#@ ferrari

[janebroe]

Garfield hates Mondays because it means the Grand Prix weekend is over

[theonottsbxtch]

WAR IS OVER | CL16

an: this has been in my drafts for so long and i’ve been so excited to share it with all of you! listen to happy xmas by john lennon to enhance experience or whatever. MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!! (if you don’t celebrate, then happy holidays and happy new year!) also this is low-key slightly angsty and emotional but HEA!!

airforce!charles x reader

wc: 2.8k

Snowfall had begun in earnest that December, blanketing the village in a hush so profound it felt as though the world itself were holding its breath. The young woman stood at the kitchen sink, hands submerged in icy dishwater, staring absently out the frost-etched window. The sky was a pale grey, a curtain of wintry gloom stretched thin over rooftops where chimneys smoked and whispered of warmth.

She glanced down at her hands, red from the cold despite the scarf wrapped snug around her wrists, and sighed. Dorothy and Julian were in the parlour, their laughter spilling into the house like sunlight. Dorothy had spent the morning cutting paper chains while Julian orchestrated a kingdom of tin soldiers on the hearth. Their joy pierced her heart like shards of glass—a reminder of Charles. Julian’s unruly hair fell into his eyes just the way his father’s had, and Dorothy’s cheeky smile carried the same tilt of mischief.

The letter was still hidden in her dresser drawer, folded too neatly for something so devastating. It had arrived in the brittle chill of early November, its official tone draining all warmth from the room as she read the curt words: "Presumed missing, believed dead." Protocol, they’d called it. A mechanism for closing doors, for stitching the torn fabric of lives left behind. But the wound in her heart remained unsewn.

The children didn’t know. How could they? She had tucked the grief away, smothering it beneath cheerfulness she didn’t feel. “Mummy, can we have plum pudding this year?” Dorothy had asked, her face aglow with anticipation. She had forced a smile then, nodding and promising, though the thought of Christmas without Charles’s deep laugh, his steady presence, seemed unbearable.

As the evening descended, the village grew quiet save for the occasional crunch of boots on snow as neighbours hurried home. The lights on the tree—a scraggly thing Julian had insisted was perfect when they’d brought it in—glimmered faintly, their glow reflected in the baubles Charles had hung last year. She turned away, blinking back tears, and began laying the table for supper.

That night, as she tucked Dorothy and Julian into bed, their excitement was infectious. “Father Christmas is coming soon!” Julian declared, his small fists clutching the quilt.

“He won’t forget our house, will he?” Dorothy asked, her voice serious.

“Of course not,” she replied, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest. She kissed their foreheads, inhaling their innocent warmth, and closed the door quietly behind her.

In the stillness of her bedroom, she unfolded the letter once more. The inked words blurred as she stared at them. It was easier, somehow, to believe that the man who had written her so many tender notes, who had kissed her hand on their wedding day, was merely gone for now. Lost but not beyond reach. Yet the shadows of doubt loomed larger with each passing day.

She had told no one. Not her neighbours, whose own husbands and sons littered foreign graves. Not her children, who still whispered prayers for their father each night. She carried it silently, a solitary burden she could neither lay down nor bear much longer.

Outside, the bells of St. Mary’s chimed the hour, each peal a cruel reminder of time’s unyielding march towards Christmas. A Christmas that loomed hollow and bereft. She pressed her forehead to the cold glass, her breath misting the windowpane. Beyond, the world glittered as if untouched by sorrow, as if unaware of her breaking heart.

Christmas morning arrived with the world awash in golden light, the snow outside sparkling like diamonds. Dorothy and Julian burst into her room, their faces alight with the boundless excitement of the day.

“Mum! It’s Christmas!” Julian shouted, already tugging her from her bed.

Dorothy held a small package, wrapped in newspaper and tied with string. “This one’s for you! We saved it, just for today.”

The sight of their shining faces filled her with guilt and gratitude in equal measure. She managed a smile, sitting with them by the hearth as they tore into their small pile of gifts. Wooden soldiers for Julian, a tin tea set for Dorothy—modest treasures in a time of rationing, but enough to spark joy in her children.

As they played, a commotion erupted outside. Shouts echoed down the cobbled street, punctuated by the sharp clang of a handbell.

“The war is over! It’s over!”

