Chapter Text
Grand Final Eurovision Song Contest 2027
Arena Sofia - Sofia, Bulgaria
Saturday, May 15, 2027 - 21:58 EEST
Lovro
Lovro hated waiting.
And on this particular day, when he was about to do the most unbelievable and nerve-wracking thing he’d ever done in his life, waiting felt about as close to dying as Lovro ever wanted to get.
Unfortunately, waiting was exactly what he had to do.
Because, as fate would have it, Croatia had drawn the twenty-sixth and final performance slot in this year’s Eurovision Song Contest final. And, according to his calculations, there were still three acts before he had to go on stage.
The Arena Sofia was packed. Every few minutes, one of the presenters found a new way to remind everyone that, besides the twenty thousand people inside the venue, another hundred and eighty million were watching from home.
No pressure at all.
Performing at the Eurovision Grand Final wasn’t the problem. Eurovision was simple. He knew the song. He knew the choreography. He knew every cue, every camera angle, every lighting change.
The problem was standing ten meters away from him: Ivan Kovačić, talking to a stage manager as if nothing had happened.
The nerve of this man. How was he so calm? How was he casually standing there discussing cable arrangements with some poor technician when they were about to perform in front of one hundred and eighty million people?
Tonight, of all nights, he should be here, right next to Lovro. Doing that annoying thing he always did whenever Lovro started spiralling. Not saying anything particularly helpful or solving any actual problems. Just existing beside him until the world felt a little less overwhelming.
For months, Lovro had pretended he didn’t care. Now, with less than fifteen minutes until they stepped onto the biggest stage in Europe, he cared a lot.
Across the room, Ivan finally glanced in his direction. For a second, it looked like he was about to walk over. Lovro immediately looked away. When he looked back a few moments later, Ivan was still standing where he'd been.
Good. The last thing he wanted right now was a conversation. Unfortunately, that was also exactly what he wanted.
How the hell had they ended up here?
Not just at Eurovision, which was insane enough on its own.
For most of his career, Lovro had never imagined himself on a stage like this, or actually even wanted it. He’d been perfectly happy with the audience he’d built over the past five years, making music in his apartment and uploading it to the internet, and playing in dodgy clubs and house parties.
Then he released a couple of LPs. Then a major producer reached out. And then one of the biggest labels in Europe had offered him a contract.
At the time, it had felt suspiciously close to selling out.
After several long conversations with his musical mentor slash close friend Vito—and an even larger number of drinks—he’d decided it was probably better to be a sellout with a career than an underground artist with no money and fifty monthly listeners on Spotify.
The decision had worked out annoyingly well.
One minute he’d been producing songs alone at three in the morning on his bedroom floor and the next he was somehow famous. Famous enough that people recognised him on the street. Famous enough that tabloids occasionally made things up about him.
Famous enough to be standing backstage at the Eurovision Grand Final.
But performing at Eurovision as a duo with Ivan Kovačić? That part was still impossible to wrap his head around.
This was the same guy he couldn’t even be seen at the same music event less than a year ago without someone writing an article about it.
Even musically they made no sense together.
Ivan wrote songs with guitars and pianos and heartbreak and whatever other tragic feelings made people buy concert tickets. Lovro built songs out of synthesizers, drum machines, and sounds most people would probably describe as weird.
The fact that they were standing backstage at Eurovision, representing Croatia together, still felt vaguely ridiculous.
Ivan had always been the bigger artist. The safer artist. The kind of musician parents listened to, but also young people. The kind critics described as timeless. The kind of man who somehow looked good while staring moodily out of a rainy window. It was annoying.
He’d been famous for as long as Lovro could remember.
Back when Lovro was still making music in his bedroom, Ivan Kovačić was already selling out theatres across Croatia. But despite all of that, Ivan’s success had remained mostly local. Just like Lovro’s.
Maybe Eurovision was what this had always been about for him. A chance to become something bigger. A chance to become international.
At least, that’s what Lovro assumed. The truth was that he’d never actually asked.
They’d simply been thrown into this situation together, and neither of them had been smart enough to say no.
Lovro was slightly embarrassed to admit that he had in fact submitted songs to Dora, Croatia’s national entry contest, a couple of times, actually.
Back then, before the record deal and before music became a real career, he’d still believed Eurovision might be the kind of thing that happened to people like him, the odd artists. But it never did. His songs were apparently too weird, too niche, or too something, even by Eurovision standards. Eventually he’d stopped trying.
He couldn’t imagine Ivan wanting to be part of the contest either. In Lovro’s mind, Ivan had always been famous. The kind of fame that simply existed, as if Croatia had collectively agreed one day that Ivan Kovačić should be on every radio station and never looked back.
