#red racesuit...maybe new helmet

[russellrustles]

Showbiz, Baby - Chapter 4

a/n: guess who’s finally back from her unplanned hiatus! (hint: it’s me). thank you as usual to @f1tingz for being supportive throughout the process as always.

warnings: swearing, some rather angsty angst

word count: 6k

masterlist

showbiz, baby playlist

adding some george tags as usual due to a lot of george content in this chapter.

——————————

The sweltering Hungarian heat is suffocating, your black racesuit only serving to further amplify it. Squatting down against a wall, you try to protect yourself by covering yourself with an umbrella, but the relief provided by the shade is temporary.

All the cars are already lined up on the grid in their respective positions, a slight sense of irritation filling you at the sight of your Mercedes in fourth position. That’s not to say that you have any resentment for George, who had qualified one place ahead of you, or for Max after he had snatched pole position with a rather impressive lap time. But Charles second on the grid? Charles ahead of you?

That gets under your skin.

You try not to let it show, of course. Every reporter who had asked you about the qualifying results had definitely been looking for some new material, a new morsel of drama between you and Charles that they could wring every drop of content out of for an attention-grabbing headline.

Oh, if only they knew about your recent stay in Monaco.

Maybe the press doesn’t know about it, but George certainly does. He had confronted you about your swift escape from his and Gabi’s company when you had both arrived for your media duties a few days ago, asking why you hadn’t come back to England after finding out that Pascale was alright. You had told him rather bluntly that it was none of his business. Yet, you’re still certain that he knows damn well where you had stayed, even if you hadn’t replied to his messages or calls asking where you were back when you had been at Charles’.

George isn’t angry at you in any way, shape or form - throughout all the years that you’ve known him, you can’t note a single time in which he had lost his temper directly in response to you. Instead, he just seems to be disappointed at your inability to stay away from things that do you no good, and being the cause of George’s disappointment hurts more than being at the receiving end of his fury ever could.

Despite this, he still comes over to you just before it’s time for everyone to get back in their cars. You do your little pre-race ritual, a fist bump followed by a one-armed hug and finished with a delicate bonk of the helmets. The first time the last part of the little ritual had occurred had been a pure accident, George having accidentally hit your helmeted head with his as he bent over to grab his water bottle from the ground, but for humour’s sake you had decided to keep it as a permanent feature.

Getting in the car and waiting for lights out after the formation lap doesn’t bring any rush of adrenaline with it, or at least in the traditional sense. Instead, there’s a feeling of steely composure, a hyper-focus of sorts. Hands gripping the steering wheel, you take a few deep, steady breaths as you watch the red lights appear one by one.

As soon as they’re off, you take off at a blistering pace. You focus on trying to weave between the cars in front of you, edging closer and closer to them, until you reach the first turn and suddenly overestimate your braking abilities and have to awkwardly maneuver the turn in a way that barely keeps you on the track. Squeezing the steering wheel in frustration, you throw yourself back onto the racing line just in time to avoid being overtaken.

Forcing down your disappointment at your lack of form so far this weekend, you settle on defending the positions of you and your teammate from a McLaren that’s managed to make its way through the grid and towards you. Logically speaking, George finishing ahead of you wouldn’t be the most disastrous ending possible - maybe it wouldn’t benefit you in the individual standings, but it would still boost the team’s overall points.

It takes a staggered series of pitstops across the grid and some daring overtakes to land you in the position of race leader. You try not to let the rising nerves distract you but you can’t stop yourself from repeatedly asking about the gaps behind you. The only solid answer you receive is that Max is three seconds behind you, busy fighting with Charles, and George is doing his best to defend against Carlos after the aforementioned two.

Knowing that Max and Charles are at each other’s throats rather than focusing on chasing you down at this current moment in time provides you with a bit of relief. You allow yourself to focus more on keeping your car in good condition, only occasionally peering in your mirrors to take a look at what’s behind you. You’re mainly unbothered by what you see until all of a sudden a blur of navy and red goes skidding off the track.