She froze, the words piercing through her like sunlight breaking a storm. From her seat on the rug, Dorothy gasped. “Mummy, does that mean Daddy’s coming home?”

She couldn’t speak, the question lodging like a thorn in her throat. All she could do was pull them close, and smile.

“Let’s go outside and celebrate!” She replied instead, walking over to the coat hangers.

She bundled the children into their coats and scarves, their squeals of excitement filling the small house. Dorothy’s cheeks were already pink with joy, her hands fumbling with her mittens.

“Mummy, hurry!” Julian urged, hopping from foot to foot. “We have to go see!”

She forced a smile and kissed the top of his head. “Go on, both of you. I’ll be just a moment.”

The children dashed out into the snow, their laughter spilling down the lane to join the jubilant cries of the neighbours. She closed the door softly behind them, the house falling quiet once more.

Leaning against the door, she drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her face, the tears spilling unchecked now that no one was there to see. The news should have been a balm, but it felt more like a cruel twist. The war was over, but Charles would not be coming back with the others. She was sure of it now, the hope that had lingered for so long finally extinguished.

The house felt cavernous again, the weight of her solitude pressing down on her chest. She moved into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking underfoot. The sight of the breakfast dishes—half-eaten toast and crumbs left behind in the morning’s rush—only deepened her ache.

She braced herself against the sink, staring out at the frost-covered garden. Her shoulders shook, the sobs spilling out of her like waves breaking against a crumbling shore. She had carried this grief alone for so long, but now it threatened to consume her entirely.

“Mummy?”

The soft voice startled her, and she turned to find Dorothy standing in the doorway, her small face pinched with concern.

“Why are you crying?” Dorothy asked, stepping forward with cautious, measured steps.

“I’m not, darling,” she lied, hastily dabbing at her cheeks.

“You are,” Dorothy said plainly, slipping her hand into her mother’s. “But you don’t have to. The war’s over, and Daddy would want us to be happy. You should come outside. Everyone’s singing.”

The simplicity of her daughter’s words cut straight through her. She knelt, wrapping Dorothy in a fierce hug, the warmth of her small body grounding her.

“All right, love,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Let’s go and celebrate.”

Dorothy smiled and tugged her hand, leading her to the door.

The street was alive with celebration. Neighbours who had spent years steeped in quiet, rationed hardship now spilled into the snow-covered road, their faces alight with relief and joy. Someone had hauled a wireless outside, the strains of carols mingling with the jubilant cheers. A man passed with a tray of mince pies, offering one to Julian, who accepted with sticky-fingered glee.

Dorothy twirled in circles, her arms outstretched as snowflakes caught in her hair. Her mother stood at the edge of the crowd, watching her children with a tender ache. For their sake, she tried to let herself feel the joy that surrounded her, to bask in the miracle of peace.

“Mummy, look!” Julian called, pointing to a group of men raising a toast with tin mugs. “Maybe Daddy’s with them!”

Her breath caught. She scanned the crowd reflexively, knowing in her heart she wouldn’t find him there. Yet she let Julian cling to the hope she couldn’t bear to shatter.

As the afternoon waned, she gathered her children, their cheeks red from the cold, their hands clutching treasures gifted by neighbours—sweets, a small wooden horse for Julian, a knitted scarf for Dorothy.

Inside, the warmth of the house embraced them, the fire crackling merrily in the grate. She shepherded them upstairs, brushing away their protestations.

“Christmas isn’t over, Mummy,” Dorothy said, yawning despite herself.

“No, it isn’t,” she said with a small smile, tucking her daughter in snugly. “There’s still tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after that.”

She kissed their foreheads, lingering just a moment longer to drink in their innocence. How had they carried on, so untouched by the weight that threatened to crush her? She envied them their resilience, their belief that the world could be made whole again.

Once they were asleep, she descended the stairs, the house eerily quiet once more. The fire in the hearth glowed faintly, its light casting long shadows across the room. She settled into her worn chair, pulling a shawl around her shoulders, her hands curled around a steaming mug.

The world outside had stilled. The street celebrations had quieted, the snow falling again in soft, measured drifts. Her thoughts wandered to Charles, as they always did when the house was silent. She tried to picture his face as it had been the last time she saw him, standing tall in his uniform, a brave smile hiding the fear she knew he felt.

