Chapter Text
Las Vegas had its own charm. Maybe it was the lights at night, when all the stands were packed, people were shouting, and you felt the adrenaline rush of being in the cockpit going over 250 kilometers per hour. Maybe it was the after-party, where your result didn’t matter. First, last, or disqualified, because by the end of the day you’d be so impaired by alcohol that you wouldn’t even remember your own name.
Whatever the reason was, Max didn’t care. He had always made good memories in Vegas. He won there in its first addition to the calendar back in 2023, and although last year he hadn’t even come close to the podium, he had scored enough points to win his fourth consecutive championship.
But Vegas 2025 was going to be different. Its outcome would mark either the end of his fight for the championship or the beginning of his comeback just to keep the number one the following season. But the pressure that comes with such an important race, strangely, wasn’t there. Obviously, the Red Bull garage wanted to see him become champion once again. Mekies would actually die if in his first half-season with Red Bull, he could lead the team to another title. But at this point, he was just happy to have been a thorn inside of the Papayas ass from the moment the season restarted after the summer break.
He loved seeing Zak Brown tremble with anger. He knew the American hated that fans kept saying he still had a chance to win the championship even though he had to overcome a fifty-point deficit. A difference that had started at over a hundred points before the summer break. Brown was embarrassed... and from Max’s perspective, he should be.
But people didn’t believe in the impossible because the McLaren drivers were bad or not likeable enough. People believed in the comeback of the year—hell, even the comeback of the decade—because he was Max fucking Verstappen. The four-time world champion, the one who overthrew Mercedes’ after seven years of an absolute authoritarian reign, the one who starred in the most dominant season since Schumacher’s golden years, the youngest driver to win a Grand Prix and the FIA’s number one enemy (or second number one enemy, ask Hamilton his opinion).
If anyone could win with only three races remaining, it was him.
So when he arrived at the paddock on Thursday morning. Tired, jet-lagged, and knowing that this weekend was going to be his downfall or his revival, the last thing he wanted was worries. He didn’t want to do the conference; he wanted to go back to the hotel, take a nap, and use the simulator for eight hours straight without stopping.
But he was obviously the unluckiest man on the planet. Giving the conference was one thing. Short, mostly stupid questions that he couldn’t answer honestly because he knew his PR team was capable of killing him the moment he crossed the line (he owed them some peace though; they’d been bailing him out of trouble after trouble since 2016). But having to do it with Alonso and Russell was another story altogether.
Don’t get him wrong, he liked Alonso; he was old, funny, talented, and spoke highly of him. But Russell... That was a whole other thing.
Russell and he had spent most of their careers oscillating between wanting to hit each other or make each other look worse in front of the cameras and the press, and somehow that was considered camaraderie in the paddock. They were called “frenemies,” although Max was convinced there were far more “enemies” than “friends” in that equation.
Still, things had shifted lately for the last season or two. Since “Unnecessary anger and borderline violence,” or “Defending on the outside is not allowed because Princess George is sitting there?”
Now, with Max not having been in a real battle for the championship for the first half of the season, and George focusing more on teaching his young, adolescent teammate how to… survive. Things calmed down a lot.
Brazil had been the first real sign this season, at least the first one he truly remembered. During the driver parade, Mercedes’s car had died halfway up the hill, and Yuki didn’t think twice before slowing down to let him hop in, and Max, who usually avoided any situation that put him near Russell for more than thirty seconds, had barely complained when the Brit settled next to them. And somehow, the three of them ended up laughing. Laughing. Max didn’t even remember the joke, only that the moment had been so absurd he couldn’t help joining in.
Since then… Well, calling them “buddies” would be pushing it, it has just been a week, but the tension had shifted into something that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. They both had a good time there in that little Red Bull car, with Yuki driving and them trying their hardest not to touch their hands while grabbing the handle in the back.
And Max had caught himself seeking him out in the paddock more than once later that day, which was ridiculous and absolutely not something he was ever going to admit out loud.
Their relationship was like Russian roulette. One day they’d be joking around, the next they'd be trying to kill each other on the track, only to start joking again later.
