There’s always such a rush of excitement that courses through him when he and Jere grab time for a call that they’ve already been on the phone for a good ten minutes before Bojan realises Jere isn’t responding to any of his chatter about their upcoming arrival in Helsinki. In fact, he’s barely said a word past hello. “You’re quiet,” he says. “Is something wrong?” He’s not sure he’s ever seen Jere look so uncomfortable as he does in that moment before he answers. “Bojan. We need to talk.” Panic flares up inside him, sharp and white hot. Seeing Jere in front of him, even on a screen, makes it so easy to forget that they’ve never actually named this thing between them. Weeks of being joined at the hip throughout Eurovision and two nights of hurried kisses and wandering hands in Vantaa hardly cement a relationship, after all, no matter how much Bojan’s tendency towards the romantic likes to run away with itself. This must be it. Jere’s about to let him down before they get there. He’ll come to their gig as arranged, sure, but that’ll be it: no more late-night calls, no more texts ping-ponging over the distance, and – for Bojan, anyway – no more dreaming of what the next time in Finland might bring. Maybe he should speak first and spare Jere the effort. He could save face that way too – make it clear that everything had been a bit of fun, that they’d still just be friends, no matter how much that might feel like stomping on his own guts. He goes to open his mouth but Jere gets there first. “It your friends.” Suddenly, everything comes to a screeching halt. There’s no way he could’ve heard right. “What?” Had they said something to Jere? Gregor had made a few snide comments about his closeness with Jere on his way out the door now it was no longer useful to him, but his friends had never had a problem with it that he’d known about. That he knew of, anyway, unless they’d been hiding it behind all the jokes and memes they’d been filling the group chat with since Tavastia. Jere grimaces, seeming to consider how to put it. “I... I not know how to call.” “You... wait, you don’t know their names?” He had about enough time for the words surely not to flit across his mind before Jere scoffs. “No, of course I know this. You tell me lots.” The breath he takes is so deep Bojan can hear it even over the video call. “But is di... different written to how say.” It takes a moment for it to click, but once it does Bojan feels his eyes widen. “You’re not sure how to pronounce their names?” “Yes, yes, exactly. You will help me?” “Of course, yes, I can do that.” “Good. I want make good... impreshing?” “Impression?” he asks, and gets a nod in return that makes his heart twinge. “Jere, they’ve already met you. They like you.” “Yes, have met, but not as...” He gestures then with the hand that’s not holding the phone, waving it back and forth between his chest and the screen, and Bojan’s breath catches as he realises that Jere’s gesturing to him. “Is even more im... important now,” Jere continues. “I want they like me still, not say they come and...” Suddenly he’s propped the phone up and got both fists raised, moving them down again and again in front of him in a strange synchronised motion. If Bojan had to guess, it looks very much like beating someone with a shovel, and it startles a laugh out of his mouth: partly because of the unexpected swerve into the violent, and partly because it’s still dawning on him that maybe his romantic imagination hadn’t run too far away without him after all. He sets firmly aside the hopes for this next meeting that have started to creep back in, and decides he has to focus on the situation at hand. First things first, and all that. “When do you want to start?” he asks, and Jere smiles in that way of his that always makes Bojan think of love. “Now is good. Want much practice.”