Eurovision seemed like something people did to become famous. Not something Ivan Kovačić would ever need.
And yet, here they were.
After Dora 2027, Croatia had seemed unusually united. The favourite had won. The public was happy and the bookmakers were optimistic.
For the first time since the great robbery of 2024, people genuinely believed Croatia had a shot.
Ružno Pače, the rising alternative artist behind Croatia’s suddenly thriving emo-punk-trap-rock scene, had won the ticket to Sofia.
For exactly twenty-three days. Then he managed to spectacularly self-destruct.
The details barely mattered anymore. Depending on who you asked, Ružno Pače had either been unfairly targeted by the media or personally responsible for the collapse of Croatian civilization.
Either way, HRT had panicked. And when HRT panicked, apparently they started making phone calls. Lots of phone calls. The first artists they approached said no. Then some more artists said no, not with this crazy timeline.
Croatia needed a replacement act with less than two months until Eurovision, and suddenly nobody seemed particularly interested in representing their country. Which, in retrospect, should probably have been a warning sign.
Eventually someone called Vito. That alone should have been a warning sign.
Vito was a respected producer, an occasional songwriter, and—unfortunately for everyone involved—one of the most persuasive people Lovro had ever met. When he first called him about this Eurovision business, Lovro assumed it was one of his elaborate pranks. The kind Vito used to pull back when they were roommates and thought surviving on instant noodles was a reasonable lifestyle choice. It wasn't.
To this day, Lovro still didn't fully understand what had happened during the meeting between Vito and HRT. Whenever he asked, Vito conveniently claimed not to remember. Which almost certainly meant he remembered every single detail.
Whatever he'd said, it had somehow convinced a room full of television executives that pairing two musicians with completely different sounds, who publicly avoided each other whenever possible, was not only a viable idea, but Croatia's best chance at Eurovision.
It was either an act of genius or collective insanity, Lovro still wasn't sure which.
A few days later, Lovro got a phone call.
Three days after that, he found himself sitting across from Ivan Kovačić in a conference room at HRT headquarters in Zagreb. Both of them wearing exactly the same expression: absolute disbelief.
Vito was there of course, a huge grin on his face, along with some stuffy looking executives.
Looking back, that should have been the moment he said no.
According to Vito, pairing “two of the hottest” Croatian artists together would be irresistible to audiences. Ivan’s established name plus Lovro’s newer sound.
Two fanbases. Two careers. Two apparently attractive men. A recipe for success, according to Vito. A recipe for disaster, according to everyone else. Like some deranged Powerpuff Girls experiment, except nobody involved could identify the ingredient that was supposed to make everything work. HRT loved it immediately.
Never mind that neither of them had ever done anything remotely like this before. Collaborations were one thing, everyone did collaborations. A feature on a single, a guest verse, a surprise appearance at a concert. This was an entirely different beast that required chemistry, connection, a clash of styles and egos. The ability to spend months working together without wanting to strangle each other.
Not exactly a reassuring prospect. Especially considering the fact that their respective fanbases had spent the previous two years acting like they were competing in some sort of musical blood feud.
Which had always seemed ridiculous to Lovro. Musically, they couldn’t have been more different. Ivan wrote songs people cried to. Lovro wrote songs people argued about their meaning online. The only thing they really had in common was their age (both in their mid twenties), a tendency to appear near the top of Croatian charts, and the unfortunate reality of being reasonably attractive men on the internet.
Apparently that was enough. Suddenly every chart placement, every award nomination, every festival appearance became evidence of a rivalry neither of them had actually signed up for.
At least not at first.
Lovro never felt any real resentment towards Ivan. If anything, he admired him a little. Which was an embarrassing thing to admit, even to himself, and he wasn’t about to do that in the situation he found himself in. Ivan had become successful ridiculously young and somehow managed to emerge from the experience as a relatively normal human being. Or at least as normal as someone who routinely sold out theatres across the country could be.
Social media, however, had other ideas.
According to the internet, every interaction between them was somehow proof that they hated each other.
Which was funny, considering where they had ended up.
Lovro looked up from his fidgeting hands. Across the conference table, Ivan Kovačić was staring right back at him. That alone was strange enough. Even stranger was the fact that the expression on Ivan’s face looked suspiciously similar to the one Lovro imagined was currently on his own.
What the fuck is this?
“Guys, just think about it,” Vito said, for what was probably the tenth time.
“You are arguably the two most talked-about musicians in Croatia right now. You’re successful, you’re attractive—”
“Oh, God,” Ivan muttered.
“You each have loyal fanbases. People will stream the song. They’ll vote. They’ll buy the merch. They’ll probably fly to Sofia to see you live.”
