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Layla is laughing at him, Marc can tell. She’s trying to hide it in her ridiculously fruity drink with twirly straw and umbrella. Those don’t actually improve the drink in any way, cost more, and make it more likely you’ll poke your eye out.
He is not impressed.
“Can I take these stupid things off, now?”
“No,” Steven clucks in annoyance. “They stay on all night.”
“Why? My head is itching.”
“To get into the spirit of things!”
“Layla doesn’t have to wear them,” Marc pouts.
“Layla is not European, and she said she didn’t want to.”
“Well, I’m not European, and I don’t want to.”
“Marc, let him have his fun.” Layla stabs a cherry with the plastic cocktail sword and eats it in a provocative way which is totally not helping Marc’s argument.
“I’m European, and I want to,” Steven insists. “And it’s once a year.”
Why? Why does Steven feel the need to have stupid glow-stick bracelets and holographic novelty glasses? Okay, the flags from countries they’re supporting sort of makes sense, but he seems to have gone to town to add any possible progress, pride, or other ‘message’ up around the flat. Which no one else can see, only the ones in the windows.
“You’re not European.”
“I wouldn’t have voted for Brexit if you’d let me vote, so don’t put that on me.”
“No, I mean: you’re not! Which of us has a passport?”
Steven’s moral outrage hits the roof. “You take that back, Marc Spector! I’m English! And British! And - United… Kingdomian… I am!”
Layla is now outright covering her mouth and giggling. Tiny little snorts and the occasional bubble blown into her horrific cocktail are impossible to hide.
“Fine! You’re British. We’ll watch the damn thing.”
Stupid Eurovision. It’s not that Marc doesn’t like European music, it’s just that it’s… it’s a bit weird to sit here, wearing a Union Flag t-shirt and stupid party wear. He feels self-conscious and even Steven’s insistence that it’ll make sense isn’t making him feel better. He’s never had to watch this before, because Layla isn’t European, either.
***
“Okay, that country isn’t in Europe.”
“It’s not just Europe, Marc.”
“It’s called ‘Euro-vision’!”
“It’s about the European Broadcast area, not just the continent,” Steven explains, like a tired parent to a sulky toddler or teen.
“Then why the hell is Australia here?”
“Oh, because they’re friends.”
“Australia is your friend, but America isn’t?”
“Australia gets it, Marc. We let them in because they were nice and they understand and they do it right.”
“Maybe I should enter for America.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Boys, I’m trying to enjoy the gyrating leather pants, here,” Layla scolds. “Ooo, Marc, if you do enter, you have to wear that.”
“I am not wearing - what do you even call that?”
“Hot,” Steven and Layla reply, in perfect unison.
He’s so screwed. This is going to become an annual tradition, isn’t it?
***
“So if there’s so many people you have to knock them out, why are some of these shit?” If he’s going to watch, Marc is going to understand.
“Oh, there’s the Big Five. They always qualify. And the winning country.”
“...why?”
“They started it so they get a free pass.”
“But they sent shit.” Which must have cost money. Costumes, musicians, travel. “Why not just… not bother?”
“Because… because, Marc.”
“I don’t get why you’d enter a contest and not want to win.”
“Oh, I can answer this one!” Layla lifts her hand like she’s in class. “Because the winner has to host next year, and it costs a lot of money.”
“...so if it’s a pain why does anyone bother? There has to be some pay-off.”
“Because,” Steven reiterates. “Can’t you just enjoy the grinding and pretty costumes?”
No. Marc has to understand. How can he enjoy if he doesn’t understand?
(Although some of the choreography and staging and costuming is good.)
***
“Now you have to be kidding me!”
“What?” Layla asks.
“I get that the boring ballads are shit, at least in this forum, but why the hell does the audience like that one?”
“It’s… a good song?”
“This is not about good songs.” Marc folds his arms across the flag on his shirt in protest. “This is about stupid songs and fun songs. And sex. Gay sex, apparently.”
