Chapter Text
It’s absolutely no surprise to Lando that he doesn’t manage to sneak into Max’s VIP section to watch the first semifinal. There’s first of all the problem that the VRT admins back in Belgium were stingy and fully skimped on the tickets to the point where Lando can’t even get into the right wing of the arena. An even more obvious second problem occurs when Lando tries to sneak in anyways and the security guard turns out to be one of the handlers who had been keeping an eye on the Covid Jailers the entire past week. The ice in the guy’s German accent when he recognises Lando makes him shit himself with fear, and it doesn’t take much for him to scamper back to the Belgian crew.
“Where the fuck were you?” is what Max greets him with when they finally brush past each other in the madness of the post-semi backstage area.
“There was no way,” Lando says, and tries to make it sound really earnest because he knows what he’s about to propose. “We need to talk over the scores, anyways. I’m staying at the Hilton, do you wanna come over straight away or pass by your room first?”
Max squints at him. “I swear to God if you missed the semifinal on purpose to—”
“I didn’t, I really didn’t.” Lando bites his lip restlessly. “Or, if you’re thinking your room would be…”
“Nah, the Hilton sounds nicer than what we’ve got booked. You’d think with a name like Eden Hotel the air con would work at least. I’ll get the Uber, one sec.”
Lando peers over Max’s shoulder (on his tiptoes, shamefully, but he doesn’t think Max notices) to check that it’s the right Hilton. His chin almost hits Max’s broad clavicle as Max starts immediately pacing it towards the exit—they’ve connected to what must be some other performer’s cancelled Uber, because as soon as they’re paired up, the car is already waiting for them in the Lanxess parking lot. Lando trails behind Max with a series of (again, mortifying) half-skips and small leaps as his shorter legs struggle to keep up.
“Split fare, yeah?” he throws out breathlessly when the car door is finally shut. Max’s eyes shine back at him in the darkness of the Uber with a look of such wounded incredulity that Lando laughs in his face. “Alright, big guy. I’ll keep the five euro to myself then.”
Max turns away from him (Lando’s eyes linger on the red outline of his profile as it’s illuminated by the tail lights of the passing cars) and mutters something that sounds very much like it’s the principle of it.
Still, he gets over it quickly, only pouting for a minute before he turns back towards Lando and launches into a cascade of opinions about the show. He soon gets to what Lando also thought was the most shocking takeaway: that the previously-obvious frontrunner, Austria, had an absolute disaster of a performance. Max blames it on something wishy-washy about the band’s lack of chemistry with the audience, but he’s wrong: Lando knows it’s actually the staging that made it feel soulless and disconnected (vocalists, God, they never pay attention to the background). Still, the big news about that is that Austria wasn’t going to be a jury darling anyways—so, if the act doesn’t make a big dent in the public vote like it was predicted to, it’s practically anyone’s game.
Lando’s excited about that out of pure objective curiosity to see what happens in the final. Max’s eyes, though, shine as they talk it over with a sparkle that’s way too zealous to just be schadenfreude.
(Passively, Lando wonders what it would feel like to actually have a chance at winning, like the Netherlands do.)
Actively, he takes in Max’s intensity and bookmarks, dog-ears, catalogues it in a brightly-coloured folder in his mind so that he never forgets it. He reaches for Max’s hand (to grab a fistful of that passion, maybe; he wants it for himself), but doesn’t actually get to touch it before Max flings it in a wide motion. So he lets himself be content with watching Max gesticulate enthusiastically, melts into the soft leather of the car seat as he listens to a long rant about this year’s public’s bias towards upbeat songs, and the implications that will have for the second semifinal. He only sits back upright when Max says he thinks San Marino might have a chance of qualifying—a statement so stupid that Lando hikes up his feet on the car seat into a weird gargoyle contortion in his fervour to contradict it.
“Oh, come on,” Max answers. “Who else do you think is getting that tenth spot? We’re the weak semifinal, it’s just true—the bloodshed’s already happened tonight, ‘cos almost all the strong acts went against each other. There’s gonna be some real rogue qualifiers in the next one, I’m telling you.”
“I know that,” Lando says. He’s annoyed that Max is explaining something very obvious to him, but then again objectively knows that’s not very fair of him, because he often doesn’t know what Max is talking about, and needs explanations. Still, he’s had to listen to Lance and Lotte every single day as they hash out how they could make it to the final, if only this person underperforms or that one doesn’t nail a high note. “At this point maybe even Retrovox are gonna qualify,” he throws out with a shrug.
Max pins him down with a stare.
“Retrovox are definitely qualifying, Lando.”
He’s lying for sure.
“You’re so lying.”
“I’m so not,” Max shoots back, and Lando can’t tell whether he’s making fun of the accent or inflection. “I’ve watched your rehearsals. Once it gets to the bridge and the camera pans to you, it’s over for all of us other acts. We don’t even stand a chance. They’re gonna go so crazy they’re not even going to wait for the voting window to start sending out texts.”
This, Lando can entertain.
“You don’t even know the half of it. I’m planning to wink.”
“You can’t do that, Lando, I’m being serious. You guys go before us, it’s gonna fuck me over for my whole performance. They’re gonna try to drug-test me after how bad I’ll do.”
