The trouble began with the champagne.

Not the classy, podium-worthy kind. No, this was the aggressively bubbly, questionably pink kind sold in souvenir bottles shaped like the Eiffel Tower — and it flowed far too freely after Carlos insisted, “We deserve to celebrate surviving a GP in Vegas. Alive, Charles. We survived.”

Charles, tipsy from three wins in a row and the sheer chaos of the Strip, had grinned at Carlos in a way that always ended in poor life choices. “What’s next, then? We skydive? Tattoo each other’s names? Marry for real?”
He meant it as a joke. Probably.

Carlos blinked. “Marry for real?”
Charles raised the bottle dramatically. “To fake marriage!”
And they clinked plastic souvenir cups with the energy of gladiators in love with their own recklessness.

.....

They stumbled into the wedding chapel because it had flamingos on the sign and the window said ‘Open 24 Hours. No Questions Asked.’