And now, two weeks later, he was sitting next to him again. The camera flashes, Fernando with a mocking grin as if he’d ordered popcorn for the show, and George feigning indifference while fiddling with his microphone for the third time.
Max slumped into the couch. Great. Just what he needed: a nap, eight hours in the simulator, and zero passive-aggressive British energy. Instead, he got this.
The moderator finished the introduction, gestured to the press, and the questions began: predictable, repetitive, and so boring that Max answered almost all of them on autopilot. Fernando was the only one having a good time, giving endless answers about strategy, experience, and anecdotes from “when I was younger” that made half the journalists sigh but entertained.
George kept giving polished, safe answers. Perfect posture, perfect smile, perfectly irritating. Max wondered if he practiced in the mirror. “Whenever something is not going his way…” he thought, snorting a little at the intrusive thought.
Then came that journalist. He knew her, she had seen her before. Heavy British accent, young, short brunette hair and probably fed on rumours and gossip.
“Hello,” she began. “This is, uh, a question for all three drivers. As you know, the paddock club features the… very unique F1 Chapel.” She paused, letting the room ripple with laughter.
He knew the chapel in the Las Vegas Grand Prix Paddock club; it has been there since the circuit was added to the calendar back in 2023. No one had used it, it was just more shit to the show the race itself was. One of the many reasons no one took this particular track seriously, or any of the ones hosted in the United Estates for that matter.
“If any of you were to get married there this weekend, who would it be with?” she asked.
Max blinked. George exhaled sharply through his nose, trying not to laugh. Fernando looked intrigued, which was already dangerous. The journalist continued, delighted, “It’s neon pink, you know? Very romantic. Maybe it’ll bring you all good luck for the race!”
The room burst into laughter again. Max leaned toward his mic. “Well, I don’t know about that type of luck,” he said, smirking.
George scratched the side of his cheek, clearing his throat. “I mean, if someone is desperate enough to get married there, God bless them.”
Max turned his head toward George, catching the way his shoulders stiffened just slightly. Always so composed, but easy to fluster with the right nudge.
“Well,” Max said slowly, letting the words hang, “if you’re going to insult the chapel, you might as well marry me in it.”
The jaw of the Mercedes driver dropped. And Max just shrugged, deadpan. “What? At least with me he knows what he’s getting into.”
George stared at him like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or throw his water bottle at him. “You’re ridiculous,” he said, trying—and failing—to hide the curve of a smile.
Fernando clapped his hands once. “Good! I can be the father! I give the blessing, no problem.”
George nearly choked. “I—I’m not marrying Max,” he insisted, holding up his hands. “Let’s make that very clear.”
Max smirked. “Scared of commitment?”
“Scared of you, more like.”
Fernando leaned toward his microphone with all the seriousness of a priest. “When is the ceremony?”
The entire press room exploded. Max laughed, really laughed, shoulders shaking.
“After the conference,” Max said, playing into the bit. “George and I will go straight to the chapel.”
George rolled his eyes. “Sure. Right. After the conference.”
Max didn’t miss the way George kept glancing at him afterward, caught somewhere between amused and exasperated. The sweet spot Max had discovered he enjoyed way too much.
The moment the session ended, security ushered them off. George slipped out quickly, clearly eager to escape the mess Fernando and him had turned the whole thing into.
Max caught up to him in the hallway.
“George!”
He turned, halfway through taking off his lanyard. “What?”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Where are you going? We’re supposed to get married.”
George stared at him, mouth open, face doing that thing where he looked confused and affronted at the same time.
“I thought—Max, it was a joke.”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “But you said yes. So.”
George blinked. Hard. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
“I’m not,” Max said casually. “You were the one who agreed.” He tilted his head. “Unless you’re backing out? That’s fine. I get it. It must not be easy to marry a four time world champion like me.”
George set his jaw, torn between pride and common sense. “I’m not backing out of anything.”
“So you are marrying me?”
“I’m—” George exhaled, eyes narrowing with stubborn competitive stupidity. “Fine. Whatever.” He grabbed his hand in one swift motion. Those long, slender fingers contrasted sharply with his own, robust and calloused.
And it maked him freeze.
