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Chapter Text

Charles Leclerc played the piano with the most beautiful and heartbreaking melody he could imagine, as if his soul knew exactly what Persephone felt when forced to spend half the year with Hades.

He thought of Max.
His Max—if he could still call him that.

He had never thought the person he hated most in all of F1 would end up being the one his heart loved.

He only remembered…

Flashback

Austria, 2022.

Charles and Max fought for first place as if they were the only two drivers on the track. Three overtakes. Three times Charles got ahead of Max… and in the end, pole was his.

He got out of the car expecting the worst. He knew Max never took defeat well.

But when he saw him…

He wasn’t furious. At least not in the expected way.

Max looked majestic.
Maybe it was his eyes—so blue they could rival Poseidon’s, the god who painted the sea with a single stroke.
Or maybe it was his hair—blonde, but with shadows so deep they looked like light and darkness fighting for dominance.
Or his smile—the one that could captivate anyone. Even him.

“Hi, mate. Good race,” Charles said, testing the waters.

Max frowned. Of course, the media didn’t call him Mad Max for nothing.

“Spare me the speech, Leclerc. Do you want me to congratulate you? Applaud you? That’s what your fans are for. But fine, if that’s what you want… congratulations. Goodbye.”

He turned his back.

“No one turns their back on me,” Charles said, grabbing his arm.

Big mistake.

Max spun around, furious, and without a word dragged him into an empty room. He shoved him against the wall and lifted him slightly by the lapel of his jacket.

“What the hell is your problem? You take victory away from me, and now you come in here like you expect everyone to kneel before you. I’m not one of them, Leclerc,” he spat through gritted teeth.

Charles closed his eyes. He expected a punch. He’d defend himself, of course… but he didn’t want to. Not with Max.

“And now what? Where’s the brave man who shines for the media? Look at you. Alone. Afraid. If your fans saw you like this…”

Max laughed, sarcastically.

“What the hell is your problem, Verstappen? Why are you like this?” Charles burst out, and when he opened his eyes, tears trembled on his green lashes.

Something shifted in Max.
Seeing him cry… broke him.

He wasn’t supposed to feel anything for him. Not for Charles.

And yet, there he was. Pressed against him. Staring at him. Wanting him.

His gaze fell to his lips. He thought of tasting them, just once. Like Eris’s golden apple: you knew that once you tasted it, there was no going back.

But Charles noticed, and quickly pulled away.

“Charles… I… I’m sorry. Good race. Enjoy the party. See you.”

He gave him a clumsy pat on the shoulder and left. Without looking back.

“Max… I…” Charles whispered, but it was too late.

All he had left was the image of those eyes devouring him with their gaze, and the tremor in his chest.

He didn’t hate him.
Maybe… he loved him.
And one day, they would talk about it.

End of flashback

Charles still carried that moment in his mind. He didn’t understand why Max treated him like that: as if one day he wanted him… and the next he didn’t exist. He was tired of playing cat and mouse. He promised himself he would confront him, that he would never cry again. Not because of him.

As he thought about it, he kept playing the saddest song he could on the piano. If someone in the paddock or a fan happened to hear it, they would surely cry. Charles played, letting each finger caress the keys with the same delicacy with which autumn turns into spring.

That day, he had an important race in Monaco, his city, and he wasn’t going to let Max ruin anything.

He finished playing, stood up, and went to find Leo, his dog. He stroked him tenderly, lifted him into one of his Ferraris, and set off for the paddock. But as he drove, a memory attacked him.

The very one he had been trying to bury.

Flashback

Charles was at the post-race party, celebrating his victory. Vodka, laughter, some members of the paddock, friends like Pierre, Carlos, and Oscar… but someone was missing. Someone who, although he shouldn’t have cared about, he did.

He left the party, looking for some silence. He dialed a number.

“Hello, Dany? How are you?”

“Charles, what a surprise! I’m fine, and you? But tell me, are you sure this call is for me?”

