Romeo & Juliet: The Deadly Love - Rustappen

by Thammyshrk

Summary:

Two houses, of equal fame, wealth, and honor, have hated each other for as long as I can remember. Mercedes and Redbull, two great families of Verona who harbored a mutual hatred since the beginning, a death separated the families, and, according to old stories and tales, two deaths brought them together again.

Verstappen is a young man from Red Bull, haunted by the pain of an unrequited love for a man named Ricciardo.
Russell is the heir to Mercedes, a passionate young man, however, full of hopelessness about his future.

During a party hosted by the Mercedes house with the purpose of introducing Russell to her future husband, fate decided to play tricks on the schools of the family leaders.

Rustappen's retelling of the story based on William Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet.

Chapter 1: HOPELESSNESS

In the city of Verona, two houses, equal in dignity, lived immersed in an ancient hatred: Mercedes and RedBull. Their disputes were so intense that the origin of the disagreement was no longer certain. Only rancor remained, passed from generation to generation, inflaming every encounter between members of the rival houses and disturbing the peace of the city.

On a sunny morning, this rancor once again took to the streets. Servants of the two families met by chance, and an exchange of provocations quickly turned into violence.

"What are you doing there, vagabond?" shouted Frederik Vesti, clenching his fists, eyes flashing with anger.

"I'm just watching you, friend," replied Lawson, keeping his gaze steady, trying not to back down, "But if you want, I can accompany you to your master."

Ocon, who was passing nearby, heard the provocation and advanced, sword already in hand, "Lawson! Aren't you ashamed to brandish against my house? Finally a good excuse to fight you!"

Sainz, realizing the danger, tried to intervene, "Ocon, calm down! We don’t need more fights today!"

But Esteban only laughed mockingly, pushing Charles aside, "Peace? Peace is for the weak! No member of Mercedes will rise without paying for what they owe us!"

The atmosphere became electric. Swords were drawn, shouts echoed through the streets of Verona, and the quick and precise movements of each combatant turned the square into a chaos of steel and adrenaline. Some servants tried to flee, stumbling on the uneven stones, while others fought with courage or desperation. The tension was in the air, and the sun, high in the sky, seemed to illuminate every violent gesture, every contained rage.

"Watch out, Lawson!" shouted Sainz, trying to protect his friend from an unexpected blow.

"I will not retreat!" replied Lawson, dodging Ocon's blade by a split second, heart racing. "Not today!"

The confusion only ended when Prince Giovinazzi, sovereign of Verona, personally intervened.

"People of Verona," he proclaimed, voice firm and resounding, "the peace of the city will no longer be disturbed by fights between Mercedes and RedBull. Anyone who dares to inflame this hatred again will pay with their own life. Reflect on your actions and let order prevail."

Silence fell over the crowd, and the combatants, panting, lowered their weapons. But beneath the ashes of order still burned the fire of rivalry, palpable in the air, making the city tremble with anticipation and fear.

Meanwhile, Verstappen, heir of the RedBull house, was far from the fight, consumed by a different torment. It was not hatred that occupied him, but unrequited love. Max walked through the quietest corners of the city, avoiding the main streets, trying to escape the noise and violence that still echoed on the stones of the square. Every shout, every clang of a sword, seemed distant, yet still carried the weight of the rivalry between Mercedes and RedBull. Melancholy enveloped him like a heavy cloak; his steps were slow, almost mechanical, while his mind clung to the memory of Ricciardo, the boy who had decided to devote his life to chastity, leaving Max suffocated by impossible desire.

He leaned for a moment against the wall of an old building, watching the city breathe around him. The wind carried the smell of freshly baked bread from the bakeries and the aroma of flowers from neighboring gardens, but none of it seemed to touch his spirit. Every distant laugh, every conversation in the streets, only reminded him of the loneliness he carried.

His friends and relatives, among them Charles, did not understand such suffering and tried to convince him to forget this unattainable love. Charles followed him at a short distance, cautious not to invade his space, but firm in his intention to help.

"Look around you, Max," said Charles, hoping to cheer him, "The world is full of handsome men. Don’t waste your days in tears for someone who does not desire your heart."

Max paused for a moment, feeling the weight of the words, but could not respond. His breathing accelerated and his shoulders trembled slightly, a result of a silent pain that no one seemed capable of understanding.