“But why together?” Ivan interrupted. And Lovro thought he was making perfect sense. “Either one of us could do Eurovision on our own. What’s the angle?”
“Yeah,” Lovro said. “What’s the catch?”
Because there was definitely a catch. There had to be.
“The catch,” Vito said, pointing at both of them dramatically, “is that nobody expects this.”
Nobody looked convinced. Vito ignored them.
“We’ve sent solo artists. We’ve sent bands. We’ve sent emotional ballads. We’ve sent turbo-folk songs. We’ve sent whatever Baby Lasagna was.”
“That worked out pretty well,” Lovro pointed out.
“It did,” Vito admitted. “But we’re trying to win now.”
“Right,” Ivan said dryly. “And your strategy for winning is putting two people who barely interact with each other to perform in front of millions of people.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“You’re focusing on the wrong part.”
Vito leaned forward. His eyes had that dangerous look Lovro knew so well that always happened whenever he thought he’d had a brilliant idea.
“We need something people haven’t seen before.”
“You mean a public execution?” Ivan asked.
Vito rolled his eyes.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“We need tension. Chemistry. Contrast.”
“We’re musicians from Croatia, not reality television stars.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
The smile on Vito’s face should have worried both of them.
“You two are exactly like reality television.”
Ivan groaned. “I should have brought my manager.”
Lovro laughed. A sharp, surprised sound that escaped before he could stop it. Ivan glanced at him and, for a second, the corner of his mouth twitched.
Maybe Ivan wasn’t nearly as stuck-up as Lovro had always assumed.
“Your rivalry is the whole point,” Vito said.
“The point?” Ivan repeated.
“The selling point.”
“That’s worse.”
Vito ignored him.
“Think about it. Two artists everyone assumes hate each other suddenly working together.”
“We don’t hate each other.” The words left Lovro’s mouth before he could stop them. “I mean, I don’t hate him, people just think that I do.”
The room went quiet. Across the table, Ivan raised an eyebrow.
Lovro immediately regretted speaking.
“Okay,” Vito said slowly. “Then two artists everyone thinks hate each other.”
“That’s not much better,” Lovro added.
“It is from a marketing perspective.”
“Of course you’d say that.”
“I’m right.”
“You usually think that.”
“Because I usually am.”
Lovro sighed.
Vito continued before either of them could object.
“People love stories. That’s all Eurovision is. Stories, rivalries., friendships, comebacks. Drama!”
“We’re musicians.”
“And now you’re musicians with lore.”
“What the fuck does that even mean?” Lovro was increasingly growing flustered.
“It means people are already invested.”
“They’re invested because they think we hate each other.”
“Exactly.”
Lovro covered his face with both hands.
“This is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever had.”
“Not even close,” Vito said. “I’ve met your friends.”
That earned another laugh from Lovro. And, across the table, one from Ivan too.
The executives around the table looked significantly less amused. One of them cleared his throat.
“We do believe this collaboration would appeal to a broader audience.”
“Translation?” Ivan asked.
The man hesitated.
“Translation,” Vito supplied, “they think young people will lose their minds.”
“Over a song?”
“No.”
Vito pointed between them.
“Oh my God,” Lovro muttered.
“Oh my God,” Ivan echoed.
“Yes.” Vito clapped his hands together. “Exactly.”
Neither of them looked encouraged.
“It makes total sense.”
“It really doesn’t,” Ivan said.
“It absolutely does.”
Vito was on his feet now, pacing excitedly around the conference room like he’d already won Eurovision.
“What do you say, guys? At worst, it’ll be an interesting experience.”
“That’s not a reassuring sentence,” Ivan added. “It could be a mess for our careers.”
“And at best,” Vito continued, completely ignoring him, “we make history.”
Lovro rolled his eyes. Then he made the mistake of looking up. Ivan was already looking at him, no teasing, no annoyance. Just a silent question.
Well?
The ridiculous part was that Lovro knew exactly what he meant.
If you’re in, I’m in.
Or maybe he was imagining things, that was probably more likely.
“Look,” Lovro said, tearing his gaze away, “even if I say yes—which I haven’t—are we forgetting one tiny detail?”
Vito immediately looked suspicious.
“We don’t have a song.”
“Minor issue.”
“Minor issue?” Lovro repeated.
“Eurovision songs are usually written before people go to Eurovision.”
“We’re a little close to the deadline,” Vito admitted.
“A little?”
“Extremely.”
“Vito.”
“But that’s why,” Vito said quickly, “I booked the best recording studio in Hvar for an entire week starting Monday.”
Silence. Vito smiled, but nobody smiled back.
“I’ve already spoken to your managers.”
“Of course you have,” Ivan said.
“You both have availability.”
“Of course we do.”
“You’ll have a producer.”