A sharp knock broke through her reverie. She startled, her mug slipping from her hands and clattering to the floor. For a moment, she sat frozen, her heart racing. Who could be calling at this hour?

She rose slowly, her legs trembling as she crossed the room. The cold air seeped in as she opened the door, her breath catching in her throat.

There he stood, framed by the golden glow of the streetlamp behind him. His uniform was tattered, his face pale with exhaustion, but it was him—Charles.

“Hello, love,” he said softly, his voice hoarse but warm, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Her hand flew to her mouth, a sob escaping her lips as the weight of the months, the grief and fear, melted away all at once. “I thought you were dead,” she choked, her words barely a whisper.

He stepped forward, his arms wrapping around her tightly, solid and real. She clung to him, her tears soaking into his coat as he murmured soothing words, his voice trembling with emotion.

For the first time in what felt like forever, her heart felt whole.

For a long moment, she couldn’t let go of him. Her hands clung to his coat as if he might vanish if she dared loosen her grip. The snowflakes clinging to his hair melted into beads of water, and his warmth seeped into her, chasing away the cold that had lived in her heart for months.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered again, her voice trembling.

“I nearly was,” he admitted, his voice low, hoarse with emotion and exhaustion. He pulled back slightly to look at her, his hand lifting to brush away her tears. His touch was tender, his fingers lingering as though trying to memorise her face. “There’s so much to tell you, love. The mission went wrong… we were shot down. Most of us didn’t make it. I was captured—held prisoner for weeks.”

She gasped softly, her heart breaking anew at the thought of what he must have endured. “Oh, Charles…”

“It’s over now,” he said, his voice steadying as he cupped her face in his hands. “I escaped when the retreat began. It was a long road back, but I’m here. I’m back. And I’m not going anywhere again. Ever.”

The tears came fresh, her relief pouring out in sobs that wracked her entire frame. He pulled her close, his arms encircling her as he held her tightly, anchoring her in the moment.

When she looked up at him again, he smiled, the lines of weariness softening into something infinitely gentle. She reached up, her hand trembling as she touched his cheek, then leaned in, her lips brushing his. The kiss was slow, delicate, and filled with everything she couldn’t put into words—her anguish, her longing, her love.

When they finally broke apart, his forehead rested against hers, and he let out a soft, shaky breath.

“The kids?” he asked, his voice hushed, as though afraid to disturb the peace of the moment.

She smiled through her tears, taking his hand. “Come on,” she whispered, leading him up the stairs.

The house was quiet save for the creak of the floorboards beneath their feet. She paused at the children’s door, easing it open with care. The soft glow of the moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating Dorothy and Julian as they slept soundly, their faces peaceful.

Charles stepped into the room, his hand still in hers. He knelt by Julian’s bed first, his expression softening as he took in the sight of his son. His fingers brushed the boy’s dark hair, and his throat worked as though he were fighting back tears.

Then he moved to Dorothy, his gaze lingering on her delicate features. She stirred slightly in her sleep, murmuring something incoherent before settling again.

“They’ve grown,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“They have,” she said, her own voice trembling. “They look so much like you.”

He glanced back at her, his eyes shining, and then turned to gaze at them again. “I can’t believe I almost missed this. Missed them.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, the two of them standing together in silence for a long moment, watching their children sleep. It was a moment she thought she’d never have again—a moment that felt too precious to disturb, too fragile to let go.

When they finally left the room, closing the door quietly behind them, he pulled her into his arms once more. “I’m back,” he murmured against her hair. “Back for good. We’re whole again, love. Whole.”

The quiet of the house enveloped them as she led him to their room. The door creaked softly as she pushed it open, revealing the familiar space that had so often been her refuge—and her prison—in his absence. The room felt warmer with him in it, the shadows less oppressive, the air lighter.

Charles stood just inside the doorway, his weary eyes scanning the room, as if grounding himself in the life he had fought so hard to return to. She turned to him, her fingers trembling as they moved to the buttons of his tattered coat.

“Let me,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his gaze fixed on her face as she worked the buttons loose, one by one. The coat slipped from his shoulders, heavy with the weight of everything he’d been through. She caught it before it hit the floor, draping it carefully over a chair. When she looked up again, she saw his shirt beneath, threadbare and stained, a testament to all he hadn’t told her yet.