“I know it’s not my place, but… do you know anything about Max?”

Daniel Ricciardo sighed on the other end.

“He hasn’t answered since the race. You beat him fair and square, but he’s upset. Give him time.”

“I know, Dany… but I need to see him. Could you give me his address?”

“Well, Charles… if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you and Max…” He stopped. “Alright. You’ll do what you think is right. I’ll send it by text. Take care.”

Charles hung up, unsure what to think. But as soon as he received the address, he hailed a cab.

He arrived at the hotel. The security guard recognized him instantly and let him in with a nod. Charles nodded back in thanks.

Now he was standing in front of room 33. That number didn’t surprise him. He knocked twice.

“If it’s housekeeping, I already said—” The voice stopped when he saw who was at the door. “Charles Damned Leclerc.”

Max couldn’t believe it. As if ruining his race wasn’t enough, now he was here in his space. And even drunk, Charles looked perfect. Like Apollo’s laurel or Medusa before the myth: hypnotizing, dangerous.

And worst of all, it only took that damn smile and those dimples to disarm him.

“What are you doing here? You’re drunk. Wrong room,” Max said sharply. “Leave, Leclerc. I don’t want to see you.”

He tried to close the door, but Charles was faster and slipped in.

“Damn, you really are stubborn,” Max growled. “Which part of I don’t want you here don’t you get?”

He shoved him. Not hard… or so he thought. Charles stumbled, fell, and scraped his knee. From the floor, with red eyes, a few tears slipped out.

Max instantly felt guilty. He had gone too far. Again.

“Charles, I—”

But Charles was already on his feet, opening the door to leave. He didn’t get far. Max grabbed his arm, pulled him back inside, and pushed him gently against the door.

His breath collided with Charles’s lips.

“I don’t get you, M-M-Max,” Charles stammered, half-drunk and wounded. “I came to see you because you weren’t at the party. I missed you. And now you push me… hurt me… and you expect me to stay? What is it…?”

He didn’t finish.

Because Max kissed him.

A clumsy, intense kiss.
A kiss that tasted of ambrosia and repressed desire.

His lips felt as if Aphrodite herself had blessed them. It was intoxicating, addictive, like a forbidden plant—once you tasted it, you could never stop.

Charles’s heart raced, dopamine and oxytocin flooding his veins.

He felt alive.
He felt… loved.

And then Max pulled away.

“Max… why?”

Max didn’t answer. He took him by the shoulder, led him to the bed, and covered him with a blanket.

“Charlie… you’re drunk. Sleep. You won’t remember any of this. And I hope you don’t. It’s better this way.”

He kissed his forehead. Charles tried to say something, but his eyelids were already too heavy.

Morpheus received him in Max’s arms.

And that night, for the first time in a long time, he slept in peace.

End of flashback

Chapter Text

Now, as the memory replayed in his mind, Charles watched the sunlight up the beautiful streets of Monaco. He still didn’t understand why Max never wanted to accept his feelings. That had been the only moment Max had ever shown vulnerability with him. Max always claimed Charles was too drunk to remember, but that was a lie—he hadn’t been that drunk. He had simply chosen to let it go. If Max wanted it to stay a secret, who was he to beg? He knew Max could treat him like royalty one day and like nothing the next.

By now, Charles had arrived at the Ferrari motorhome, looking—like always—impeccable. His shirt and pants matched the green of his eyes. He was with Lewis, going over the race plan. The team wanted to run softs the whole race, with both mandatory stops on that compound. Charles listened carefully until someone caught his eye in his peripheral vision. The cause of all his problems. And, unfortunately, he looked incredible. If Charles didn’t remember how much of an asshole Max could be, he would have kissed him right there, touched him everywhere, until he forgot how to breathe.

Emm… better not think about that, he muttered to himself as Max’s eyes met his. He ignored him. It hurt—unsurprising, but still, it hurt. Even so, Charles wouldn’t let that ruin his day. Today, he swore, would be the best race of his life. He left Leo in the motorhome and went to get ready.