"You don’t understand, Charles," he murmured, voice like a sigh full of pain, "He was everything to me. If I cannot live to love him, why should I live? I will never find a being as beautiful as him…"

Charles sighed deeply, approaching and sitting beside Max on a stone bench near a fountain. He kept his eyes fixed on the younger, trying to convey firmness and friendship.

"Do me a favor, Verstappen," said Charles, voice softer but firm, "you are a man of boiling blood, you should not cling so much to a love you will never have. The world will not wait for you to drown in lamentations, Max. There is so much out there, so much life you have not yet seen…"

Max lowered his face, hiding the shame of the tears threatening to fall. He watched the reflections of sunlight on the water of the fountain, feeling time pass slowly, almost cruelly. The distant murmur of the city, the sound of children running through the streets, and the echo of Prince Giovinazzi’s last orders to disperse the confusion, all seemed to mix with the pain in his chest.

Charles remained by his side in silence, without pressing, merely allowing Max to breathe and reconnect with the world around him. The friend’s presence was a faint comfort, but real. Max felt a shiver run down his spine imagining Ricciardo smiling, so distant and inaccessible, and at the same time realized that this impossible feeling still burned within him, silent, secret, yet so intense it seemed capable of consuming him entirely.

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to control his racing heart. Every step he had taken that morning, every sound of the city, every memory of Ricciardo, seemed intertwined, creating a mixture of desire, pain, and hope. Max knew that nothing in the world could erase that feeling, while at the same time it frightened him and filled him with longing, reminding him that his heart could still feel intensely, still love, still dream.

Charles lightly touched his shoulder, breaking the aura of silence and melancholy. "You are not alone, Max," he said, almost as a whisper. "Even if it seems so, there are people who care for you, and perhaps it is time to allow that care to pull you out of your stupor, at least for one night."

Max opened his eyes slowly, staring at Charles, feeling a mixture of gratitude and sadness. He knew nothing would change his impossible passion, but for a moment, the world seemed less heavy, Charles explained what he had in mind, and the idea of facing the night, sneaking into the Mercedes party, and even Ricciardo’s presence, seemed less frightening.

At the same time, at Mercedes, preparations were underway for a grand ball that evening. It would be a party of splendor, full of music, laughter, and masks, where nobles from all over Verona would be received. Every detail was designed to impress: chandeliers gleamed in the candlelight, ancient tapestries decorated the walls, and the aroma of flowers and spices mingled with the perfume of the guests. Toto Wolff saw there an opportunity to bring his son, George Russell, still so young and innocent, closer to Lewis Hamilton, a respected count desirous of his hand.

George, however, did not share his father’s enthusiasm. He walked back and forth in his room, anxiety tracing lines on his face.

“How many times do I have to say I don’t want to marry this man?” he vented, voice full of frustration.

Alex Albon, his faithful servant, remained near the door, watching him. Despite the difference in position, the two shared a deep friendship built over the years. Alex smiled discreetly, covering his mouth with his hand, and approached George with soft steps.

“George, he is a count, not just anyone,” he said, trying to calm his friend. “Do you realize how many young men would kill to be in your place?”

George rolled his eyes, turning toward the large window of the room. Outside, the city lights began to turn on, reflecting on the wet street stones.

“Then let them have that chance,” he replied, voice low and full of disdain. “Because I definitely don’t want it, Albon. I don’t even know the man, and I don’t want to know him.”

Alex walked across the room, approaching again. He lightly touched George’s waist, whispering near his ear. The gesture, simple but filled with intimacy, sent a shiver down the young heir’s spine.

“Unfortunately, we cannot change that, Russell,” said Alex, slowly moving toward the door. Before leaving, he leaned slightly, low enough for only George to hear, adding: “Don’t try to go against the original story, George.”

When the door closed, George sighed deeply. He approached the window and sat on the bench, letting his head rest on his arm. He watched children running through the streets of Verona, unaware of the protocols and intrigues consuming the adults. Amid that normalcy so far from his life, a knot formed in his throat and he cried quietly, feeling the weight of expectations he could not, and did not want to, bear.

Downstairs, preparations for the ball continued without pause. Servants ran between tables, adjusting tablecloths and cutlery, while musicians tuned their instruments. Outside, the sound of horses and carriages announced the arrival of the first guests. The hall gleamed, but none of that splendor could warm George’s restless heart.

