in London, it just so happens I am going to be in town as well. Wanna catch up?
He winces at how lame he sounds, but figures it won't even matter, Jere probably won't even see it.
But it’s not even five minutes before a reply comes in.
paidatonriehuja
Joker man!! :) :D :D
paidatonriehuja
Yes yes let’s meet :) :) Why London??
me
Just finishing up some songs for the album :)
It’s a blatant lie, of course, he has no intention of going to London for anything other than Jere, but maybe he doesn’t have to know that, at least not just yet.
And then his message app is beeping. It’s Jere with his new number, sending his hotel details and suggesting dinner the day before the show and Bojan wonders what took him so long, why hasn’t he done this months ago, because from there it’s easy, it’s them again and shouldn’t he have known better, shouldn’t he have known Jere would not change and they would not change, not if they’d just tried hard enough?
On the day of their meeting Bojan feels off. His head is dizzy, and his hands keep getting numb, no matter how much he tries to rub or shake them. He hopes he’s not coming down with something, not in the middle of the tour that still stretches ahead endlessly, or so it feels like.
He waits for Jere in the hotel lobby by the front entrance. He hears the ding of the elevator and knows it’s him before the doors even slide open, he knows from the way suddenly everything seems to glow.
And there Jere is, walking towards him, smiling, waving, and Bojan moves, and that’s when things start to slow down. He watches himself walk towards Jere, like everything is in slow motion, like it’s a movie he’s watching from above. He is overtaken by vertigo and everything is spinning around him and
And suddenly Bojan remembers.
He remembers wearing the bolero, and Jere’s tears at losing and the hugs, all the hugs. He remembers waking up on the floor of Jere’s hotel room, having both missed his plane and lost his phone.
He remembers the wrenching goodbye, and the late night phone calls that followed. Remembers the stage at Tavastia, how sweaty it was, and how hot, that first time. Remembers the second time, the crispy autumn weather, the tour bus, the kiss on the cheek, another goodbye.
He remembers Jere’s birthday, how he was supposed to be there, but then cancelled at the last minute, because he was afraid. Because he had lived through more than enough of goodbyes, of not saying the thing he desperately wants to say. He had let Jere go without telling him the truth every single time, and he couldn’t do it anymore.
So he did what cowards do and didn’t go at all.
And he remembers the phone call on a cold December night - it was last night, not months ago, last night - when Jere was drunk and crying and saying how many regrets he had, how he thought he had done everything he could but still couldn’t get everything he wants, how he can’t catch a break, can’t ever fucking win .
Bojan wanted to cry too, wished with everything he had that he could change what happened, could make Jere happy again, and then somehow he did
But it was a mistake, everything was all wrong, and Bojan needs to tell him now, he needs to say how wrong he was and how sorry he is and he just needs to kiss him, already
And he starts running, because he needs to get to Jere, but the world is closing in around him and the room is spinning faster, and he thinks no no no, not now, I need
Everything fades to black.
“So, I only needed to see him?” Bojan asks.
“Yes,” the voice answers.
“Would have been nice to get to read the fine print.”
“You get to write your own from now on.”
And Bojan thinks he can live with that.
On the day before Christmas Eve it’s snowing in Vantaa. Not a rare occurrence but not a given either, or so Bojan has heard. He steps out of his cab and looks at the apartment building in front of him. He knows Jere is home, Mikke has confirmed as much, along with some words of vague encouragement that Bojan can’t quite make the meaning of, but he still feels unsure of himself, exposed and raw.
It’s so stupid to turn up here like this. But he couldn’t handle the back and forth about the hows and whys and ifs of it all. He needs to be here.
Someone is coming out the front door, and Bojan sneaks in after them so he doesn’t need to use the buzzer. He can go and ring the doorbell.
Jere opens the door, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants and his hair a mess. He looks so good Bojan wants to eat him.
“Hi,” he says, stupidly.
“Hi.” Jere smiles a little and steps aside, pulling the door more open to let Bojan come inside. He doesn’t seem surprised.
“Mikke told me you were coming.”
“He did? When?”
“Couple of hours ago. He say it was so I can clean up mess in here. But I think he just don’t want me faint or cry in front of neighbours.”
Jere gestures at him to take off his coat, and he does, and lets Jere take it and hang it on the rack. They go into the kitchen, where Jere has made coffee.
“Want some?” he asks.
“Coffee, huh? Isn’t it peak glögi season right now?” Bojan smiles, accepting the mug.
“Yeah, well. Just for you. Made myself tea. With more time, I would got fancy stuff you like.”
“No, this is fine, perfect, thank you.” It's a big concession, accepting that Finnish bulk stuff without a scathing comment. Bojan wonders if Jere notices.
The sip on their drinks for a while, Jere leaning on the counter, Bojan by the island.
“So, do you want to tell me what you are doing here?” Jere then says.
Bojan sighs. “I know it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow, I know you have plans with family, but I needed to see you.”
“Okay.”
“I need to tell you something.” Bojan puts his mug down.
“Okay.”
“I know you are still sad. But you don’t need to be.”
Jere looks confused. “What are you talking about?”
“Eurovision,” Bojan explains. “I know it’s selfish to say, but it’s better this way. You will be fine, you are fine. I promise.”
“Of course I am, what–” Jere raises his eyebrows, realising. “You mean because I said I can’t ever win?”
“Yeah, I thought–”
Jere laughs, but there’s no amusement in it. “I wasn’t talking about that”, he says, looking down.
“You weren’t?” Bojan tries to remember exactly what he said, but it’s so long ago now, and he only remembers what seeing Jere cry made him feel .
Jere also puts down his mug and crosses his arms. He starts to say something, then stops himself. Bojan doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jere do that. Jere doesn’t consider, he just blurts stuff out.
Finally he seems to come to a decision.
“I was talking about you,” he says, eyes on Bojan, watching for his reaction.
“Me?” Bojan swallows.
Jere closes his eyes. “I can never get it right, with you. Always I do something, or don’t do, and you leave.”
“Jerč,” Bojan breathes out.
He doesn’t know if that is the invitation he’s been waiting for, but he decides he doesn’t care, because Jere looks sad again, and that just won’t do.
Bojan closes the gap between them with two steps. Wraps his hands around Jere’s waist, pulls him close, presses their bodies together. Jere clings to him, hand on the back of his head, lips against his shoulder, and Bojan knows he’s come home.
“I don’t want to leave”, Bojan whispers. “I don’t ever want to leave.”
“Then don’t,” says Jere, and then they are kissing, and
a shiver goes through Bojan, like a wind blowing, and all the possible pasts and presents and futures are flowing through him, flying off, leaving him with this moment, right here. The only one that matters.
He breaks the kiss to look at Jere’s face, his beautiful, ridiculous, beloved face. Jere's eyes are glowing.
“Okay,” he says.