That makes Lando grin.
“Maybe that was my plan all along,” he says, laughing along to Max’s faux-theatrical gasp of betrayal. “Maybe that’s just revenge for that choreo you do during the bridge.”
(Lando tries to make it sound playful enough so Max doesn’t dig into it, so he doesn’t have to admit that watching the dance has actually gotten him slightly flustered a couple times.)
“Well maybe that’s just revenge for the hat you lost me,” Max retorts, and gloats like he’s just played his best hand of cards.
Lando scoffs.
“You mean thanks—you looked like such a muppet with it on. Like, I’d argue I pretty much saved you from the fate of looking like an idiot.”
“You’re lucky it wasn’t the only baseball cap I brought in my suitcase,” says Max, and it sounds so serious that it makes Lando burst out laughing.
“Max, maybe that’s a sign that you have a problem. This is an intervention more than anything. You need to get on one of those TLC reality TV shows about addictions.”
Max rolls his eyes. “Shut the fuck up. I just can’t be assed to do shit with my hair most of the time, can you blame me?”
“What’s wrong with your hair? You don’t even have to deal with curls, you can probably just run a hand through it and it will look fine.”
“It’s not as easy as it seems,” Max responds slightly petulantly, but theres a playful light starting to twinkle in his eyes again. “If you’re such an expert—you wanna try?”
Lando raises an eyebrow but takes the bait, raising his hand towards Max’s forehead so he can smooth out the hair. Except, as he does so, he hazards a glance into Max’s mischief-blue eyes (always risky business) and misses the driver pulling into the parking spot, until the sudden brakes launch his hovering hand forcefully into the back of the passenger seat. He shakes the pain out of his hand with a grimace as the driver ushers them out in short, sharp German—a language that Max apparently speaks, which for some reason makes Lando’s head spin.
It’s Lando’s hotel, but Max conducts himself with such confident decisiveness that he ends up pretty much leading the way to the room, asking Lando for the floor number then pressing the elevator button himself (Lando lets his eyes linger on the trajectory of the finger). Soon enough, Max is scavenging the minibar before Lando even gets to listen to the pleasant little phhht-click of the heavy hotel room door closing.
Lando should have been paying more attention to what Max was picking out, because now he has a bottle of pilsner shoved in his face, soft vapour coming out of it.
“I hate beer.”
Max makes a face like it doesn’t matter. Prick. “We’re in Germany, mate. You know, Oktoberfest and everything?”
“It’s May, though.”
Max climbs on the couch next to him and gets all up into his face.
“Drink the beer, Lando.”
Lando hands him back the bottle and doesn’t break eye contact.
“You can’t make me.”
Max smirks devilishly and Lando thinks that he’s played it very wrong. Then, Max brings the beer up to his mouth very slowly and only wets his lips with it, and Lando realises he’s played it very right. He’s pretty sure at this point he’s just Kubrick-staring up at Max, but it somehow doesn’t seem to matter, because sure enough Max leans in, all hard cheekbones and beer mouth, and the little freckle on his top lip is the last thing Lando sees before his eyes flutter shut.
“It still—” Max forces Lando’s mouth open with his bitter-coated lips— “tastes like—” he’s pushed downwards past the soft barrier of throw pillows— “shit,” Lando finally manages to mutter, but it’s immediately undermined by a squeaky noise he tries and fails to contain when Max pins his hands down over his head.
Max just smiles at him and leans in again eagerly, and it’s only now that Lando gets confirmation that Max really has been feeling the same pent-up want as him these past days. It was getting hard to tell; not that Lando’s usually the overthinking type in these situations, and they had already kissed after all, but Max is such a force of nature that Lando sometimes forgets there’s anything to him beyond the magnetic whirlwind of energy that seems to always drive him forward. He’s characteristically forceful now as well—all hands and arms and jaw and Lando fears he’ll fall to the floor soon if he keeps writhing under Max’s touch like that. This couch is definitely not big enough.
He’s safe for the moment, because he goes completely limp when Max moves from his mouth to his neck—damn, the guy has a good memory. He goes straight for that one spot Lando pointed him towards last time, and then still somehow has the mental capacity to play with the hem of Lando’s hoodie. Lando points his chin down to let him know he’s free to pull the hoodie off, and it goes well for about five seconds until Lando tries to wriggle his arm out of one of the sleeves and he actually does almost fall off—only caught in time by Max’s warm hand on his waist. And not that he’s complaining about that, but he figures this is as good a time as any to propose they switch to the bed.
That’s where they still find themselves forty minutes later, Lando’s bare leg drawn up across Max’s bare stomach, a tangle of hotel bedding and skin. Lando’s honestly about to fall asleep, but Max’s eyelashes fluttering against his nose tickle him alert. Max’s breath on his chin is warm and humid as he proposes in a whisper that they should probably take a look at the public votes.
“You’re shit at pillow talk, do you know that?”
Max barks a laugh right in his face and Lando recoils jokingly.
“You’re a dick.” Max shrugs like he agrees but doesn’t see the problem. “Go get your phone so we can look over them.”