“Hey, uh, what was that?” you ask over the radio, now too far away to take a look at what’s ensued behind you.

A few seconds later you get a reply, “Yellow flag, Verstappen and Leclerc went off the track.”

You huff quietly, a little frustrated that only the obvious is being stated, “Yeah, alright. Did they just go wide or something?”

“They’re in the barrier.”

Well that’s certainly not what you had expected.

You mull over the matter for a moment as you’re notified of the red flag, quickly asking, “They’re both okay though, right?”

Being told that they’re both out of their cars soothes your distressed thoughts to a small degree. Maybe it’s not uncommon for there to be a yellow or red flag at some point in a race, but you know from experience that a high-speed, brutally blunt crash is no pleasant business.

Waiting for the restart is rather boring, with you sitting by your car occasionally sipping from your bottle. At one point you give a quick wave to a camera that’s pointed in your direction, and a little later George gives you a pat on the shoulder as he walks past, but other than that you remain sitting down, impatiently tapping your foot against the ground.

The pitlane only really gets interesting once Max and Charles are brought back off the track to be escorted to the medical centre. There’s a palpable tension in the air as you watch on from the sidelines, the two drivers striding through the throng of mechanics in a rather aggressive fashion and throwing glares of blame and bitterness across at each other, most likely delighting the cameramen as they scramble to capture the moment.

And yet, beneath the seething exterior that he’s putting on, you know Charles well enough to know that it’s all a facade, and he’s about to crumble from within.

You don’t allow yourself to feel pity for him, though. Empathy is perhaps acceptable, having been in his position before and knowing exactly how the defeatist emotions gnaw at you in such a situation, but pity is a step too far - it’s all part of the sport.

And, besides, you’re not the one with the responsibility to mollify him anymore.

But when a crowd of people prematurely ends their stare-off all traces of fury dissipate from his face and instead he looks up at the sky with begging eyes, as if both demanding answers from and cursing every deity in the heavens for having forced such misfortune upon him.

You force yourself to look away.

The restart leaves you with only thirteen laps to go, and thanks to George defending against Carlos a short distance behind you, your ego gets a nice boost as you cruise across the finish line in first place.

You cheer and raise your fist in the air as you drive back into the pitlane whilst screaming through the radio, “Good stuff! Great stuff! George - what a fucking legend!” Admittedly, it doesn’t bring as much satisfaction as a win that you fought for until the last lap would, but first place is first place and who are you to complain when you’re the one on the top step of the podium?

Clambering out of your Mercedes, you immediately run towards your team pressed up against the barriers. Launching yourself at them, you try and get as close to them as possible despite the metal fence separating you, borderline overwhelmed by the deafening yells and applause.

Breathing deeply, you eventually back away from your team, trying to regain your breath and calm down your heart rate as the adrenaline begins to ebb away. With shaky hands, you remove your helmet and balaclava, watching Carlos and George congratulate each other and laugh a little between themselves. You stroll over to them, water bottle in one hand and towel in the other, to give Carlos a fist bump and a “Nice job,” before turning to face George.

He pulls you in for a one-armed hug, a triumphant smile upon his face once he pulls away. “Pretty good, huh?” he says, “Bet the team’s really happy with this one.”

“God, yeah. Thank you, though - amazing defence at the end,” you respond, still a little too stunned to form a reply that’s any more detailed. He just gives you a thumbs up and squeezes your shoulder before moving off for his interview.

Your interview is last, and so you spend the least amount of time in the cool-down room. Making your way up the stairs to the podium two steps at a time, you take one final calming breath before stepping out before the crowd.

The roar of the crowd is overpowering, and you bask in the glory as you do a little jog over to the top step of the podium, waving and raising your fist in the air a few times before hopping up to your designated spot. The main part of the ceremony passes in a blur, mainly because you allow yourself to zone out throughout the majority of it. Your thoughts keep drifting away from your win and towards Max and Charles.

Or, more specifically, just Charles.