When Max learned of the party that Mercedes would host that night, his heart beat faster. It was not for the promise of new adventures or encounters with the city’s high society — his thoughts were fixed only on Ricciardo. The invitation had been extended by many nobles of Verona, including members of the clergy, who, as always, would not miss the chance to flaunt their positions and special tickets, as if it were a competition of devotion and wealth.

“So, are you really going?” asked Carlos, leaning against the wall with a teasing smile. “Or are you going to sit there whining about Ricciardo as always?”

Max grumbled, restless, fidgeting with his fingers, unable to answer immediately.

“Listen, Max,” continued Charles, approaching, laughing lightly, “there’s no point in staying still. Ricciardo won’t notice you sighing secretly in some corner. You need to show up, enter the party, see the world out there.”

“But what if he realizes I’m there just for him?” Max murmured, almost to himself, voice full of tension. “What if he thinks it’s ridiculous?”

Charles laughed, throwing his arm over his friend’s shoulders.

“It’s already ridiculous, we wanted to show you new people and you keep talking about him. You are alive, you breathe, you have courage. It’s more than most can say. And look…” he pointed at Carlos with a dramatic gesture, “you have two emotional supports.”

Carlos patted Max’s back, firm, encouraging.

“In the end, Max, the party is just a beginning. If you stay here, you will continue sighing for Ricciardo forever. But if you go… well, maybe you will discover a new man who will enchant you.”

Max took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. As much as he wanted to escape his own anxiety, he knew he could not. The dilemma between prudence and desire ran through his veins, a mixture of fear and excitement making every step heavier and at the same time more inevitable.

“All right,” he said, finally, letting out a sigh. “I will go. But you two promise me that, if I embarrass myself, at least you will laugh with me, not at me.”

“Deal,” replied Charles, winking with a mischievous smile.
“I’ll think about your case on the way to the party,” added Carlos, with a serious nod but eyes shining with amusement.

Max looked at his reflection in the mirror, adjusted the mask covering part of his face, and felt, for the first time in days, a spark of courage. The night would be long, full of music, laughter, and attentive glances. All Max could do was face the hall and let destiny take the next step. The tension of entering a space where he was not welcome, as well as the nervousness of meeting his beloved among all those people, made the blood in Max’s temples run like lava in a volcano.

The night promised more than he could bear.

Chapter 2: NEW LOVE

The Mercedes hall that night seemed to have been transformed into another world. Crystal chandeliers reflected the flames of the candles, creating a golden glow that made the marble of the columns gleam as if it were made of fire. Musicians played lutes and flutes from a balcony above, lulling the crowd with lively melodies full of rhythm. The perfume of flowers mingled with the scent of rare spices that came from the kitchens, where servants rushed to serve wine and steaming dishes.

The party was grand, worthy of impressing any noble of Verona. Toto Wolff, host of the night, watched with attentive eyes every movement in the hall. His plans were clear: to bring George closer to Lewis Hamilton, the respected and influential count, who seemed tailor-made to become the son-in-law of the house of Mercedes.

George, however, did not share the same enthusiasm. His blue silk attire shone under the torches, the delicate mask hid part of his face, but his restless eyes revealed his discomfort. He walked beside Hamilton, who spoke with elegance and confidence, as if every word were rehearsed to conquer. George, however, heard only fragments of the phrases, distracted, his heart beating fast in a mix of anxiety and disinterest.

"You seem tired," Hamilton said at one point, smiling calmly. "But I promise this night will be unforgettable. Trust me."

George only nodded, without the courage to openly contradict him.

Meanwhile, outside, three masked figures sneaked through the courtyard and entered the hall with disguised steps. Max Verstappen, alongside Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz, carried in his chest the nervousness of an intruder, but also the flame of a hope he could not name.

Charles nudged Max lightly, laughing softly. "Don’t tell me you’re going to spend the whole night hiding behind a mask without even looking around."

"I am here against my own reason," Max murmured, adjusting the disguise. "I don’t know what I expect to find."

"Expect to find? Oh, expect to find everything!" Charles exclaimed, cheerful, already serving himself a glass of wine from a passing tray. "A ball is for laughing, dancing, forgetting the world outside. But you… ah, you always with that grim face."