Not physically, his legs followed George on instinct as the Brit dragged him down the hallway, but mentally, something stalled, caught, slipped out of place like a gear grinding just a fraction of a second too long. The thought—it wouldn’t be bad to actually marry him—flashed and vanished before he could do anything about it. But it left a warmth behind, a pulse under his skin that shouldn’t have been there.
George, oblivious, kept walking with purposeful, stubborn steps, muttering something under his breath that sounded a lot like “I swear he’s insane”. His grip on Max’s hand was firm, not hesitant, not cautious. Like he had decided, in pure Russell fashion, that he’d rather commit to a stupid bit than lose it.
And Max… Max liked that. Way too much.
They passed mechanics, hospitality staff, camera crews moving equipment. A few glanced toward them, confused and surprised of course. A couple of Sauber engineers openly stared. Someone from Red Bull actually looked terrified.
George finally let go of his hand when they reached a quieter section of the paddock, but his fingers lingered for a second too long, brushing against Max’s knuckles as if his body hadn’t realized it was supposed to separate.
Max hated how aware he was of that exact moment.
“Alright,” George said, straightening his posture, cheeks slightly pink from either the brisk walk or the stupidity of what he was about to say. “Where is this stupid chapel?”
Max lifted his chin. “Do you want the real answer or the one where I pretend I don’t know exactly where it is?”
George’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you know exactly where it is?”
Max shrugged. “It’s hard to miss it. It’s pink, neon, and all the Americans seem to love it.”
George scoffed. “Of course you would know, always curious.”
“Of course I’m curious,” Max said. “It looked funny.”
“And you went inside?”
“No. I walked past it.”
George sighed. “Of course you did.”
But he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t annoyed, either. He was… amused, maybe. The faintest smile tugged at his lips. His eyes were softer than they should’ve been. His shoulders a little more relaxed. And Max didn’t know what to do with that. He didn’t know what to do with him.
“So?” George prompted. “Lead the way, Verstappen.”
Max smirked, regaining some ground. “You’re very eager to marry me.”
“I’m eager to end this,” George corrected. “Before everyone in the paddock thinks we’re actually—” He gestured vaguely between them. “Whatever this is.”
Max didn’t respond. Mostly because he didn’t know what this was either. He turned, headed toward the paddock club, the plush carpet absorbing their footsteps as the noise of the pit lane faded behind them. George followed close, and Max could feel the heat of him at his side.
The Brit cleared his throat. “And just to be clear,” he said, hands behind his back, voice stiff, “we’re not actually getting married.”
Max arched an eyebrow. “You sound disappointed.”
“I’m not,” George snapped too quickly.
Max leaned back against the elevator wall, crossing his arms. “You agreed very fast, though.”
“That’s because you challenged me.”
“So?”
“So I don’t back down from challenges.”
Max tilted his head. “Even if it involves fake marrying your rival?”
George’s lips twitched. “Especially then.”
They stepped out of the garages and into the Paddock club, and even if Max had been here hundreds of times, seen dozens of absurd sponsor activations and ridiculous displays meant to convince CEOs they were part of something special, nothing quite compared to the level of theatrical stupidity that was the F1 Chapel. It wasn’t tucked away discreetly in a corner or tastefully hidden behind velvet ropes. No. It sat right in the middle of the open space like a shiny, radioactive fungus glowing neon pink under the Vegas daylight as if begging everyone in a fifty-meter radius to stare at it.
A couple of early fans leaned against the balcony above it, turning their heads as Max and George approached, because of course two drivers walking together toward the world’s tackiest wedding setup was the kind of thing people noticed immediately.
George slowed down just a fraction, his expression doing that funny change Max had learned to spot since their first fight years ago. Somewhere between horror, disbelief, and begrudging acceptance that he’d walked himself into this. Max watched him silently, enjoying the way the Brit’s composure cracked in tiny, delicious crumbs.
“There,” Max said, pointing toward the white and pink arch and checkered themed carpet. “Your big moment.”
George let out a breath that sounded half like a sigh and half like a suppressed groan. “Oh my God… it’s hideous.”
“It’s Vegas,” Max answered. “If it wasn’t hideous, it wouldn’t be in the USA.”