Call it favouritism, call it borderline obsession, but it’s an undeniable fact that the person at the forefront of the mind is usually the one who should have been forgotten instead.

You don’t really focus on the ceremony until everybody starts spraying the champagne, Carlos completely catching you off guard as he suddenly tries to pour it down the back of your racesuit. Gasping, you scramble around for your own bottle of champagne for self-defence.

Rather viciously, you retaliate against the other people on the podium before posing for a few photos with George, just so that all the Mercedes accounts will have something to post. Arms around each other’s shoulders, you both drink some champagne while plastered with confetti. As soon as it’s polite for you to do so, you grab your stuff and bolt from the stage, weaving your way around people and refusing to slow down in any circumstances, much to the dismay of interviewers and photographers.

The medical centre has a cold, clinical feel to it as you slip in through a side door. Feeling out of place carrying a trophy and an oversized bottle of champagne, you do your best to navigate your way through the corridors and rooms without getting in the way of any staff.

It’s Max’s room that you stumble across first, and you decide to check in on the Dutchman. His face is rather blank as he sits on the edge of a portable stretcher, helmet nowhere to be found and racesuit tied around his hips. Noticing your arrival, he gives you a small smile, and the two of you have a quick chat about how he’s feeling and the results of the race. Feeling slightly comforted by the fact that he’s alright, you wave him goodbye as you leave.

The atmosphere in Charles’ room could not be any less amicable. He too sits like Max, but instead of greeting you with a smile he just keeps an inscrutable expression on his face. For a second, you scold yourself for even thinking that coming here would be a good idea.

You find yourself to be lost for words for all the wrong reasons. His emotionless gaze seems to slowly morph into an accusatory glare as your silence prolongs, almost as if he’s saying, ”Have you come here to flaunt your successes and then leave again?”.

Maybe you’re just making things up at this point, or perhaps he isn’t thinking that at all, and is just distressed by his DNF, but you still blurt out the first thing that comes to mind in an attempt to shift the atmosphere.

“I think we need to talk about what happened back in Monaco.”

You groan internally as you realise how much worse you’ve just made the situation, and Charles confirms your thoughts by scoffing and rolling his eyes.

“If you want me to be honest, I’m not in the mood to talk about that,” he mumbles, crossing his arms but refusing to make eye contact.

“Yeah, I know, but I just needed to clear up a bit - I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done what I did. I should have just walked away then instead of doing so afterwards,” you desperately try to backpedal, anything to dispel the tension in the air.

Charles seems to consider his answer for a second before replying, “Maybe I should have had some more self-control.”

The blanket of silence returns after that, covering the room in its heavy mass until you speak up again, “Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head, only lifting his left hand a little, “My wrist hurts a bit, but I’m okay.”

Wistful, you think back to the days where you would have kissed his wrist better, prepared a bubble bath and then held him in bed afterwards, gently running your fingers through his hair in the way that you knew he loved so much. Just for a brief moment, when you finally meet his gaze again, his eyes show the same poignancy that you’re feeling. Despite this, you push the present emotions to the side with the intention of asking one final question.

“Why was it that when I first visited Pascale, she asked me if you’ve been trea-“

“There you are!” your PR manager’s voice cuts you off mid-sentence, and you whip around with a feeling of dread, as if she’s just caught you doing something illegal.

She doesn’t pay any attention to Charles as she grabs you by the shoulder, forcing you out of the room without even giving you the chance to take one last look at him. “For goodness sake, everybody’s trying to talk to you so we’ve been looking for you everywhere for the past ten minutes or so - what are you even doing here anyways?” she chews you out as she escorts you, head lowered and shoulders drooping, out, and all you reply with is a shrug.

—————

The sunset paints Budapest in a stunning array of warm orange and red hues, providing a perfect view for the three of you to admire whilst you wind down after a busy day. Walking down the hill from the Citadella certainly isn’t strenuous, and the minimal amount of other people on the path only eases the journey, but you feel exhausted despite that, and quite honestly at this moment in time you partially wish that you could be in your hotel instead.