Her breath hitched, and she reached out to touch him—his chest, solid and warm beneath the worn fabric. Her tears came again, spilling silently as she rested her forehead against him.

“War is over, Cha,” she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. “It’s over.”

His hand came up to cup the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair as he held her close. “It’s over,” he echoed softly, his voice steady, as if speaking the words made them real.

They stood like that for a long moment, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire downstairs and the whisper of the snow against the window. She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, and in his eyes, she saw the same relief, the same raw gratitude that coursed through her.

Wordlessly, she led him to the bed, pulling back the quilt she had lain under alone for far too long. He eased down beside her, his body sinking into the mattress with a sigh of exhaustion. She followed, curling against him as he wrapped an arm around her, drawing her close.

For the first time in months, the bed didn’t feel so empty, the darkness didn’t seem so vast, and the ache in her chest was no longer unbearable. They lay in silence, the words unspoken between them carried in the warmth of his touch, the steadiness of his breathing.

As sleep began to claim them, she whispered into the stillness, “You’re home, Charles.”

And in the soft darkness, he answered, his voice a balm to her weary soul: “I’m home.”

the end.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow

[hardcoresweet]

⭐Merry Kissmax 🎄

- quote somebody

[thicksexyasswomen46]

Skrutt🌴🌴

by _shotsbytom via instagram

[formula-archive]

Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc in Monaco, 2021.

[maxz-b]

Christmas special Nummer Zwei !!! coincidentally also part 29/???

[curioussoulsliveanddie-blog]

Sweet boy

well this is what i discovered today.

[racingonpole]

My best friend who doesn’t watch F1 made me Charles Ferrari earrings!!

[p0piaz]

Drew Carlos based off the undercover vid he did with his fake piercings hehe 💙

[duckiiieluv]

forever thinking about the differences between charlos’ first podium vs last podium at ferrari

[themissingmango]

F1 2024 Charlie Brown Christmas Tree! 🎄

[gentileformula1]

[dreamer-garage]

by toronto_exotic_car_spotting via instagram

[katelovesit]

eye contact with those beautiful blue eyes?!?! YESS

[legendary-69420]

☆ Christmas in Monaco ☆ Racing Hearts Holiday Special

A/N : MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!!

Song : "Snowman - Sia"

Mark Spencer had always enjoyed spending Christmas with the Leclerc family, even if it wasn’t his own. His parents, Alessandro and Isabella, were always wrapped up in business commitments, leaving him with an unusual sense of freedom during the holidays. And so, he found himself once again on the French Riviera, tucked away in the warmth and comfort of the Leclerc family villa in Monaco. The Leclercs had long become like a second family to him.

The moment Mark entered the house, the air was filled with the sweet, comforting scent of cinnamon and freshly baked cookies. Pascale was busy in the kitchen, her gentle humming filling the space as she prepared the final touches for the family’s Christmas feast. Mark’s heart warmed at the sight of her—it was hard not to feel at home in such a welcoming place.

“Mark, dear, would you mind grabbing the chocolate chips?” Pascale asked, her hands flour-dusted as she worked on the dough.

Mark grinned, pulling a large bowl of chocolate chips from the cupboard. “I’m on it,” he said, only for a few chips to spill onto the counter as he fumbled with the bowl. He didn’t mind the mess—it was part of the fun.

Pascale chuckled softly. “You know, Mark, you’re welcome to call me Pascale. No need to be so formal.”

Mark looked over his shoulder, pretending to look serious. “Of course, Mrs. Leclerc… uh, I mean, Pascale, Ma’am.”

Pascale let out a small laugh, the kind of laugh that made anyone feel at ease. “You really do have a knack for making me smile, don’t you?”

He shrugged, still grinning. “It’s my secret weapon.”

As he continued his clumsy task, flour got everywhere—his hands, the counter, even his sweater, which was an obnoxiously festive red with snowflakes on it. It was a gift from Arthur, who had insisted it would be the perfect addition to Mark’s holiday wardrobe. Mark would never admit it aloud, but he liked it, even if it made him look a little ridiculous.

The moment he tried to scoop more chocolate chips into the bowl, he slipped on one that had rolled off the counter. The bowl went flying, spilling flour everywhere.