Carlos, more cautious, intervened: "Remember where we are. One wrong step and we’ll leave here dead. No one can discover we are from RedBull."

Max, however, was no longer listening. His eyes, wandering through the hall, had fixed on someone. Among the masked guests, in the midst of the dancing and conversations, there was a young man whose presence seemed to shine above all the lights. George Russell.

Max felt his heart beat faster, as if struck by a revelation. The world around him seemed to disappear; the music sounded distant, the laughter muffled, only that vision remained, completely overwhelming him.

George, feeling suffocated by Hamilton’s constant closeness, turned his eyes to the crowd, searching for refuge. And that was when he saw him. A masked stranger, with a firm posture, intense gaze, standing still as if time itself had surrendered to that instant.

Their eyes met, and silence took over both their hearts.

Charles noticed what was happening and murmured to Carlos, amused: "There it is. He forgot Ricciardo in the blink of an eye."

Max, seized by a courage he did not recognize in himself, crossed the hall. He approached George, who seemed unable to look away. He stopped before him, extended his hand, and with a gentle bow, kissed it.

"If my boldness offends," Max said in a low voice, "then let this gesture be my pardon."

George blinked, surprised, but felt himself smile. "There is no offense. But I must warn you… I don’t usually give my hand to strangers."

"Then allow me to become less of a stranger," Max replied, without losing eye contact.

George laughed nervously. It was a genuine, fragile laugh, revealing an unexpected relief. "You speak as if words were easy. Who are you?"

"Someone who, in an instant, forgot the rest of the world," Max said, and before reason could intervene, added: "Allow me to steal a kiss."

George blushed, hesitating, but the heat of that moment was irresistible. "Stealing is a crime… but perhaps this is the only one I do not wish to punish."

Max drew closer, slowly, placed his hand on George’s waist. The heat between the two bodies was evident. The kiss happened. Soft, brief, but enough to set both aflame from the inside out. George touched Max’s face, his fingers slightly trembling, as if his body needed that touch. Max laughed with his lips still close to the boy’s.

Charles raised his glass in silent celebration, murmuring to Carlos: "And to think he came to the party only to suffer."

Carlos only shook his head, resigned. "This won’t end well."

But the enchantment lasted little. Esteban Ocon, who prowled attentively through the hall, recognized the intruder. His eyes sparkled, and he almost leapt forward, drawing his sword.

"A son of the house of RedBull! A damned Red Bull in the house of Mercedes!" he cried, his voice echoing through the hall.

The noise ceased immediately. The musicians stopped, the guests retreated. George paled, Max took a step back, and Charles and Carlos stepped forward, ready to defend their friend.

Hamilton placed himself in front of George, his hand firm on his shoulder, his gaze heavy with suspicion upon Max.

But before the confusion could explode into violence, Toto Wolff rose from his seat. His voice, deep and authoritative, dominated the hall.

"Enough! This is my party, and no blood will be spilled under my roof. Sheathe your swords and return to the dance. Do not stain this night with hatred."

Ocon gnashed his teeth, but obeyed, retreating with contained fury. The hall slowly filled again with music and movement, but the tension did not dissipate.

George, taken back to Hamilton’s side, still searched for Max’s gaze among the crowd. And Max, before disappearing among masks and shadows, looked at him one last time. But in that instant, both knew: something had changed forever.

Max walked back to his group, who kept a rigid posture under the unfriendly stares around them, nodded toward the great ivory door of the mansion, and the three left, in silence.

The night had silenced Verona. The ball ended in forced laughter and suspicious looks, but in Mercedes’ garden, the air was different: sweet with the perfume of flowers, fresh with the wind that swayed the treetops. The moonlight bathed the courtyard in silver, reflecting on the stained-glass windows of the mansion and the stones of the wall that surrounded the gardens.

Max walked quickly, his heart in turmoil. He could not drive from his mind the vision of George, nor the heat of the stolen kiss. Like a magnet, his steps led him to the walls of the enemy’s house. He knew it was madness, knew that if discovered, he would pay with his life. But reason no longer guided him.

He climbed the ivy-covered wall with agility and, once at the top, paused. His eyes searched for the lit window. And then, like a vision sent by the gods, George appeared on the balcony. He still wore the blue attire of the ball, but now he was without a mask, his face bathed in moonlight.