Charles was now behind the wheel of the SF-25. It was tough; the car wasn’t fast this year, and the McLarens were far ahead. He made both mandatory pit stops and still led the race. Behind him came Lando and Oscar. Weirdly, Max wasn’t close, not like usual. But Charles stayed focused—until the final corners, when he saw flames. A car had hit the concrete. The crash was brutal. Charles only wanted to know one thing: who it was.

—Hello, team, who crashed? —he asked, fear already coiling in his stomach.

—Charles, we’re being told it was Max in the Red Bull. A tire failure sent him into the wall —the radio answered.

Charles couldn’t breathe. His world was burning down, like Troy in flames. Tears blurred his vision.

—Brian… tell me how Max is —he asked, desperate.

—Charles, just finish these last two laps. I’m checking now —Brian’s voice tried to sound calm, but Charles was hyperventilating.

—Brian! I need to know how he is! —he shouted.

—Charles, they’ve pulled him from the car. He’s in the ambulance. And before he passed out, he said your name. Once you finish, the ambulance will wait to take you to the hospital. Don’t worry about the press—we’ll handle everything.

Charles took the last corner. He won the race. No celebrations. No joy. He jumped out of the car and ran straight to the Red Bull paddock.

—Where is he? —he asked, seeing the grief written across everyone’s faces. Like Icarus falling into the sea for flying too close to the sun—that was how Charles felt. He wanted to fly straight to Max, even knowing it would destroy him.

—Charles… hi, I… —Christian walked up to him, eyes dark with sorrow—. He’s over there, in the ambulance.

Without thinking, Charles hugged him briefly, then ran.

Now he was standing before Max. Injured. Unrecognizable. Charles wanted to lock him away somewhere safe so nothing could ever hurt him again. Max was stable, but critical. Doctors moved around him in a frenzy. Charles couldn’t stop remembering the last time they had spoken, after that night.

Flashback

It was Monaco, after several races. Time had passed since that night, but Max had never mentioned it again. Not even the fact that they’d slept together. God, he’d even magically appeared on the sofa the next morning, pouring out lies Charles knew weren’t true.

But today, Charles was done pretending. He knew Max’s address by heart. He drove his Ferrari there, heart pounding at what he’d say. Max, I remember everything? Max, why are you like this? Why do you hate me one day and love me the next?

He knocked twice. Footsteps inside.

—Who is it now? If it’s crazy fans, I’ll call the police, and if it’s Jehovah’s Witnesses, I’m not interested —Max muttered before opening the door. His face froze when he saw Charles. He slammed it shut immediately. Fucking Leclerc. He thought he’d left everything clear in Austria, yet here Charles was.

Charles stood on the other side of the door, speechless. Maybe he should leave. Pretend nothing happened. But he couldn’t.

—Max, hi —he said, when the door opened again.

—I’m sorry, Charles. Forgive me. I don’t know what happened… Do you want to come in? Water? Coffee?

—No, I’m fine. How are you? —Charles asked, holding his gaze.

—Fine, as much as I can be. Playing FIFA. And you? What are you doing here?

—Max, I know you said not to talk about Austria, but I need to know what you think. What do you feel? I want to understand you.

—Charles —Max raised a hand—, if you came here to talk about that, I’ll politely ask you to leave.

—And if I don’t want to? What then? Will you hit me? Just because I want to talk about something you don’t even dare to face?

Charles didn’t finish. Max punched him in the face, knocking him to the ground. He had never expected that from him. Hit him—just for wanting to talk?

—I told you I don’t want to talk about this. So, leave —Max growled, stepping closer.

Charles stood, punched back, and sent Max crashing down. He straddled him, pinning his wrists against the floor.

—I’m not moving. You can try to throw me out, but I won’t go until we talk —Charles hissed, leaning closer than he intended. Their thighs brushed—provocative, dangerous.