“I don’t need a producer, I produce my own music,” Lovro interrupted and Ivan agreed.
“Me too, no need for producers.”
“Well, you’ll have one there just in case you need one,” Vito continued. “You’ll have the best accommodations.”
“At least.” Lovro felt defeated but slightly amused at this point.
“You’ll have me.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
Vito ignored him. “I’m not passing on a week in Hvar. I’ll be there if you need me.”
Lovro rubbed a hand over his face. This was insane, every part of it was insane. The timeline, the pressure, the expectations. The fact that he and Ivan Kovačić would somehow be responsible for writing Croatia’s Eurovision entry in less than a week, alone in a resort-like studio. And then performing it live in less than two months in front of millions of people.
“Okay,” Lovro said finally.
Vito froze.
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
The grin that spread across Vito’s face was genuinely terrifying. He launched himself into Lovro's lap and hugged him.
“There is absolutely no universe where this works, by the way.”
“Don’t be negative.”
Vito got up and was already turning toward Ivan.
“And you?”
Ivan leaned back in his chair. For a moment he looked almost as overwhelmed as Lovro felt. Then he sighed, long and dramatic.
“I guess okay too.”
“YES.”
Several HRT executives visibly flinched and clapped. Vito looked one second away from crying from emotion.
Lovro glanced across the table as Ivan glanced back.
Both of them looked equally doomed. And somehow, despite every warning sign in existence, they still went to Hvar.
A loud cheer erupted somewhere beyond the curtain and made Lovro flinch and return to his present situation. The conference room disappeared and the Arena returned with its noise and lights. The endless waiting feeling also returned.
One of the presenters announced the next act over the speakers and the crowd roared in response. There were only three performances left. Three! His stomach immediately dropped. When did that happen?
A moment ago he'd been sitting in Zagreb trying to explain to Vito why the entire idea was insane. Now he was standing backstage at the Eurovision Grand Final, about to perform a song he and Ivan had somehow written together two months ago in front of millions of people.
Unironically, the main source of Lovro's problems wasn't the roaring arena a few metres away. It was Ivan Kovačić. Still standing where he last saw him. Still talking to a stage manager. Still acting as if they hadn't left an argument unfinished less than twenty-four hours ago.
He saw Ivan look up. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Ivan said something to the stage manager, then he started walking in Lovro's direction. Absolutely not. Lovro turned toward a nearby crew member and asked a completely unnecessary question about his microphone.
By the time he looked up again, Ivan had stopped. The stage manager was talking to him once more. Coward. The insult was aimed entirely at himself.
Two months ago, Lovro Dević thought the worst thing that could happen was being asked to write a Eurovision song with Ivan Kovačić.
He'd been very, very wrong. Life came at you fast.
A burst of applause erupted from the arena, signaling the act currently on stage had finished. Now, only Croatia remained after a brief commercial break. The realization hit Lovro with all the grace of a freight train.
"Oh, fuck."
"That's usually my line."
Lovro startled as Vito had somehow materialized next to him. "Jesus Christ."
"I don’t think he’s gonna help now."
"Can you be serious for one minute?"
"No," Vito said while putting his arm around Lovro’s shoulder, providing a little bit of the comfort Lovro so badly needed. At this thought, he looked in Ivan’s direction again, looking for any opening on his side. Vito followed Lovro's gaze across the room. His expression immediately changed to something between annoyance and enjoyment.
"Oh."
"Don't."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I absolutely was, yes."
"Vito."
"What did you two do now?"
A stage manager appeared seconds later and saved him from whatever was happening.
"Croatia, you're up in three minutes."
The smile immediately vanished from Vito's face. For the first time all evening, he looked nervous. That was more alarming than the announcement itself.
Around them, crew members sprang into motion. Someone adjusted a microphone. Someone else checked his in-ear monitor. Another stage crew was adjusting something on Ivan’s guitar.
Across the room, Ivan finally looked up again. Their eyes met. The unfinished conversation still sat between them, heavy and awkward, and impossible to ignore. But it was going to have to wait for now.
From somewhere beyond the curtain, the hosts' voices echoed through the arena, coming back from the commercial break.
"For one last time tonight… Good evening, Europe!"
The crowd erupted. A deafening wall of sound crashed through the backstage area.
"Croatia," the stage manager said. "Let's go."
“Oh, shit.” Vito let go of Lovro and took some steps back. “You got this, boys!”
And suddenly there was no more time left. Lovro felt Ivan’s presence materializing next to him, and then felt him grabbing his empty hand. The other was holding onto the microphone like his life depended on it.
“Come on,” he said, and squeezed hard on his hand. “Let’s go make history.”
That sudden gesture brought him back to life. And there was nowhere else to go but onto the stage.