Jugovizija Nights

Dejan stands near the mirror, adjusting his gold chain while a stylist fusses with his white suit jacket. His eyes flick toward Mimoza in the reflection, then away. He says something low to the stylist, who laughs. The Belgrade singer's posture radiates confidence—he owns this room, or acts like he does.

"Careful with the shoulders," he tells the stylist, brushing imaginary lint from his lapel. His voice carries that particular Belgrade polish, each word precisely placed.

Branimir slouches against the wall near the coffee station, leather jacket creaking as he shifts. A cigarette smolders between his fingers. He notices Mimoza approaching and his eyes track her pink suit with something between amusement and curiosity.

"Kosovo, right?" he says, exhaling smoke. "Pink's a bold choice." His tone is neutral—not hostile, not welcoming. Just observing. He takes another drag, waiting to see what she wants.

Branimir's mouth quirks into something almost like a smile. He flicks ash into a nearby tray, studying her with sharper interest now.

"'Fluturoj,'" he repeats, the Albanian word sitting strangely in his Croatian accent. "Flying in pink. The jury's going to love that or hate it—no middle ground." He takes another drag, exhaling slowly. "What's it sound like? Please tell me it's not another ballad. We've got three of those already."

His leather jacket creaks as he shifts his weight, and there's something in his posture that suggests he's actually listening—not just making pre-show small talk.

Across the room, Dejan glances over his shoulder at the conversation. His expression doesn't change, but his stylist has to repeat something twice before he responds. He turns back to the mirror, adjusting his collar with precise movements.

Branimir nods slowly, something like approval crossing his features. "At least it's not another weepy love song." He stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. "The ballads are going to put half of Yugoslavia to sleep tonight. Dejan's, Risto's..." He gestures vaguely at the room.

"Pop in Albanian, though." He pauses, and there's weight in that pause. "That's going to make some people nervous. The jury especially." His eyes meet hers, direct and assessing. "You know that, right?"

Branimir's eyes widen slightly, then he laughs—a short, sharp bark of genuine amusement. He reaches for another cigarette, lights it, the flame briefly illuminating his face.

"Jebote," he mutters, shaking his head. "You've got bigger balls than half the men in this room." He exhales smoke toward the ceiling. "They're going to crucify you in the voting, you know that? The jury will find every excuse—'not representative enough,' 'language concerns,' all that bureaucratic shit."

He pauses, studying her with something approaching respect. "But fuck, at least you're doing something real. Not like..." He gestures toward Dejan with his cigarette. "Not like these peacocks singing about nothing."

Dejan turns from the mirror, his movement deliberate. He's close enough to have heard. His smile is perfectly calibrated—polite, empty.

"Branimir, still playing the revolutionary?" His voice carries across the green room, smooth as silk. "Some of us prefer to actually win."

Dejan's smile doesn't reach his eyes. He takes a step closer, his platform shoes clicking on the linoleum floor. The gold chain at his throat catches the fluorescent light.

"The public," he repeats, his tone honeyed with condescension. "How charming. The public doesn't vote, dušo. The jury does. Professionals who understand what Yugoslavia needs at Eurovision." He adjusts his cuffs with practiced precision. "But please, put on your show. It will be... memorable."

The dismissal in his voice is absolute. He turns back to his stylist as if the conversation has already ended.

Branimir watches the exchange, then catches Mimoza's eye. He raises his cigarette in a small salute, something like solidarity in the gesture.

"At least one of us isn't kissing Belgrade's ass tonight," he mutters, just loud enough for her to hear.

Near the window, Risto Dimitrovski looks up from his guitar. He's been watching quietly, his dark eyes moving between the three of them. He doesn't speak, but his fingers pause on the strings.

Svetlana doesn't wait for acknowledgment. She turns to leave, then pauses at the door, glancing back at Mimoza.

"Albanian lyrics approved by the committee," she says flatly, as if reading from a memo. "But the orchestra conductor wants to review your tempo markings. Be prepared to discuss."

Her expression reveals nothing—not approval, not disapproval. Just the facts. Then she's gone, the door swinging shut behind a trail of cigarette smoke.

Dejan straightens his jacket one final time, checks his reflection, and strides toward the door. He moves like someone who owns the stage already.

Branimir grins, a real one this time, not his usual sardonic smirk. "At least three. 'Too fast for the orchestra,' 'doesn't match Eurovision standards,' and my personal favorite—'needs to be more accessible to all republics.'" He mimics the bureaucratic tone perfectly, then laughs.

"They tried that shit with my guitar volume yesterday. Wanted it 'more balanced with the strings.'" He makes air quotes with his cigarette hand. "I told them if they touch my amp settings, I walk. Suddenly it was fine."

He crushes out his cigarette and pushes off the wall. "Good luck out there. Don't let them water you down."

Branimir barks out a laugh, loud enough that a few heads turn in the green room. His eyes gleam with something between admiration and mischief.

"Jebo te," he says, grinning wide. "I like you. You've got the right spirit for this circus." He claps her shoulder once, the leather of his jacket creaking. "Just remember—Svetlana's the one who can actually pull your plug if you push too hard. She's got her finger on every switch in that control room."

The production assistant appears in the doorway again, tapping her watch meaningfully. Branimir raises a hand in acknowledgment.

"That's me. Try not to let them crush that fire before you get on stage." He heads for the door, then pauses. "And if you need someone to cause a distraction during your performance, just give me a signal. I'll start a fight with the orchestra conductor."

He's half-joking. Only half.

Branimir's grin turns rueful. "Yeah, they probably would." He shakes his head, then gives her one last look—something like respect mixed with concern. "Don't let them break you before you even get on stage, Pink."

He disappears through the door, his boots echoing down the corridor toward the stage. Through the walls, the muffled sound of electric guitar being tested—aggressive, unapologetic. Very Branimir.