But Max was stronger. He flipped them easily. Now he was above Charles, faces inches apart. Charles couldn’t stop the flush in his body.

—You come into my house, pull this shit, and on top of that… you’re hard for me? You only bring trouble, Leclerc. Looks like I’ll have to teach you a lesson —Max’s voice was dark, unfamiliar.

And then he kissed him. Fierce. Slow. Passionate. As if Charles were some relic of Olympus. Charles thought he was dreaming. His lips were addictive, divine. But then Max pulled away, fixed himself, and sat down on the sofa, leaving Charles sprawled on the floor.

—Max… we should talk about this. Whatever it is. Don’t shut me out again.

—I’m sorry, Charles. That was my mistake. It won’t happen again. You should leave. Don’t come back.

Charles stared at him in silence. It wasn’t worth begging anymore. He walked out, straight home. Straight to the piano. To play something as sad as he felt.

End of flashback

And now, here he was, sitting in the ambulance next to Max, on the way to Monaco’s hospital. Watching him, as if his gaze alone could protect him, as if staying at his side would be enough to make it all end well.

He knew Max was fighting inside. He always had, even when he refused to admit it. And still, Charles loved him. No… he was in love with him. He loved his awkward silences, his rare laughter, his clumsy way of pushing away the one person who cared for him most. He loved him even when he shouldn’t. He needed him like air after a long cry—desperately, urgently, fearfully.

At the hospital, nurses made Charles wait while Max was rushed into emergency surgery. Charles barely noticed anything until a familiar voice broke through.

—Victoria —he whispered, as Max’s sister entered, pale and trembling, tears streaming down her face.

—Charles… I can’t… —she broke in his arms, sobbing—. What have the doctors said?

—Nothing yet. He’s critical, still in surgery —Charles answered, voice shaking—. I was about to get some coffee. Do you want something?

—Water’s fine, thanks.

Charles returned with coffee for himself and a bottle of water for her. They sat together in silence, in that strange limbo where time doesn’t move and every second drags like an eternity.

—Charles —Victoria spoke at last, voice fragile but steady—, I know it’s not my place, but… You love Max, don’t you? It’s in your eyes. In the way you reacted. And why else would he say your name before passing out? You love him, right?

Charles lowered his gaze, a single tear slipping free.

—Yes, Victoria. I love him. But I don’t think he feels anything for me. One day, he talks to me like I’m his everything, the next he treats me like I’m nothing. I don’t know how to handle it anymore.

—Oh, Charles… —she whispered, resting a gentle hand on his back—. After this, you two will have plenty of time to talk. And he’d better realize it, because if he doesn’t, he’ll have to deal with me.

They couldn’t continue. A doctor stepped into the hallway, pulling down his mask with a grave expression.

—Family of Max Verstappen?

Charles and Victoria shot to their feet.

—I have good news and bad news —the doctor said. —The good news is that the multiple surgeries were successful. Max is now stable, and with time, his physical injuries will heal.

He paused, throat tightening.

—The bad news… is that he’s in a state of brain death. I’m very sorry.

Two words. Brain death. They struck like lightning. Charles collapsed into a nearby chair, burying his face in his hands, sobbing with shaking shoulders. Victoria held him as best she could, though she cried just as hard.

—However —the doctor continued—, there is one more thing. An experimental therapy, still in early trials, is being developed in Greece. It has shown some promising results. At the moment, its success rate is around fifty percent. I know it’s a difficult choice, but if you wish to consider it…

Charles lifted his head, eyes red but burning with the smallest flame of hope.

—I’d do anything for Max. Anything.

Victoria nodded through her tears.

—I know my brother’s is in good hands with you, Charles. The way you love him… It’s like Orpheus and Eurydice. You’d go down to the Underworld for him.

—Good —the doctor said. —All I need is a signature. The helicopter is already on its way to transfer the patient—and one companion—to Greece. They’ll explain the procedure there.

