Chapter Text
Barcelona
“I just have to ask.”
The guy turns to look at him, eyebrows raised at the accented Dutch.
“It’s a play on words, right? Your name isn’t actually Max Emilian,” he makes sure to accentuate the pause in between the names, “it’s Maximilian, right?”
Max Emilian (or, at least, to be confirmed) smiles and his whole face collapses into itself, forming odd folds around his lips and poking holes into his cheeks. He looks goofy as fuck, but it somehow makes him way more approachable: there’s a bright glint in his eye that’s so genuine it makes all the glitter and sparkle surrounding them seem artificial and dull. He clearly fits in the whole circus of it all—you can tell he’s one of the performers and not someone with a more backstage role—but it’s also almost as if he’s above it, the one self-aware sequin on Europe’s biggest, campest costume.
“Actually Emilian is my last name, so Max is—no, I’m just kidding, but yeah, my name really is Max Emilian. Two words.”
“Your parents must be insane,” Lando says, and then realises that insulting someone’s parents probably isn’t the best first impression. Max doesn’t seem to mind though, responding with a short, barking laugh.
“I bet your name is probably dumb as fuck as well,” Max throws back at Lando, and it takes him a couple seconds to realise the guy is actually asking for his name.
“Oh, it’s Lando. I’m with the—”
“No way, so I was right!” Max is downright gleeful. “What even is that name? Doesn’t sound Flemish at all.”
“I mean I’m half English, so—”
“No but that doesn’t sound British either, where is it from? Star Wars?”
At this point Lando’s laughing too—he’s never had such an extreme reaction to just introducing himself.
“My mum hasn’t even seen Star Wars. No idea where my name is from, really.”
Max is doubled over, wheezing.
“Alright, Lando, whatever you say. You’re with the Belgium team, I assume, right? Crew or what?”
“Drummer. But as far as I’m concerned, they have nothing to do with me until we’re on stage. Hate the lot of them.”
The glint in Max’s eye is back, this time with an added hue of mischief.
“That’s what I like to hear. I almost forgive you for being Belgian. Say, have you met Greece yet?”
“Greece?”
“The Greece singer. Eleni, Elena, something—I can never remember her name.”
“The tall, hot one? I’ve seen her around. Haven’t talked to her, though.”
“Well, I can’t possibly let that go on any longer. You think she’s hot and everything. Come with me.”
And that’s how, an hour later, Lando and the Greek performer (it’s Elena after all) end up frantically pulling on a sparkly gold knee-high that Max has managed to get his foot stuck in. Lando should have caught the mistake sooner, but there really wasn’t much waiting between Max’s first seemingly innocent question about Elena’s shoe size and his subsequent forceful efforts to jam his foot into her boot. And if Lando’s thrown in an enthusiastic “Try it on, do it!”, well, that’s impossible to prove in the court of law, right? Spoken words leave no mark and all that.
Lando’s pulling on the heel and he accidentally stabs himself with it at least three times before he figures out that perhaps it’s not the best approach. He decides instead to pull down on the bunched-up fabric above the Achilles tendon, in order to maybe give Max’s currently imprisoned ankle some room for movement, so he can eventually wiggle out. It’s a high-stakes operation and it’s definitely not helped by the extra pressure of a crew member giving Elena the five-minute call before she needs to go on stage—but it’s just the Barcelona pre-party after all, no one’s taking it seriously. There’s still a long way to go until Germany and still a wide margin of fucking around available, which means even the acts that are trying to look professional have allowed themselves to relax tonight.
Even the Belgium crew isn’t taking it too seriously, despite how up themselves they normally are. Lando thinks it’s kind of fucked up he’s calling them the Belgium crew in his head, even though he’s part of the same act, but he supposes that’s what happens when they’ve made him feel so incredibly disconnected. Lance Stroll has gone over to talk to the French entry—some guy dressed in black with an angry opinionated song. Not that Lando knows what the angry opinion actually is, because he dropped French as soon as he could (honestly, two languages are more than enough for anyone, especially someone dyslexic like him). The two are no doubt fraternising about being French speakers—because yes, the Belgian entry in the Flemish year has been usurped by a Quebecois, as if everyone’s suddenly forgotten that his first language is French.
It’s basically the same as giving the place away to a Walloon. It’s a betrayal. A travesty. And all because Lance won some talent show by smiling at the camera long enough and stuttering his way through the confessionals innocently enough for people to forget he’s basically a cultural enemy in the heart of Flemish Eurovision. North American and French-speaking. There’s genuinely nothing worse.