“And flaming pianos and viking monsters and hamster wheels and folklore,” Steven adds.
“So why do they like that one?”
“Because,” Steven explains, just as usefully as ever. “Sometimes they just like good songs.”
“I preferred the costumes and the accordions. And nothing is on fire. My entry would have fire.” If he has to watch it, he’s going to work out what he’d do if he was competing. Because maybe it isn’t terrible. Or if it is, it’s a terrible he can get behind.
***
“It’s time for our song… get ready for Nil Points!” Steven cheers, sloshing their glass around.
They are, by now, rather drunk. Steven is a Happy Drunk. Marc can’t influence how that makes them feel, or perhaps he’s just not prepared to fight for Moody, Sullen Drunk. He just pretends he’s Moody.
“Steven, why would you ever celebrate losing?”
“Because if we didn’t, we’d never celebrate, yeah? It’s what we do!”
“I agree with Marc,” Layla says, who is now Sleepy Smiley Drunk. “That’s a messed up national attitude.”
“Yeah, well, America will get there, eventually. Egypt probably went through the post-superpower period first, around the same time as Greece. It’s just one of those things.”
That’s dumb. “Why would you want to be shit?”
“We don’t. We just… are.”
“That’s fucked up, man. Your country needs a fucking therapist.”
Marc isn’t sure how you treat a national psyche. And he’s also weirdly confused how identifying as one thing can lead to such a different mentality. There’s an interesting academic study in-- nope. Nerd shit.
That’s for Steven.
“Huh.”
“What?” Marc asks.
“...it’s… not a bad song.”
“Yeah. So?”
“We… don’t… do this.” Steven peers at his drink. “Am I tripping and just thinking it’s good?”
“It’s okay,” Layla concedes. “But it’s no Banana Wolf.”
“Or Spanish Sexy Times,” Marc adds.
“...just… oh. It’s nothing.”
***
Another twelve points. Marc can feel the palpitations every time the judges’ scores get announced. It’s oddly endearing how much Steven is invested in his fictional motherland’s performance, or how it reflects the other countries’ perceptions of the UK.
“Steven, it’s okay.”
“That was France, Marc. France!”
“You share a tunnel with them. Don’t they normally--”
“They do not.”
“Okay. Buddy? I think you’re taking this a little too seriously.”
Especially because Marc has to keep wiping the tears from their eyes. It’s just a song contest, for fuck’s sake.
“They like us,” Steven bawls. “There’s hope left in the universe. We can save everyone! It’s going to be okay!”
The worrying thing is, Drunk!Steven actually does feel that, right at this moment. It’s the alcohol talking, but he’s having some kind of nationalistic epiphany, and Marc doesn’t know if he should just let it happen or not.
“They do like you,” Layla coos. “Apart from all the antiquity looting.”
“But we can’t give those back because then all of the worlds’ museums would need to and there’s not always the infrastructure to preserve them and you can’t take the Marbles back! I’m sorry, Layla, but we’re going to have to disagree!”
That seems to temper him down a little, which was likely Layla’s plan. The conflicted self-loathing and pride mingle again, and Steven snuffles into the bowl of chips (crisps, whatever) that he’d forgotten about.
“It’s alright. I’ll just take my stuff instead.” Layla pats his arm. “And I can’t wait to hear what Marc’s costume is going to be for his entry next year.”
“It will be amazing,” Marc insists. “I’m just going to dress up as Moon Knight and destroy fake historical artefacts with a flamethrower and scream in Cockney Rhyming Slang about how much Britain sucks.”
“I will kill you and everything you’ve ever loved, other than Layla,” Steven threatens. “And your Cockney accent is shit.”
“Better than you trying to cross the Pond.” Marc clucks at him. “Now, shush. I want to see who wins.”
Okay. Maybe he did like it, after all. Even if Steven needs smelling salts for his vapours. Next year, Marc will be prepared.