—I accept —Charles said without hesitation, heart hammering in his chest. If there was even the slightest chance of bringing Max back, he would take it. Even if it meant challenging the gods themselves.

Chapter Text

Charles couldn’t remember ever visiting Greece before. It was even more breathtaking than the photographs — waters so clear they reflected not only your face but something deeper. The sky burned with an intense blue, streaked with green and gold, as if the gods themselves had painted it. This was truly the cradle of myths. In his mind, Charles felt at home: he imagined himself at a piano, playing melodies whispered by sirens.

The trip had been shorter than he’d expected. During the entire helicopter ride, Charles never let go of Max’s hand. He sat beside him, watching the man he loved lying still, what medicine now called brain death. He couldn’t process it; his thumb kept tracing the back of Max’s hand, the curve of his knuckles, as if his touch alone could call him back.

When they landed, a medical team was waiting. They led Max to a kind of stone-built clinic — a cave where, by some strange mercy of the landscape, a wide river ran through, swallowing light as it passed. The water murmured in low tones; sometimes Charles thought he heard cries, though perhaps they were only echoes of his own grief. The room where they placed Max was filled with plants — Rosaceae like roses and cherry blossoms, Solanaceae like mandrake and belladonna, ivy climbing the walls like garlands — an incongruent garden in a place meant for healing.

Those species told Charles that this was far beyond conventional medicine. Something half-forgotten mixed in his mind, but he decided not to chase the memory.

In one corner stood an old piano, its inlaid designs resembling frozen swirls, as though winter itself had been trapped inside its wood. Charles gazed at it in silence — it reminded him of Boreas, God of the north wind: harsh, relentless, and yet a guardian in his own ferocity.

Soon the doctor entered, followed by a woman with a calm, almost sacred composure — someone who seemed to carry both knowledge and the weight of ancient rituals.

—Hello, Charles. I hope you’re holding up —said the doctor, shaking his hand. I’m truly sorry for what you’re going through. We have an experimental treatment we could attempt. This is Priestess Kipride; her work has shown remarkable results.

—Oh, dear, a pleasure —she said with a warm smile, embracing him gently. I’m so sorry for what’s happening. As you can see, we use many plants whose medicinal history reaches back to ancient times. Tell me, do you know the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice? It’s celebrated today, in fact.

Charles thought she spoke with the wisdom and calm of someone who’d lived through centuries.

—Yes —he answered, trying to recall the story. I read it once.

—Wonderful. Our method is not conventional —it’s botanical and ritualized, but there’s no trickery. Everything depends on you. And… I think there’s something more than friendship between you and Max, isn’t there?

Charles looked down and said nothing.

—I’ll take that as a yes —she smiled—. Here’s how it works: we’ll prepare an infusion of poppy, mandrake, belladonna, and a touch of ivy, all in controlled doses. It also has mint to soothe. It’s not lethal, but it’s strong; its effect can reach very deep. You’ll drink it here, beside Max —she looked at the rocks surrounding them—. If you wish, you can play the piano while it takes hold; it will help you connect with Max’s body and soul, the way only plants know how. Then we’ll do something similar with him —I’ll explain the next step if you agree. —What do you think? —she asked, with the calm tone of someone reciting an ancient legend—.

—Before that, I’d like to talk to my friends —said Charles.

He opened a group chat with all the drivers —including his brother Arthur— and, without thinking twice, called them on video. Once they were all connected, he told them everything: Max’s critical state, the diagnosis of brain death, the experimental treatment in Greece, and the ritual proposed by the priestess.

—You really have to drink something weird and play the piano? —said Lando, incredulous—. And if it doesn’t work, do they give you a refund, Charles?

—That’s… basically it —Charles replied, shrugging. Don’t start, Lando; they recommended it.

—Mate, that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard… but if anyone would do it, it’s you two —said George. You’re gayer than Pride month itself. Or Achilles and Patroclus. I swear!