Even though you’re enjoying your evening stroll, the drama of the day has left you drained. However, when your friends had asked you to join them on their so-called adventure, you hadn’t had the heart to refuse them

“The city looks nice from here,” Lewis says, voicing your own thoughts as he does a small jog to catch up with you way in front, and just a few seconds later you hear George loping over too, never far behind.

George is oddly quiet tonight, having mostly kept to himself since you had bolted from the podium earlier, but Lewis has no difficulties filling this new silence. He eagerly asks questions about the car and tracks, occasionally offering a tip here and there or inquiring further into the matter. In return, you ask him about what he’s been getting up to in his spare time and check in on how Roscoe’s been doing.

Eventually the conversation drifts back towards the weekend, and Lewis asks, “What have you been up to in Budapest, then?”

You’re just about to recommend a restaurant that you visited last night when George cuts in: “Why don’t you ask her what she’s been doing in Monaco instead?”

Slowing down a little, you turn to face him with a clear look of disdain. “We’ve already talked about this, there’s no need to bring it up again,” you tell him sternly, wanting to nip his attitude in the bud before it develops into something worse.

“Well, quite frankly, the last time we talked about it you didn’t give me much of a reply,” he snaps back. You don’t give him any reaction, rather unwilling to converse with him anymore. Seeing your lack of response, he signs loudly and adds, “Can we please just have a calm discussion about this? I definitely started this off badly, but I just want to know what’s going on.”

You look over at Lewis and he just shrugs, not picking a side to defend. Maybe he wants to be in on the gossip as well.

“So, obviously I was making sure that Pascale was feeling better, and then I ended up unexpectedly prolonging the trip a little,” you explain, but don’t elaborate much further. Kicking a few pebbles on the path serves as an attempt to distract yourself from the conversation.

“And during this little prolonged trip, you just so happened to stay at your ex’s apartment?” Hearing George use that term to refer to Charles stings a little, especially as he’s hit the nail on the head in regards to the Monaco situation with terrifying precision. On your other side, Lewis gives a low ‘oh damn’ sort of whistle.

You try to justify your actions, suddenly realising how bizarre it all seems from an outside perspective, “Look, I really needed to keep an eye on Pascale for a few days, and this was easier than booking a hotel somewhere on the other side of Monaco.”

George just raises an eyebrow, pressing you to continue.

“Nothing even happened - honest! I literally slept on the living room sofa!” At this point, you’re not sure if making up half-lies gives your attempts at self-defence any more credibility.

“I just don’t get why you keep running back to him,” he mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets and chuckling half-heartedly as he sees you rolling your eyes.

“I’m not looking to grant him any forgiveness. The only thing I want from him now is an explanation as to why Pascale didn’t know anything about the situation, and then I’m done with him.” Your voice cracks a little at the end, but you do your best to cover it with a cough.

It takes you a second to notice that both Lewis and George have stopped walking, and you turn around to see them softly discussing something behind you. Lewis is the first to speak up.

“What do you mean? What is it that Pascale didn’t know?” he asks, and your heart drops with dread as you realise that the easiest option out of this is to explain even more of your Monaco visit. It’s a sickening feeling, one that’s clawing its way up from the depths of your body and towards your mouth, weighing your tongue down and making it difficult to speak.

George and Lewis both look at you expectantly as you fail to put your muddled thoughts into words. Finally, after a few stutters and restarted sentences, you manage to spit something out, “I don’t think she knows about what happened with…” you trail off, unable to force yourself to recount the event, “you know what.”

Revealing this new aspect of the already-convoluted situation seems to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

“The fuck do you mean, Pascale doesn’t know? He didn’t tell his own mother?” George exclaims, returning to his previous ire.

Holding your hands out placatingly, you try to defuse the situation, “Look, I don’t know what’s going on either. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the truth while she wasn’t feeling well.”

Lewis watches on wide-eyed, occasionally opening his mouth as if to contribute, but never actually saying anything.

