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━ 𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟵 ━ 𝗖𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗔𝗚𝗢, 𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗢𝗜𝗦
━
The light bulbs lining the dressing room mirror buzz irritatingly as the blond grates his teeth trying to ignore it, trying to ground himself with something, anything.
The day had been overwhelmingly hectic, and Beau's emotions raged like a tornado inside him, his heart jackhammering against his chest as rage burned and twisted like a hot knife in the pit of his stomach.
Cheating. Fucking cheating. Cheating on him with goddamn fucking Whiplash.
He makes himself take another deep breath as his hand squeezes into a fist at just the thought, flashes of screenshotted messages, of a video of blurry figures in a dark room, barely recognizable, though Beau knew those voices, recognized Katherine's moans.
Ten goddamn years down the drain over some screenshots and a grainy poorly filmed sex tape. Fucking pitiful, isn't it?
He hasn't confronted her on it yet, hell Reese had only shown him the video and the texts that morning and this day has been so slammed packed that he's barely had time to process any of it, let alone 'talk it out' with Dayton and Kathrine.
He is dreading that part the most of all, quite honestly. He doesn't want to hear her excuses, doesn't want to hear what he dreads worst she is going to say. That it had all been nothing more than PR the whole time, that he had never meant anything more to her. That none of it was real.
His insides twist and recoil at the thought alone, painful sadness pushing out some of the hot anger that had been boiling inside him as he reminds himself of his deep breaths and tries to keep from crying. He is expected on stage any minute now, he can't welcome a new member into V-Force like this.
So he does what he always does, falls back into his "known patterns" as one of the Vought therapists Stan Edgar or his parents had forced him to visit put it.
He ignores the scolding he will likely get for this some time tomorrow as he slides the small plastic bag from his pocket, opening it halfway as he lets some of the fine white powder inside pour out onto the countertop of the vanity.
He slides his card from his wallet next, expertly maneuvering the powder into two thin white lines. It burns the inside of his nostrils as his inhales it, sniffling slightly when he is done as he sits back for a moment, running the back of his hand under his nose as he watches his eyes slowly dilate in the mirror and lets that familiar funny feeling take over his body.