George shot him a look, that slightly squinted, judgmental stare that always made Max’s mouth pull into a smile he didn’t try very hard to hide. They walked closer, and the chapel only got worse from every angle. Everything sparkled. Everything glowed. Even the plastic roses had some kind of glitter sprayed onto them, as if someone had decided subtlety was a disease. “Only in Vegas,” he thought.
Max stepped inside the arch first. The filtered light hit the veil hooks on the side wall, and he saw George’s eyes narrow at them, the exact second curiosity mixed with mischief. For once, Max didn’t tease him. He just waited.
And George delivered.
He plucked one of the ridiculous headbands off its hook, lifted it as if performing a coronation, and stood in front of Max with a face so serious it belonged in a podium, not a fake chapel in a fake city in the middle of the desert. Max did nothing to stop him. Didn’t even blink.
The cold plastic teeth slid into his hair, the tulle falling over his forehead like some cheap prop, and the smile that broke over George’s face hit Max harder than it should have.
George laughed once, breathless and disbelieving. “There. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
Max felt the laugh rising before he could stop it. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Well of course, you’re a beautiful wife.” George corrected, but he was still smiling, and Max liked the way his cheeks lifted when he did.
Before Max could reply, someone cleared their throat with theatrical importance, and they both turned toward the man now standing behind them. The officiant was dressed in a silver suit that reflected the sun like a disco ball and wore an official event badge that somehow made the entire thing worse. His grin was wide, his posture overly enthusiastic, the embodiment of a Vegas showman who’d been waiting all day for a couple idiots to fall into his trap.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” he boomed, spreading his arms dramatically. “To the F1 Paddock Chapel! Are we ready to celebrate love, commitment, and the speed of questionable decisions?”
George froze like he’d been shot.
Max crossed his arms behind his back, amused. “Yes.”
George snapped his head toward him. “Max!”
“You agreed,” Max reminded him, voice infuriatingly calm.
George glared at him, and Max felt something warm flicker in his chest at the way he stepped closer as if proximity alone could bail him out of embarrassment. Instead, it only made the officiant clap loudly once, delighted.
“Wonderful! Please stand facing each other. Very close. Closer. Perfect, yes, yes—beautiful!”
Max wondered, for a brief second, if he was hallucinating. Because George Russell, that George Russell, was actually stepping closer. Close enough that Max could feel his breath. Close enough to see the faint crease at the corner of his mouth where he was biting down on some combination of panic and laughter. Max didn’t move. He didn’t even pretend to keep distance. If anything, he tilted his chin slightly down, letting the veil slip forward over his brow.
The officiant lifted a hand toward George. “Do you, fine sir, take this champion of champions, this… very committed Dutchman, to be your paddock-wedded partner for the rest of your racing career?”
George opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Max raised an eyebrow, challenging him silently.
George exhaled slowly, defeated. “Sure.”
Max couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him. “And do you,” the officiant said, turning toward him with absolute earnestness, “take this elegant British gentleman, this titan of consistency, this… remarkably well-moisturized driver, to be your temporary husband?”
Max didn’t hesitate. “I do.”
There was a beat, one second or two, where George’s eyes widened just enough for him to notice the shift. A quick inhale. A tiny parting of his lips. Something he didn’t know how to name and absolutely shouldn’t have been focused on.
The officiant beamed. “By the power dubiously granted to me—”
A burst of laughter cut him off, loud and entirely unrestrained. Max didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
Fernando was standing a few meters away, arms folded, shoulders shaking with how hard he was laughing. Max shot him a look that landed somewhere between annoyance and resignation. George looked like he was silently begging the earth to open and swallow him.
But it got worse.
Much worse.
“Oh my GOD—GEORGE!”
Two voices at once. One delighted, one horrified. And Max turned just in time to see George’s soul leave his body. Alex Albon stood beside Alonso, phone up, recording everything, laughing so hard he could barely hold still. And Kimi was just standing there, surprised as ever but smiling like a flower kid who was just seeing his parents getting married.
“Oh this is beautiful,” Alex rasped between wheezes. “Don’t move! Don’t you dare move! George, mate—you look—oh my god—this is the best day of my life—IS MAX WEARING A VEIL!?”