“I just want to find out why he did that - that’s all I want from him now, like I said earlier,” you continue, deciding that now is the time to start walking down the hill again, just to have something to focus on other than the discussion at hand.

The other two are quick to hurry to catch up with you, but one is very obviously calmer than the other.

“This is exactly your problem: you keep running back to him with a new excuse every time. If I told Gabi all this she’d go crazy,” George scolds you, and you respond with a scoff.

“Gabi doesn’t know specifically because of that - once I get an answer from Charles, then I’ll talk to Gabi.” Gabi, ever so loyal, has already stood by your side throughout all of the events that had occurred in the last few weeks, and the last thing you want to do now is stress the poor girl out any more.

“Lewis, please talk some fucking sense into her!” George groans.

“Hey, man, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea for her to find out.”

The sudden silence from George is almost comical. Eyebrows furrowed, mouth slightly open and hands held out, palms up, in an expression of accusatory questioning and betrayal.

“Right, fine, that’s two against one,” he concedes with a sigh, “go and see what’s going on with this whole ‘mother doesn’t know’ mess.”

You and Lewis both laugh, triumphantly high-fiving each other.

“I’ll help if you need help, and we’ll tell Gabi about all this as soon as we know more,” he says in a serious, no-nonsense tone, “in return, you promise that you’ll stop acting like you suffer from separation anxiety in relation to your ex. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, we do, Mister Russell.”

—————

The warm light from the chandeliers high above illuminates your dress flawlessly, making the silver fabric - a clear reference to the Silver Arrows - glimmer as you sway around the lavish hall. Filled with sponsors, senior team members and the sons and daughters of the filthy rich, the venue provides you with the perfect opportunity to fade away into the background, hidden in the shadows of the more influential, more powerful people around you.

From what you’ve heard, every team has been invited, and from what you can see, the majority of them have turned up. The owner of some Budapest-based company - not that you care enough to find out more details than that - is the one organising all this, and you’re more than happy to attend just for the entertainment and free food.

However, between you, George, and Lewis is the knowledge that there are some ulterior motives related to your appearances here tonight.

Sitting across the room from the three of you is the man himself, donning a Giorgio Armani suit and a radiant smile.

It doesn’t take him long to register your deep stare, and soon enough he turns his head slightly and makes eye contact with you - the previously called star-crossed lovers now separated by not only the cosmos, but also by the hostilities between them.

You’re the first to wave the white flag and excuse yourself from the stare-off, telling George and Lewis some random excuse about going to grab a drink whilst hurriedly leaving, suddenly feeling a visceral need to put more distance between you and Charles.

You tell yourself that there’s no need to make a move yet, that the night is young and everybody will be staying here until the sun comes up. Yet, despite this, you cannot help but feel as if you’re haunted by some metaphorical clock, ticking menacingly as time slips away from you. Deep within, you know that the more you put off the confrontation, the worse it’ll be once it finally occurs.

However, you end up shoving those thoughts to the very back of your mind, amongst the other dusty and tattered memories and events that you wish to forget, and force yourself to enjoy the party.

Working your way throughout the grand hall with some random fizzy drink in your hand, you occasionally stop to make small talk with some sponsors that you’ve seen once or twice before. Soon enough you bump into Lewis who’s chatting with some Mercedes team members, and he’s quick to politely end his conversation and come over to you.

“Have you spoken to him yet?” he asks in a hushed, urgent tone, as if you are currently in the process of performing a clandestine, top-secret mission.

You shake your head and take another sip of the fizzy drink. “I’ve kind of been trying to avoid him, if you want me to be honest,” you admit.

He gives you a glare of mock disapproval and looks around the room, concentrating hard as he searches for someone. Rather quickly, he gives up and turns back to you, “You know, if George was here I’d tell him to tell you to hurry up, but he wandered off with some guys from Williams a while ago.”

You laugh half-heartedly at that, trying to mask that you too are disappointed in your lack of initiative. Just as you’re about to craft some snark reply, you’re jolted forward as someone knocks you from behind.