“Whoops!” Mark exclaimed, his voice high-pitched with embarrassment. He stood up, covered head to toe in white powder. A sneeze wracked his body, making him cough.

Pascale doubled over, her laughter ringing through the kitchen. “Oh, dear. You’ve certainly made a mess now, haven’t you?”

“I’m so sorry,” Mark mumbled, attempting to brush some of the flour from his face.

Pascale tried to regain her composure, but the sight of him looking like a snowman had her laughing even harder. “It’s alright, darling. Just be more careful, next time.”

Mark gave a sheepish grin and wiped his nose. “Not my finest moment.”

Charles, who had been lounging in the living room, glanced up from his iPad when he heard the laughter. His eyes briefly met Mark’s, and for a moment, there was something in his gaze—something that Mark couldn’t quite place. He turned his attention back to the book he was reading, but his mind wandered back to Mark.

Arthur, sitting on the couch next to his brother, raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You’ve been stuck on Chapter 34 for months now. Just admit it already,” he said, his voice low enough that only Charles could hear.

Charles stiffened and glared at his brother. “Shut up, Arthur.” He didn’t dignify the teasing with a response, but his eyes flickered back to Mark.

Mark, oblivious to the conversation happening between the brothers, made his way upstairs to change. Flour still clung to his sweater as he tried to peel it off, but the fabric stuck stubbornly to him.

“Need help?” Charles’s voice broke through the silence. He leaned against the doorframe, an amused smirk playing on his lips as he watched Mark’s struggle.

Mark groaned, trying to yank the sweater over his head but only making it worse. “I got it, don’t worry,” he muttered, stepping back and stumbling around the room, still trying to pull off the stubborn sweater. In his clumsy efforts, he knocked over a lamp, sending it crashing to the floor.

“Ow! Damn it!” Mark groaned, smacking his head against the wall as he tried to navigate around the room. “Fine, fine, help me,” he conceded.

Charles stepped closer, his smirk widening. “And what do we say?”

Mark glared at him with a mock angry expression. “Help me before I punch you in the face,” he snapped, but there was no real heat in his voice.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Nope. Try again.”

Mark huffed, leaning against the bed. “Help me before I murder you in your sleep.”

Charles’s grin grew. “Nuh-uh. Say the magic word.”

Mark crossed his arms and groaned, then muttered reluctantly, “Ugh, please?”

“Better.” Charles chuckled, stepping forward to help Mark with the sweater. As he did, he was careful to avoid touching too much of Mark’s body, but his eyes lingered slightly longer than they should have. Mark noticed the pause, but he didn’t comment on it.

Mark’s voice broke the tension as he teasingly remarked, “You’re staring, Sharles.”

Charles immediately flushed, his face turning red. “Oh, please. Like you don’t flash your abs at every opportunity.”

Mark laughed. “Fair enough.”

Downstairs, Pascale and Arthur exchanged a knowing look as they waited for the boys. The family had settled in front of the fire, the Christmas tree twinkling softly in the background, and a cozy warmth filled the room.

“So when do you think they’ll acknowledge the elephant in the room?” Pascale asked casually, though there was a playful glint in her eyes.

Arthur feigned innocence, pretending not to know exactly what she was talking about. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low enough to make it sound like he was hiding something.

Pascale’s smile widened, and she raised an eyebrow. “I’m their mother. Of course, I know what’s going on.”

Arthur choked on his water, his eyes widening. “You knew?”

“Always,” Pascale replied with a sly smile that spoke volumes. “You two may think you’re subtle, but I’ve been around long enough to know better.”

Arthur shook his head, trying to suppress a grin. “I can’t believe you’ve been keeping track of this the whole time.”

Pascale merely shrugged. “You boys are a lot easier to read than you think.”

When Mark and Charles finally returned downstairs, Mark had changed into a crisp white button-up shirt. It was a stark contrast to the casual warmth of the day, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Charles. As soon as Mark entered the room, Charles’ eyes immediately went to the undone buttons on Mark’s shirt, his chest visible underneath.

“You’ll catch a cold, idiot,” Charles muttered under his breath, stepping forward to button up the shirt for Mark. It was a small gesture, but it held so much weight. Their proximity created a bubble of tension in the room, unnoticed by everyone else. The family continued with their festive cheer, but the air between Mark and Charles had shifted. The others noticed the change, exchanging amused glances, but no one commented on it.