The call burst out laughing.

—Want my opinion? —said Oscar—. If the person I loved was like that, and someone offered me a chance to bring them back, I’d take it in a heartbeat. And if you survive, I’m marrying you two myself.

—Well, squid —said Pierre—. For once, I agree with these idiots, even George. Max salivates over you like you’re a steak.

More laughter.

—He’s right, Charles —added Carlos. A friend who doesn’t even follow F1 saw a clip of you two and asked if you were dating.

—Charles —Arthur cut in, more serious—. You have my support. And I know that Max “I don’t like Charles” Verstappen is head over heels for you. I’d do it too.

—Remember when Max called him Charlie? —said Lewis, and everyone cracked up.

—Or when, after arguing with me, he saw Charles and winked at him? —added Esteban.

—Or when he poured champagne all over him in Austria and Charles looked like he was in a gay porno? —Ollie laughed so hard he nearly choked.

—And Miami 2024 —Lando jumped in— when Charles got the trophy and Max stared at him like he was undressing him right there on live TV!

Charles laughed until his chest hurt… then hung up. Those idiots would keep laughing for hours, but they were right.

He went to speak to the priestess again.

—I accept —he said firmly. I love Max, and I’ll do whatever it takes to help him.

—That’s the spirit, darling —she said—. The infusion’s ready; it smells like roses and sea salt —she placed a glass on the piano—. Play, if you want; we’ll be right here.

Charles sat down and began to play a melody so beautiful and sorrowful it seemed to tear the air apart. As he played, he lifted the glass to his lips and drank. The taste was strange —sweet and bitter at once, as though it carried something ancient.

Soon, reality began to fade. The edges blurred, sounds grew distant, and light itself faded away.

There were no screams, no pain —only deep, endless silence. Something wrapped around him softly, like a dark river pulling him along without resistance. It felt like crossing an invisible threshold: one moment, he was there, and the next, he was floating in a dream with no beginning or end.

When Charles opened his eyes, the temperature had dropped sharply. Everything around him was still… or almost. The air carried a heavy, withered scent, and from far away came the sound of laments echoing through endless caverns. He felt suspended in a place where the world no longer existed.

He looked around and saw a dark river at his feet, its waters swallowing what little light remained. A name surfaced in his mind —something ancient he’d once read in a forgotten myth: Styx.

He stood up slowly and noticed he was wearing a red suit. At least I’ve got style, he thought. If it were blue, I’d actually die —though not literally.

In his hands rested a harp —delicate, heavy, eternal. It needed no introduction. According to legend, it had once belonged to Orpheus himself.

Before him stretched a vast, unreal landscape, woven from shadows and mist, so silent and immense it seemed to have no end. And he knew, deep in his bones, where he was: he had descended into the Underworld.

It was like walking inside a myth, as if Orpheus’s lyre now echoed in his own chest —only his Eurydice had Max’s face. The unsettling thing was that even without having ever set foot there, a path unfolded clearly before him, as though someone had drawn it for him —the inevitable road to Hades’ castle.

How to describe it? There was no sky, only a dense red-stained darkness, as though blood itself had soaked through the air. Souls wandered, screaming, trapped in eternal punishment. A place where time did not exist —only suffering.

And there, standing before Charles, was the great three-headed dog: Cerberus, guardian of the Underworld and the palace of Hades. Each head snarled, baring fangs sharp enough to tear a body apart in seconds.

There was no time to waste.

Charles took a deep breath, stepped forward with resolve —and just as Cerberus prepared to lunge, he began to play the harp. His fingers brushed the thin strings with the same tenderness one might use to touch Aphrodite’s hair —soft as cotton.

The notes lifted into the air, suspended like ancient perfume. Each melody reached deep into the creature’s soul. Slowly, Cerberus’s growls quieted. His eyelids grew heavy… and at last, he collapsed, asleep.

Charles had won his first victory. He could go on now.

The realm of eternal torment awaited.