“Sorry! Sorry!” you hear an all too familiar voice apologising as he presumably struggles to get through the crowd of people. You freeze in a moment of realisation, and Lewis looks a little shocked too, before you shove your drink into his hand.

It’s now or never.

Turning around, you place your hand between the shoulders of the man who’s just bumped into you, firmly pressing him to go where you guide him.

“Just keep walking, Charles,” you whisper, and he offers no resistance as the two of you start heading away from the crowd, down a wide corridor, and eventually once you find some random empty room, you usher him in and slam the door shut behind you.

He immediately sits himself down on an ugly green sofa, one of those furniture pieces that’s meant to be a status symbol but just looks plain distasteful instead. He’s got a smirk on his face, and a mischievous glint in his eye.

“You know, you could have just said if you had wanted to-“

“Pascale.”

One single word of yours immediately wipes the cockiness from his face, replacing it with a flash of confusion. “What has she got to do with anything?” Charles asks, “I don’t know what you’re on about.”

Your exponentially increasing level of exasperation surpasses your self-restraint abilities and you lose your patience before the conversation even properly starts, “I’m on about the fact that she didn’t know anything about us!”

It seems to take a second for him to process your sudden outburst, resulting in him just staring blankly up at you as you stride towards him sitting on the sofa. The vexation that you’re feeling is of the overwhelming kind, and you can already tell that there’ll be tears of frustration running down your face if you don’t get an answer soon.

“I…” Charles begins, but quickly trails off, breaking eye contact and looking around the room awkwardly instead, “I didn’t want to explain any details that I wasn’t sure about to her, in case I got it wrong.”

How can he possibly be unsure of any details? You’re shocked into silence purely from how absolutely baffled you are at what he’s just said. Out of everybody involved in this whole mess, wouldn’t he be the one who’d be able to recount it most accurately?

“How can you be unsure of any details?” you ask faintly, all of your previous ire having been beaten out of you by his one simple response.

“Because I don’t remember it.”

You laugh. You absolutely guffaw, most likely loud enough for anybody walking past the room to hear. It’s not like you can help it - no other reaction can encompass the sheer emotional cocktail that you’re being served right now. It only takes a second or two for your awkward laughter to cease, but Charles doesn’t speak even once you’re quiet again.

“Right, we need to sort this out - at what point during the night did it all cut off?” you say sternly, needing to get to the bottom of this.

He just looks up at you helplessly, tears gathering in his eyes, as he admits, “I don’t even remember her kissing me. I just drank too much and woke up on the sofa in Lucas’ room feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. Then I checked my phone, saw all your calls and messages, and those articles…”

The room is inundated by the silence between you for a short while before you bluntly respond, “I can’t fucking believe this.”

“What do you mean?” he whispers, before adding, “I’m sorry.”

You wipe your damp cheeks before mumbling, “I can’t believe that we’re going through some of the most difficult weeks I can remember, and you don’t even know if the thing causing all of it actually happened.”

He stands up now, grabbing you by the wrists, and you take a half-step back to put some space between you as he begins rambling, “Please, we can try sorting this out, we can find a way to make the media get over it without telling them too much. If we just try doing it together for once instead of constantly being at each other’s throats-“

“Charles, even if you didn’t fuck some random girl, you still kissed her.”

Another moment of tense silence.

“I can’t possibly fathom why you didn’t tell me this earlier,” you sigh, utterly lost in all the twists and turns of this convoluted nightmare.

“God, I don’t know - I was confused, scared, upset. I had no idea what I had done or hadn’t done, I couldn’t think straight,” he blurts out, clinging onto you tighter as if trying to ground himself in this moment of emotional turmoil.

Shaking your head, you move your wrists out of his grasp and turn to leave the room, “I need to process this.”

Charles’ heavy, urgent footsteps follow you across the room, his voice rising in volume as he too loses any last remnants of self-restraint, “You need to come back here and we can sit down like grown adults and discuss what we’ll do.”

Ignoring him doesn’t stop him - if anything, it only irritates him.