And sure, in the interests of not being hypocritical, it has to be mentioned that Lance is in fact half Flemish. And yes, maybe Lando’s also only half Flemish. But Lando was raised in Antwerp, while Lance just swooped in to steal first place on The Voice Belgium with a translator and a history of failed music projects in Canada. Lando’s not sure he even knew what Eurovision was a year ago, and it sure is reflected in the song they’ve ended up settling on.
Such a mellow, soulless, completely American ballad that—Max’s ankle dislodges itself from its glittery confines, this might be the beginning of the end—pales in comparison with the charmingly campy, glitzy, extravagant decor of Eurovision. Lando takes his hand off the boot to let Max wiggle his way out, and his palm is red and scattered in loose sequins; when he squints, it’s almost like he’s holding a tiny galaxy captive in his hand.
If his fingers are all scratched up, he can’t imagine the pain Max’s ankle must be pulsating with, and yet the guy seems absolutely undeterred. All devil smile and shiny eyes, he’s already dragging Lando by the elbow, insisting that there’s a hidden spot they must visit together, some high-up place that Max claims is “the best view, for sure, and we have to know our competition”. Lando’s stomach flares not only with the traces of a childhood fear of heights, but also with a new warmth, the first time since signing up for the whole ordeal that he’s thrilled to be here. Maybe it’s the spirit of Eurovision. Whatever it is, Lando is determined to hold on to it for as long as possible.
He closes his fist.
Antwerp
Lance has been droning on and on and on about the show outfits for ages now, and the only reason Lando is forcing himself to stay present is because of the daunting possibility of what he might end up wearing if he doesn’t contribute to the conversation. A lazy theory is starting to form in his head that Lance is purposefully being as dull as possible to hypnotise the rest into agreeing with his awful choices, which seems to be corroborated by the fact that he keeps trying to catch Lando out.
“And Lando, again, if you can even consider a fedora I think it would really elevate our ima—”
“No.”
Job well done, for now.
In the short window of safety Lando has now been offered before the guerrilla attacks start again, he sneaks a look at his lockscreen to check the time (God, only twenty three minutes of the allotted hour? He will be dead in a grave before this meeting ends). The screen goes dark for only a fraction of a second before it’s jerked back into activation by an incoming Instagram notification—even the phone can’t catch a break. Lando relates.
The notification is for the band Instagram, so he supposes it’s fairly innocuous to open it. If Lotte or, God forbid, Daan have anything to say about it he can just remind them that he was the only one both willing and capable of doing a decent job running an Insta page. He throws a look at Daan and realises he has nothing to worry about anyways, because the guy’s attention is locked in an intense debate with Lance over whether suspenders are really necessary or not. Lando knows he’ll cave—pushover. He’d lend a rhetorical hand if Daan weren’t such a suck-up.
The notification is from @maxverstappen1, and Lando usually deletes DMs but he has to check first whether local idiot Max Fewtrell hasn’t somehow reached some peak level of nerdiness that’s pushed him into making a finsta with an obscure F1 reference in the username. Something like ‘maxsenna’ he’d understand (but still take the mick out of), maybe even a ‘maxschumacher’ he’d accept, but Jos Verstappen? He’s not sure Max has ever mentioned him in conversation in the eleven years they’ve known each other.
The question elucidates itself when he is greeted with a message in lightly textspeak-modified Dutch—of course. There is only one other incredibly nerdy Max who would message him on his work account.
maxverstappen1: You said it’s u who manages this account, lando, right? I can’t remember ur last name so I couldn't find ur personal
retrovox_official: yeah still me :/ it’s norris btw, personal is just @landonorris
retrovox_official: sick f1 reference also
maxverstappen1: Norris. Are u by any chance
retrovox_official: related to chuck norris haha very funny
maxverstappen1: Related to chuck norris lmao
retrovox_official: no. r you by any chance related to jos verstappen 🙃
maxverstappen1: Yeah? Why
retrovox_official: oh
retrovox_official: i didn’t plan for that i won’t lie
retrovox_official: is he like an uncle or sumthing?
Lando tries not to let the surprise over Max’s next message show in his face as he makes himself listen to the discussion again, because Lotte is currently attempting to rope him into an alliance against the choice of an awful chun-green (“understated elegant dark khaki”), and the situation is too dire not to intervene. It’s like they forget millions of gay people will be watching and judging. He shudders to think of the op-ed Wiwibloggs would write if they had a hidden camera recording this meeting, and hopes the stylists will veto every single one of Lance’s ideas when they actually make the official decisions.
Still, in the back of his mind, he’s laughing quietly at what he’s just found out. Max Emilian, son of the guy whose car caught on fire in the 90s. Go figure. He can’t wait to tell his brother about this, he’s sure Oli will have a blast with this information.