Max lifted a hand in a small, smug wave, veil fluttering. George covered his face with both hands, mumbling something into his palms that was probably a prayer, a curse or both.
He looked genuinely mortified now, and that alone was enough for Max to feel something warm and reckless spread through his chest.
The officiant, still unfazed by the growing audience and the chaos unraveling in front of him, lifted his silver clipboard and prepared to say something utterly humiliating. George reacted first, stepping forward, hands half-raised like he could physically stop the words from forming in the air, but it was already too late. “I now pronounce you—” he said dramatically, “—husband and... husband? I suppose. Y’all are ready to seal this racing union with a kiss?”
For a solid second, the world paused. Max blinked behind the veil, the plastic comb digging slightly into his scalp. George stared at the officiant like he had just announced that the FIA was giving him a ten-place grid penalty. Fernando nearly fell over Kimi, both laughing as maniacs, and Alex’s phone zoomed in so fast the sound of the focus motor was audible.
George snapped back to reality first. “Absolutely not,” he said, voice firm, accented, and entirely too high-pitched for someone supposedly calm. He took a step back, but the officiant gently pushed him forward again, like he was guiding a nervous bride at a county fair wedding.
“What?” Max asked innocently. “It’s tradition!”
George shot him a look so sharp it could’ve cut carbon fiber. “We’re not kissing!”
“You’re the one who said ‘sure’ and dragged me here by the hand,” Max countered, shrugging beneath the veil. “Seems like you’re backing out of the challenge now.”
The phrase hit a nerve. Max saw it—George’s shoulders tense, his jaw clench, competitive stubbornness flaring like an engine misfiring. George Russell, the man who would rather drive a broken car than retire.
“I’m not backing out,” George snapped, cheeks flushing a very telling shade of pink that only deepened when Alex laughed even louder. “But I’m not kissing you on camera while half the paddock watches.”
“So you admit off-camera would be fine?” Max teased.
George’s mouth opened and closed like he was briefly buffering. Fernando made a sound that was somewhere between choking and hysterical delight and the young italian said something that sounded as a surprised curse. Max had no idea where this courage (or stupidity, depending on the angle) was coming from. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe the impending championship. Maybe the lack of sleep, the jet-lag. Or maybe it was just George, standing there in the middle of a ridiculous neon chapel, looking flustered and alive in a way Max had never seen before.
Before he could push the bit any further, George turned abruptly toward the officiant. “We’re done. Ceremony’s over. Thank you. Goodbye.” He grabbed his wrist (again, too confident, too natural) and pulled him out from under the arch while the officiant shouted something like, “May your marriage be as long-lasting as your tires!”
If only he knew how bad that comment was.
Once they were out of the cheesy pink checkered flag carpet, George dropped his wrist like it had burned him. Max expected him to bolt immediately, but George didn’t move. Not yet. He just stood there, breathing a little too fast, cheeks flushed, eyes darting between the crowd forming and Max’s ridiculous veil. And then he raked a hand through his hair in frustration.
“I can’t believe you made me do that,” he muttered, but there was no real anger. Just disbelief and something almost like reluctant amusement.
“You didn’t have to play along,” Max said, even though the thought of George not playing along felt oddly disappointing. “You could have said no at any time.”
“You challenged me!” George repeated as if that explained everything. And it did, somehow. Because George was prideful and competitive incapable of walking away from a dare. Just like him.
Max pushed the veil back, letting the tulle fall away from his eyes, and George finally cracked. A small laugh escaped him, low and breathless and so genuine that Max felt it somewhere inconveniently deep inside.
Then an unmistakable voice called out behind them:
“GEORGE, OH MATE YOU LOOK FANTASTIC, LILY’S GONNA LOVE THIS!”
George snapped his head around, horrified. Alex was behind them with his phone raised like a documentary cameraman capturing the last moments of a wild doe before being eaten by lions, while with his other arm he had Kimi by the shoulders, who just laughed and looked at them with amusement. Fernando was beside him, hands in his pockets, grin wide and unbothered.
Max smiled. And the fans who had managed to gather just behind the barrier? They started chanting something that sounded suspiciously like “KISS! KISS! KISS!”
George went pale
Max went pink.
And the Vegas Grand Prix hadn’t even started yet.