“You can’t keep running from all your problems! Maybe if we talked about this properly for once then we’d be able to get to the bottom of it!” he rants, yet you still don’t pay any attention to him, the world around you spinning as you try to organise your thoughts.

The raucous noise emanating from the main hall sounds muffled as you shove open the door from the room and stumble into the hallway. You break into a brisk jogging pace - the most that you can manage whilst intermittently half-tripping over your own dress - desperate to put all your problems behind you, even if only temporarily.

Nobody seems to notice your dramatic entrance into the main hall. Everybody is far too busy trying to suck up to their higher-ups or taking advantage of the endless supply of food and drinks. You take this as an opportunity to make your getaway, skirting along the edge of the room as you try to reach the exit of the building.

A hand firmly grasps your shoulder.

That’s it. You’re done for. Charles must have somehow managed to catch up to you, and now the entire gathering of people will witness the two of you bickering. You finally capitulate, shoulders drooping and head lowered as he turns you around.

“Charles, please, not in front of everyone,”

“Charles?”

The unexpected voice catches you off guard, and you look up to see George with a quizzical frown on his face.

“Did you talk to him? What happened?” George questions you, his other hand coming to grip your other shoulder as he tries to support you, still swaying from how dizzy and nauseous you feel.

“God, he doesn’t even fucking remember!” you blurt out, your attention shifting from George and to your surroundings as you try to work out if Charles is still trying to catch up to you. Instead of spotting Charles, however, you notice that Lewis is weaving through the crowd, heading towards the two of you.

George’s frown immediately transforms from one of confusion to a clear expression of concern, “He doesn’t remember what?”

It’s in that very moment that Charles appears, rushing out from the corridor and into the main hall, rapidly turning around a few times, most likely in an attempt to locate you.

“Fuck, fuck,” you mumble, twisting out of George’s grip and breaking back into a run before Lewis even arrives, completely disregarding George’s protest of, “Hey! Where are you going?”

“Sorry,” and, “Excuse me,” fall from your lips meaninglessly as you shove through the people in your way. The ludicrously oversized wooden doors marking the exit to the building loom over you as you near them, and you grab some outdated magazine from a small decorative table by the wall as you get closer to your destination.

You’re fully aware of the fact that there’s going to be countless reporters and paparazzi photographers outside the building, frothing at the mouth and drooling as they wait for the opportunity to snap up a celebrity or well-off individual. But, after all the damage that they’ve already done, you can’t imagine them possibly exacerbating the situation any further.

Pushing open the door just far enough to slip out of the building, you lift the magazine in a feeble attempt to shield your face. Cries of your name and bright flashes fill the night air as people try to grab your attention, but you refuse to either stop or to look at them as you scramble down the stairs and down the street.

A sudden rise in volume and even more frequent clicks of cameras leads you to presume that Charles has also just made a dramatic exit from the building.

Great, what a way to stir shit even further.

You can’t possibly look back now. Continuing to speedwalk down the street, you don’t even lower the magazine from your face until you’ve hailed a cab and clambered in, firmly shutting the door behind you.

The first thing you do after asking the driver to take you to your hotel is call Gabi.

“Goddamn, I’m trying to sleep,” she grumbles, her voice croaky.

You let out a small, amused huff, “Well, you’re going to have to help me out.”

There’s a few seconds of silence from Gabi on the other side of the call, before she quietly says, “Go on?” in a tone laced with hesitation.

“I need to get in touch with either Lucas or Amelie.”

Just saying her name makes you feel a visceral ache deep in your stomach.

“Why the hell would you want to talk to either of them?” she yells from across the phone, evidently no longer sleepy.

You consider explaining the last few days from start to finish, filling her in on the details and answering any questions that she may have. But, acknowledging the urgency of the situation, you settle on a blunt answer instead.

“Me and Charles have something that we need to get to the bottom of.”

——————————

a/n: once again, apologies for the wait. please do correct any errors that i may have made in my writing and haven’t fixed.

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