synopsis: getting stuck in a ferris wheel with the prince of monaco
📍grande roue, monaco
french translations in brackets <3
Around Christmastime, a little village popped up in Monaco. Otherwise known as the Village de Noel, it was a bustling place at the best of times, lit up brightly even in the winter pitch-darkness by strings upon strings of fairy lights.
The most famous attraction? Grande Roue—a huge, decorated Ferris wheel that soared high above all of the squat little stores and attractions.
It didn’t snow here, but it was still chilly, you thought. The pleasantly scratchy scarf swaddled around your neck provided just enough warmth so your ears didn’t get too cold.
This year, just like every other, you stood in line for the Roue. The queue stretched across the street, full of families and children—seeing the rosy-cheeked kids and their smitten parents made the warmth in your belly curdle with envy.
As you finally stood in front of an emptying carriage, you saw the ride’s marshal pointing to you, seemingly asking the man that had been behind you in the line if he could join you—to make space for the families further down the queue.
The man shrugged, curious sea-green eyes drifting over to you as he stepped over.
‘Bon giurnu,’ he smiled, and you couldn’t help but notice his deep dimples, peeking out from the high collar of his windbreaker.
You nodded, tapping your fingers on the railing between you and the Ferris wheel’s carriage. The gate started to open and you jumped, drawing your hand back hastily.
The man laughed, and you huffed, crossing your arms and stepping into the little egg-shaped cabin.
He followed, ducking his head and sitting down opposite you.
This is awkward, you thought. His eyes kept flicking toward you, and it didn’t help that they kept shifting from blue to green in the carriage’s mood lighting.
You coughed politely, staring out the window behind him at the Monaco skyline.
‘Quel est ton nom?’ the man finally broke the silence as the wheel started to turn. [what’s your name?]
‘Er…’ you gave it, raising your brow. ‘Et le vôtre?’ [and yours?]
‘Charles,’ his dimple-cheeked smile was back. ‘Charles Leclerc.’
Now you had heard his name, he seemed familiar. Perhaps he was an actor? A football player?
‘Êtes-vous célèbre?’ you asked bluntly, studying him. He laughed. [are you famous?]
‘Un peu.’ [a little].
‘Comment?’
Charles shrugged, little inside-joke smile still intact. ‘Ma beauté.’ [my good looks].
‘Vous êtes donc acteur?’ you tilted your head. ‘Quel film?’ [so you are an actor? what movie?]
‘Non, non,’ he made a dismissive gesture. ‘Je suis pilote de Formule 1.’
You froze. ‘Formule 1?’
That was a lot more impressive than being in a movie, you thought—Monaco’s most famous sport, raced through the streets every year, attracting thousands of tourists and locals alike.
‘Quoi—’
‘Ferrari,’ he leaned forward.
‘Wow,’ you managed, his new proximity stealing the breath from your lungs.
‘Vous devez avoir des femmes qui défoncent votre porte.’ you blurted out, struggling to tear your eyes away from his. Maybe it was that lazy, effortless beauty he possessed, or perhaps those eyes that you could just tell had broken hearts in the past—all of a sudden, the air in the carriage became very thin as you dangled just under a hundred feet above the Villiage de Noel.
You didn’t even notice you’d stopped moving for a good few seconds, what with Charles practically sucking out your soul with his eyes, so when you did realise, your stomach dropped all the way back to the boarding deck.
‘Er…’
Charles’ eyes slid over to the window, and he swore softly.
‘That’s not good,’ he declared in heavily-accented English. ‘What ‘appened?’
You stood up, gazing out of the glass door panels.. ‘Il n'y a pas de lumière.’ [there are no lights]. ‘Problème électrique?’
‘Juste notre chance.’ [just our luck.]
‘Que voulez-vous dire par “nous”?’ [what do you mean by “us”?] you raised one eyebrow.
‘Nous sommes companges, non?’ his lip curved up and your brow crept a little higher. If you took it literally, “companges” simply meant “companions”. However, it was also a common word to describe committed lovers.
‘Ici seul.’ [here alone].
That sent shivers down your spine. It clearly didn’t affect Charles, however—he sat with his legs parted, leaning back against the cool glass carriage wall. You stood, slightly hunched because of the cramped space, staring at him.
He stared right back.
‘Seul.’ you repeated, your scarf suddenly feeling suffocatingly tight—despite it barely being draped over your shoulders.
Charles didn’t bother replying to that, simply patting the space on the bench seat next to him. As if dragged by an invisible force, you agreed; he was just too alluring.
‘Vous n'êtes pas accompagné?’ he asked, a hand hovering just behind your waist. [you’re here alone?]
‘Comme chaque année.’ you sighed, tilting your head back to look at him fully. The man’s dimples made their reappearance as you did. [like every year].
‘Je pense que nous pouvons arranger ça.’ [we can fix that, I think].
‘Tu vas m'emmener à un Grand Prix ou un truc du genre? Pour me montrer aux autres?’ you laughed, facing him in your seat. [what, you gonna take me to a Grand Prix? show me off?]
‘C’est tenant,’ Charles’ hand traced up your side, reaching about halfway up your ribcage when it stopped. [that’s tempting.]
‘Oh,’ he smiled. ‘We are moving.’
And indeed, the wheel was turning again. You sighed, trying not to sound too disappointed, and Charles Leclerc’s grin widened.
‘Alors, avez-vous des projets après cela?’
That made all traces of disheartenment leave your face.
[so, do you have any plans after this?]