He wonders if he’ll get to meet Max’s dad before the Amsterdam concert.
Amsterdam
He does not meet Jos Verstappen in Amsterdam. Apparently Max’s parents got divorced when he was pretty young so he’s a lot closer to his mum (who he also didn’t get to meet). (He’s not sure why the idea of him meeting Max’s mum feels both monumental and inevitable). Instead, he’s greeted by the world’s most incompetent tour guide.
“Are you actually checking Google Maps? Don’t you live here?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Max rolls his eyes. “I don’t know where the touristy shit is in Amsterdam, I try to stay away from it normally. Besides, I only just moved here two years ago from Maaseik.”
“You grew up in Maaseik? Are you kidding me?”
“Yeah, mate, my mum’s Flemish. I thought I mentioned that?”
“Yeah, but not the part where you’re literally born and bred Belgian. D’you know, my family lived in Bristol when I was a baby for like three years. So, technically you’re more Belgian than me. Belgian-er.”
“I’m not. I’m Dutch. Maaseik is full of Dutch people.”
“Maaseik is on our side of the border.” Lando’s starting to think that he might be wrong on the geography of that, but he’s like 90% sure still, and he’s choosing to bank on that chance. Max makes a face—bullseye. “You’re never getting out of this, Maxje. Or, you’re never bullying me again for being Belgian.”
“Oh, look, we can go on the canal. Do we want to get one of those tourist cruises and absolutely get scammed?”
“Don’t try to change the subject. Also, fuck yes.”
Turns out, a corny overpriced boat tour is an ideal escape from Stroll and his lot—there is no excuse as perfect as the fact that Lando’s locked into a one-hour contract with the murky water of Herengracht and won’t set foot on land for another forty five minutes, let alone be able to reconvene at their established spot in front of the Sexmuseum (Lance thinks he’s so funny). After they make it back, an incredibly cramped charity shop becomes their new hideout, and after that a dingy burger place on a narrow side street that’s clearly not seen any tourists in a long time. By the time Lando makes it back to the hotel, he only has time to quickly change and hopelessly try to fix his curls (he may have bought a bright orange bucket hat from the charity shop without considering the devastating effect that would have on his hair) before he has to call an Uber to get to the venue.
“I forgot you had a British accent,” Max says after Lando manages to extract himself out of the Retrovox green room with a bunch of quick apologies and a couple well-placed polite jokes.
“Sorry?”
They’re leaning against the back wall of a deserted industrial lift they’ve managed to find and lock in place preventively. The lift is clearly meant for big props and equipment, because its size is slightly ridiculous for an elevator—although, with the way Max and Lando have found themselves shoulder to shoulder on the floor, they’re definitely not making use of all the space. Lando drums his fingers against the thin floor and is pleased with the noise it makes, the acoustics clean and round.
“I know you’re half British. But for some reason when you were talking to—what’s his name, the Canadian guy, the singer—I was half expecting you to have a Belgian accent in English like you do in Dutch. Instead, you’re all ‘oh matey the weather is simply lovely today, would you like a cuppa tea’, you know?”
Lando’s laugh echoes off the metal walls. Despite his best (but still terrible) attempts at an English accent, Max’s consonants are still sharpened and thickened by stubborn traces of Dutch. It’s endearing and familiar, because it reminds Lando of his mum, and by extension also himself a bit. The truth is, years spent in a heavily-accented English-speaking household have left their fingerprints on Lando’s own English to the point where, while too subtle for a Dutch person to hear, his accent will still mark him as bilingual to native Brits—he won’t mention to Max how often he gets bullied by his English friends when an intense game of COD invariably pulls some frankly odd vowels out of him.
“That’s not what I sound like,” Lando protests, and his disapproval is reinforced by the resonance in the lift. “This would be a great place for a recording session, right? With all the reverb. It sounds dope.”
“God, yeah. Leave it to AFAS to have better acoustics in a random equipment lift than in their actual arena. I still don’t get why this is where we’re having the pre-party when Melkweg is literally right there.”
“Dunno, the venue looks cool to me.”
Max pokes Lando.
“Of course you say that. You’re so lame. I bet you like the lasers.”
“So what if I do? They’re sick.”
“No, I can’t have this.” Max stands up. “I know you’ll agree with me once you hear how shit the sound is for the audience. Come on.”
An hour later, watching Max half-ass his way through a dance routine that definitely needs a lot of ironing out, Lando thinks that he was partly right: the acoustics are poor, it’s true, to a surprising degree for such a modern-looking arena. But, as Max’s voice is buried in distortion from the mic as well as the excited screams from the Dutch crowd over it, Lando can’t help but think that it sounds pretty damn good.