George leaned on the balustrade, unaware of Max’s hidden presence. He sighed, speaking to himself, but his words were heard as if they were prayers.

"Why did you have to be from RedBull? If your name were something else, you would still be the same… your eyes, your voice, your gesture. What does the enemy matter, if my heart no longer knows how to hate?"

Max almost revealed himself at that instant, but held back. His chest burned with the confession he had heard. He took a step forward, and his voice came out low, but firm.

"Call me what you will, and I cease to be RedBull. If this name is your enemy, then I abandon it. Let only Max remain, and nothing more."

George started, his eyes widening. "Who is there? How dare you spy on me like this?"

Max raised his hands, pleading. "Do not fear. If my presence is a crime, let the night be my witness: I came only because my heart no longer obeys me. I saw you once, and I am no longer the same."

George took a deep breath, torn between fear and hope. "And if someone finds you here? If Toto or Hamilton discover you, you’ll be lost."

"Better to die because of you than to live without having you by my side," Max replied, taking another step forward, revealing himself under the moonlight.

George was silent, observing him. Max’s face was exposed, sincere, and the gleam in his eyes left no doubt. Something inside him melted, dissolving any barrier.

"You are reckless. And yet… I cannot deny that I feel the same. Since the instant I saw you, something in me has changed."

Silence fell for a moment. Only the distant chirping of crickets filled the air. Max raised his hand, as if he could touch George despite the distance.

"Then let this night be our vow. Tomorrow, if you wish, I will tell your name to the wind, I will shout to the sun that I am yours. But tonight… let me be only the one who found you."

George smiled, timid but true. "You are hasty, Max. Love does not rush. But I also cannot deny that every word of yours echoes inside me. Perhaps fate has chosen us, and we are nothing but pieces in its game."

"Whatever it is, I accept," Max said. "I accept losing my name, my honor, everything, as long as you let me remain here, before you."

George stepped back, but did not turn his eyes away from him. "Go, before the night ends. And if you truly mean it… return tomorrow. Tell me how, and I will know if your heart is faithful."

Max bowed in reverence, his eyes burning with emotion. "I swear I will return. Even if the sky collapses and the walls imprison me, I will return."

George brought his hand to his lips, as if to keep for himself the kiss they had shared at the ball. Then, softly, he murmured:

"Good night, Max. May dreams be sweeter knowing I no longer dream alone."

Max gave one last look, his heart beating stronger than ever. "Good night, my sun. May dawn come quickly, so I may see you again."

And then, he disappeared into the shadows, while George remained on the balcony, trapped between fear and ecstasy, already knowing that his life would never again be the same.

Chapter 3: UNITY

Notes:

GUYS, I KNOW, the story of Romeo & Juliet happens at a VERY fast pace, precisely because of the idea of an intoxicating love that consumes the characters' souls, but gosh, it's so sad even though it's quick, my heart aches just knowing what happens throughout the text, anyway, I won't give any spoilers (even though I think everyone knows the story)

GOOD READING!!

The sun rose lazily over Verona, tinting the rooftops and towers with gold that, hours before, had borne witness to the ball. The city seemed to awaken in slowness, but in Max Verstappen’s heart there was no room for rest. He walked quickly, as if every step were driven by the memory of George, by the promise whispered under the moon.

Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz followed just behind, exchanging complicit and amused glances.

“Look at him,” laughed Charles, arms crossed. “He barely slept, I’m sure. Spends the night sighing over a Mercedes man and now runs as if he were about to find hidden treasure.”

“A treasure, yes,” said Carlos with irony. “A treasure guarded by beasts. You are blind, Max. One misstep and we are all lost.”

Max did not answer immediately. He walked firmly, eyes burning with conviction. When he finally stopped, he faced the two of them with intensity.

“If this love is madness, then I would rather go mad than live imprisoned by hatred. George is not an enemy… he is everything I have always sought without knowing.”

Charles let out a low whistle, impressed. “Did I hear that right? Our Max speaking like a poet. Ah, if Ricciardo saw this, he would die of laughter.”

Carlos, more serious, placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Just remember: promises under the moon are beautiful, but fragile. You need something solid if you truly wish to move forward.”

Max turned his gaze to a nearby, discreet building, where the sun illuminated the stained-glass windows. That was where Sebastian Vettel lived, the friar with a kind heart who welcomed both the sons of Red Bull and those of Mercedes, never surrendering to the rancor between families.