Just as the moment seemed to linger too long, Leo, Charles’ dog, broke the silence. The small dog bounded up to Mark, tail wagging furiously. Mark laughed and crouched down, scratching Leo behind the ears. The moment of tension dissipated as the family chuckled, the soft sound of Leo’s excited bark filling the room.

Later in the evening, the Leclerc family gathered around to decorate the Christmas tree. Mark was eager to help, his enthusiasm infectious. He insisted that Pascale place the star on top of the tree, but when she hesitated, he quickly turned to Charles.

“Come on, pick me up so I can reach the top!” Mark urged, grinning mischievously.

Charles rolled his eyes, trying to sound casual. “We have a ladder for that, you idiot.”

Mark shot him a knowing look. “I knew you’d try to be the hero,” he teased, unable to stop the laughter bubbling up.

“I’m not trying to be a hero,” Charles replied, though the playful glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.

As they decorated the tree, the festive spirit grew in the house. Everyone was laughing and teasing each other, their voices blending together in a symphony of Christmas cheer. Mark felt a sense of warmth inside him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time—like he truly belonged.

The soft chime of the doorbell echoed through the cozy warmth of the Leclerc family villa. Mark glanced around, mildly confused. He hadn't been expecting anyone—after all, the Leclercs were supposed to be his family for Christmas. Pascale, holding a tray of steaming mugs of mulled wine, smiled mysteriously. "Why don’t you get that, Mark?" she suggested, her tone so casual that it raised suspicion.

Mark squinted at her, his lips quirking into a playful smirk. “Alright, but if it’s carolers, I’m bringing them in, and you’ll have to feed them,” he teased as he strolled toward the door, his socks muffling his steps on the polished floor.

As he opened the door, his breath caught in his throat. Standing before him were Alessandro and Isabella Spencer, his parents, looking as elegant as ever yet softened by the festive warmth of the season. Alessandro’s sharp suit was offset by a wool scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, while Isabella's emerald-green coat and matching gloves seemed to shimmer against the soft glow of the villa’s Christmas lights.

“Mom? Dad?” Mark’s voice broke slightly, disbelief and joy mingling in his words.

His mother’s face lit up with a radiant smile, and she opened her arms wide. “Surprise, darling!”

Before he could process what was happening, she had pulled him into a tight hug, the familiar scent of her lavender perfume flooding his senses. His father followed, clapping a hand on Mark’s shoulder with a rare, tender grin.

“We couldn’t let you spend Christmas without us this year,” Alessandro said, his voice warm but with its usual authoritative undertone.

Mark swallowed hard, fighting the sting of unexpected tears. He hadn’t realized how much he missed them until they were standing in front of him. He pulled them both into another hug, his voice muffled against his father’s coat. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Pascale appeared in the doorway, her face glowing with satisfaction. “I thought it might be nice to have a full house this year,” she said with a knowing smile.

Mark turned to her, his grin wide and boyish. “You knew about this?”

She nodded, giving him a conspiratorial wink. “A little Christmas magic never hurt anyone.”

Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo joined them, standing slightly back as Mark introduced his parents. Isabella’s warm, maternal energy immediately won over Pascale, the two women exchanging compliments and laughing as if they were old friends. Alessandro, while more reserved, greeted Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo with a firm handshake, his sharp eyes assessing but kind.

Charles watched the scene unfold, his arms crossed over his chest. There was something in the way Mark’s face lit up—a vulnerability that wasn’t often on display. It stirred something unfamiliar in Charles, something he quickly pushed aside.

Later in the evening, with the Christmas tree glowing softly in the corner and the scent of pine and cinnamon wafting through the air, the family gathered in the living room for a game of charades. Pascale had insisted, pulling out a small basket filled with slips of paper bearing prompts ranging from festive movies to absurd actions.

Mark, ever the showman, volunteered to go first. He reached into the basket, pulling out a slip of paper and glancing at it before dramatically placing a finger to his lips.

As Mark took center stage during charades, Charles couldn’t stop watching him. It wasn’t just Mark’s dramatic antics that held his attention—it was the way his energy seemed to fill the entire room, drawing everyone in like a gravitational force.

“Okay, here we go,” he said, stepping into the center of the room.