“It is him I will seek,” said Max. “If there is anyone capable of understanding and guiding this love, it is Sebastian.”

The interior of the small chapel smelled of incense and old wood. Birds sang outside, and the light streamed through the stained glass in beams that painted the floor with vivid colors. Sebastian Vettel, in simple habit and with hands marked by time, was tending to some plants in clay pots when Max rushed in.

“Father Sebastian!” he called, breathless. “I need your help.”

The friar raised his eyes calmly but immediately noticed the turmoil in the young man. He approached, studying him as one who reads beyond words.

“Max Verstappen, I see on your face the mark of a restless night. What brings you here so early?”

Max knelt, unable to contain his urgency. “Love, Father. I found love, and I cannot live without it anymore.”

Sebastian arched his eyebrows, intrigued. “Love? Was hatred not your nourishment, as it is for all in your house? Who dared turn your heart in such a way?”

“George Russell,” confessed Max without hesitation. “Son of the house of Mercedes.”

The friar closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply. “A Red Bull and a Mercedes… Max, you know too much blood has already been spilled between these houses.”

“Precisely because of that!” interrupted Max. “What better path to peace than the union of our hearts? If George and I belong to each other, perhaps hatred may finally yield.”

Sebastian stared at him for a long while. There was something in the boy’s eyes, not just passion, but burning sincerity, like a fire that would not go out. He sighed, thoughtful.

“To love is simple. To sustain this love before the world, that is the hardship. If you truly desire it, then let it be with prudence. Let your vow not be only a brief flame, but a constant light.”

Max smiled, filled with hope. “Then you will help me?”

“If George desires it as well, yes,” replied the friar. “But remember: it will not be easy. Still… perhaps the heavens have chosen you to turn hatred into something new.”

On the other side of the city, the morning unfolded quite differently. In the Mercedes house garden, George walked restlessly. Every flower seemed more alive, every sound sharper, as if the whole world had taken on another color since the night before. But with the euphoria came fear.

It was then that Alex Albon, faithful friend and confidant, approached with light steps.

“My dear George, since yesterday you have walked as one who floats. Will you tell me what spell has taken you?”

George averted his gaze, blushing. “If it were a spell, I would ask for the cure. But no… it is love.”

Alex widened his eyes, curious. “Love? And who dared steal it from the heart of Mercedes?”

“I cannot say it aloud,” whispered George. “But if your ears are loyal, you will know to keep the secret. It was Max. Max Verstappen.”

Alex blinked several times, as if he expected to hear another name. Then, he let out a nervous laugh. “Oh, my dear… you have chosen the hardest path. But if your happiness depends on this, then I shall be your messenger.”

George held his hands with gratitude. “I need you to bring him a word. Tell him that I am ready. If he truly wishes to seal this love, let him prove his courage.”

“Consider it done,” replied Alex with a mischievous smile. “Though I would rather be delivering letters of poetry than risks of war.”

“Perhaps it is both,” replied George, dreaming aloud.

At noon, when the heat weighed down and the streets bustled with people, Charles and Carlos found Max again, already leaving the chapel.

“So this is it?” provoked Charles. “Our brave Max now lives sighing verses of love, as if he were a troubadour?”

“If love is madness, I accept it,” said Max, unashamed.

Carlos grumbled. “May the gods protect us. This will end in blood.”

Before they could argue further, Alex appeared discreetly, approaching Max. He handed him a small folded note, smiling with complicity.

“From George. His words are not long, but they are true.”

Max opened the paper, and his eyes lit up as he read:

“If your heart is steady, come. I do not fear destiny, so long as it is with you.”

Max pressed the note to his chest, feeling the whole world fit within that sentence.

“Then it is decided,” he murmured. “Tomorrow, with Sebastian’s blessing, we will unite our lives.”

Charles, always theatrical, raised his arms. “Ah, Verona! Prepare yourself, for here is born a love that dares defy the impossible!”

Carlos only sighed, grim. “And perhaps here is also born our ruin.”

But none of this mattered to Max. For him, tomorrow was already a promise of eternity.

The Verona sky turned soft shades that afternoon: the clear orange hue, full of thin clouds, seemed to promise a moment of peace. But in Max Verstappen’s heart, every minute was an eternity. George’s note burned in his pocket, as if it were a living flame. He had read those words a thousand times since Alex delivered them, and with each reading he felt destiny pushing him down a path with no return.

Charles and Carlos walked at his side through the narrow streets, dodging carts and merchants, but it was as if Max noticed nothing but the memory of George’s face.

“I have never seen anyone so distraught,” commented Charles, smiling. “Red Bull could collapse today and still not steal that gleam from your eyes.”

“It is not gleam,” murmured Carlos, serious. “It is blindness. Max, do you know what you are about to do?”

Max raised his gaze, firm. “I know. I will unite my life with George’s.”

Charles whistled theatrically. “So it is marriage? Already? Ah, Verona will burn!”

Carlos narrowed his eyes but said nothing more. He knew any attempt to dissuade Max would be useless.

At the Mercedes house, George suffered the same torment. He paced the room like a caged bird, unable to calm himself. His hands trembled, his heart beat unevenly. Alex watched the scene, sitting on the edge of the bed, shaking his head.

“Breathe, George. You will faint before even reaching the altar.”

George stopped before the mirror, trying to compose himself. “You say that as if it were simple. Don’t you understand? This choice may cost me everything. My family, my name… my life.”

Alex rose, approaching him gently. “But it may also give you everything. And if your heart has already chosen, then let reason not hold you back.”

George smiled tensely. “What would I be without you, Alex?”

“Probably already promised to Hamilton,” he replied with irony. “Now, come. If you are going to face heaven and hell for this love, at least dress as someone worthy of it.”

Sebastian’s small chapel stood away from the center, surrounded by ancient olive trees that seemed to guard secrets of centuries. Upon arriving, Max found the friar before the altar, arranging the vestments with solemn calm. The light streamed through the stained glass, painting the space in red and blue, as if even the heavens themselves were divided between Red Bull and Mercedes.

Sebastian raised his eyes when Max approached.

“I see you have not given up.”

“Never,” replied Max. “There is no force that can take me from George.”

Shortly after, the soft steps of George echoed through the temple. At his side came Alex, carrying a complicit and proud smile, as if he himself were responsible for such madness to happen.

Max and George’s eyes met, and in that instant the whole world ceased to exist. The air seemed lighter, time slower. They drew closer to one another, and George let out a nervous laugh.

“I do not know if I tremble from fear or from happiness.”

“Then let us tremble together,” said Max, taking his hand.

Charles, watching discreetly with Carlos at the back of the chapel, could not resist commenting: “Ah, look at that, our brave warrior turned troubadour. Good thing Vettel is here, or I would improvise a blessing myself.”

Carlos only crossed his arms. “May the gods have mercy.”

Sebastian raised his hand, asking for silence. He approached the two young men, who now knelt before the altar. His voice was grave, but there was tenderness in every word.

“The love that is born amidst hatred is fragile like glass, but also precious as the rarest crystal. Max, George… you know it is not only your destiny you change today, but that of your houses. Still, if your hearts speak louder, then let them unite before the heavens.”

Max squeezed George’s hand firmly. “I fear nothing, so long as he is at my side.”

George took a deep breath, looking into the friar’s eyes. “If this love is sin, then I sin without repentance.”

Sebastian smiled softly, moved. “Then let it be so. I vow you, before heaven and earth, husband and husband, united not by the name of your houses, but by the flame of your hearts. May this love strengthen you in joy and in sorrow, until destiny is fulfilled.”

Max leaned in, kissing George with tenderness and reverence, as if it were a sacrament. Alex discreetly wiped away a tear; Charles clapped quietly, amused; and Carlos, despite his seriousness, could not hide a resigned sigh.

Sebastian blessed them, tracing the sign of the cross over their heads.

“Go in peace, but with caution. For although your love is true, the world will not understand it.”

The two rose, still holding hands. George smiled, radiant, as if he had finally found a home beyond any wall or surname. Max, with his heart ablaze, knew nothing could separate them.

But at the back of the chapel, Carlos murmured to Charles:

“They hardly know… the storm is already rising on the horizon.”

Charles raised an imaginary glass, always theatrical. “Then let us toast to love, even if it is a toast to tragedy.”

And so, under the colored light of the stained glass and the silence of the olive trees, Max and George sealed a love that defied families, walls, and destiny itself.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed it, see you next week 🤸