He began by miming a large, exaggerated box, pretending to tie a bow on top. Arthur immediately shouted, “Present!”

Mark nodded enthusiastically and moved on, flapping his arms like wings before cupping his hands to his mouth and mimicking a loud “ho ho ho.”

“Santa!” Pascale guessed, clapping her hands.

The final clue had everyone stumped. Mark mimed skiing down a slope, then falling over dramatically, rolling on the floor and clutching his leg in mock agony.

“Is it a skiing accident?” Arthur guessed, his brow furrowed.

“Close!” Mark exclaimed, pointing at him and then miming a cast on his leg.

“Broken leg while skiing?”

Mark gave an exaggerated nod, and the room erupted in laughter and applause.

Charles, reluctantly pulled into the game by Pascale, took his turn. His first prompt was “snowman,” and he hesitated before stiffly miming rolling three balls of snow. His awkward movements had everyone in stitches, particularly Mark, who couldn’t stop laughing.

“You’re terrible at this, Sharles,” Mark teased between fits of laughter.

When Mark rolled on the floor, laughing so hard his cheeks turned pink, Charles found himself smiling despite his usual reluctance to indulge in such games. He told himself it was because of the ridiculousness of the scene, but deep down, he knew better.

Charles shot him a mock glare, his lips twitching into an unwilling smile. “At least I’m not rolling on the floor like a lunatic.”

Lorenzo proved to be a surprise hit, his natural confidence and charm making him an unexpectedly skilled mime. His impressions of a reindeer and a chimney sweep had everyone howling with laughter, particularly Pascale, who wiped tears from her eyes.

The game continued late into the night, the room filled with laughter and teasing banter. Even Alessandro, usually reserved, joined in, his dry humor adding a new layer of fun. By the end, everyone was sprawled across the couches, breathless from laughing so hard.

The next afternoon, a rare snowfall blanketed Monaco, turning the usually sun-drenched streets into a winter wonderland. Mark had been the first to suggest venturing outside, bundling up in a thick scarf and gloves as he dragged Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo with him.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Mark declared, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it into a perfect ball.

Arthur grinned mischievously. “You mean a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to pelt Charles with snowballs?”

Before Charles could protest, Arthur launched a snowball that hit him square in the chest.

“You’re dead,” Charles growled, grabbing his own handful of snow and hurling it back.

The fight escalated quickly. Mark, ever the instigator, joined forces with Arthur, the two of them pelting Charles relentlessly as he tried to defend himself. Lorenzo stood back at first, observing with amusement, but soon joined the fray, his competitive streak emerging as he expertly aimed snowballs at everyone.

“Cowards! Three against one isn’t fair!” Charles shouted, laughing despite himself.

Pascale and Isabella watched from the villa’s patio, sipping hot chocolate and laughing as Alessandro stood stoically beside them, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.

Mark’s competitive streak took over, and he charged at Charles, tackling him into a snowbank.

When Mark tackled him into the snowbank, Charles was caught off guard—not just by the force of it, but by the way Mark’s grin hovered so close to his own. His heart skipped a beat, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe.

They wrestled briefly, snow flying everywhere, before Charles managed to flip Mark onto his back.

“Say uncle!” Charles demanded, pinning Mark’s arms down.

“Never!” Mark shouted, squirming as Arthur lobbed another snowball at Charles.

Eventually, they all collapsed into the snow, breathless and red-faced from the cold and exertion. The laughter carried across the snowy yard, a sound so pure and joyful that even Alessandro couldn’t resist cracking a smile.

Mark lay on his back, staring up at the pale winter sky. “Best Christmas ever,” he muttered, the words soft but sincere.

Charles, lying beside him, turned his head to look at Mark. For a moment, the world seemed to still, the snow muffling all sound. “Yeah,” Charles said quietly. “It’s not bad.”

Lorenzo, noticing the sudden seriousness, lobbed another snowball at them, breaking the moment.

“Come on, you lovebirds!” he called, laughing as he ran back toward the villa.

Mark and Charles exchanged a look, both flustered, before scrambling to their feet and chasing after Lorenzo and Arthur, their laughter echoing through the snowy streets of Monaco.

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(Dividers by @junabuggy @wcnderlnds @issysh3ll )

Another Surprise is awaiting for you!!!!