It was the night before graduation, and Beca was slightly tipsy. To celebrate the end of an era, they'd made cocktails, told stories and drank way too much Boone's Farm, reminiscing. But then Fat Amy had started crying and getting way too emotional for Beca, so she had called it a night.
Only it was nearly three a.m, and Beca was still wandering around in the dark, wondering how three years in the Bellas house had gone so fast. It seemed like just yesterday surly nineteen year old Beca was taking the keys from the dean, while Fat Amy unloaded the trunk full of alcohol into the car.
She'd started off in the bedroom that she and Fat Amy had shared, listening to the heavy snores from the bed beside hers, thinking. Her brain was a little fuzzy, but it always had been.
But the one thought her tipsy, fuzzy brain kept coming back to was "what if the walls could talk".
If the walls of the Bellas house could talk, they would have so many stories to share (some inappropriate and some very definitely illegal). Every room was full of memories. They'd been in that house for the best part of three years, and that was a very long time.
If the walls of Beca and Fat Amy's room could talk, they'd tell you of all the nights Beca had sat up working on her music, Fat Amy's snores as her backing track, and all the nights that the Aussie had snuck in after curfew ("what, a girl can't go out for a smoothie and return fourteen hours later?" "please stop, I don't wanna know"). They would speak of their hushed conversations in the dark, all the moments that they were privy to and the other Bellas weren't. They'd tell you of the many times Fat Amy had barged in while Beca was getting dressed, causing the smaller Bella to shriek, and, on more than one occasion, trip over her feet in the hurry to get out of the way of the opening door (they would also tell you of the time, early on in their life as roommates, when Beca wasn't quick enough to move out of the way of the opening door, and wound up in the hospital with a concussion. "My bad, Shawshank").
They would tell you of all the times Fat Amy had confided in Beca, calling her her closest friend in the States ("you know, with teeth") and all the times Fat Amy had willingly shared some of her confidence ("I don't want your butt confidence! I don't want your butt confidence!"). A lot of things had gone down in Beca and Fat Amy's bedroom, and Beca would happily sit there and listen to all of the stories.
Beca padded barefoot down the stairs, very differently to the usual clunk of her boots ("Beca's awake") remembering all the nights that they'd rode down them on a boogie board ("gotta christen the house!" Chloe had shrieked on their first night, full of cheese and Boone's farm). The walls would tell all the stories, as they were there for both downstairs' and upstairs' shenanigans.
If the walls of the living room could talk, they'd definitely talk about the girls' adventures to the hardware store ("just because she's small enough to fit in the car doesn't mean she should sit in the cart", Chloe had called in a panic, as Fat Amy took off down the aisles with Beca riding inside the shopping trolley), and the night they sat back and watched Beca hammer hooks into the white paint in an attempt to hang their ICCA victory photos ("that's the worst thing I've ever seen", Fat Amy had said bluntly, staring at the slightly wonky photo frames, and Beca had just barely resisted the urge to throw the hammer at her head). They'd speak of truth or dares ("it's like you think I WON'T walk around campus naked. How long you known me? I will do it! I will do it my friend!") and whispered secrets and movie nights and slumber parties where they'd fallen asleep on the floor, a mess of arms and legs and boobs in the middle of the floor. It was a place for discussion and laughter and many a face pulled behind someone's back.
If the walls of the living room could talk, they'd tell you of all the Bellas meetings that had taken place. The discussions, arguments and laughs they'd shared, all the while trying to win their place at Lincoln Centre. They'd speak of all the nights Beca had been forced to join the Bellas rom com marathons ("fuck off!" Fat Amy had yelped, just like Jesse had. "Fuck's wrong with you? As if you've never seen Mean Girls!") and the pillow fights she had walked into after a long ass shift at the station ("you do realise this sets women back thirty years, right?")
If the walls of the bathroom would talk, they'd speak of the botched dye jobs that had taken place (they would even point out the stains on the tiles, where Chloe tried to change her red hair blonde and ended up with Muppet orange curls), and the many times they'd congregate inside while someone was trying to shower ("get the fuck out I am nude!" Beca had shrieked, more times than she cared to remember. And if they thought she was wandering out while they stood there, they had another thing coming). They'd speak of the times where Beca had sliced her knock knees when someone burst in while she was shaving, or the ice baths that Jessica took in hope of disgusting her ankle injury (it didn't work. Beca had marched her ass to the medical centre on campus, Stacie and Fat Amy chuckling the whole time and calling her 'mother hen'. "Aubrey will KILL. ME", she had said firmly, "if anything happens to you lot"), and the time that Fat Amy had burst into the room complaining about Chloe, thinking that it was Beca and not the redhead scrubbing the tiles ("I'm really sorry, Chloe").
A lot had happened in the front hallway of the Bellas house. If the walls of the Bellas hallway could talk, they'd tell stories of the complaints that followed Fat Amy's usual greeting ("hey hoes I'm home!") and Stacie's smug grin when she didn't even bother to try and hide the fact she'd been out all night ("walk of shame Stace?" Beca had offered, all the way back in their sophomore year. "Nope, just got laid parade", Stacie had said with a grin and Beca had frowned in disgust. "Gross").
They'd speak of the night Lily made popcorn (because Lily was weird and possibly psychic) and they'd sat on the hardwood floor while Beca attempted to fix the lock on the front door, not even bothering to offer their assistance ("got this bitches! I'm gonna be riding this high for WEEKS!" "Oh sweet Jesus"). Whenever they heard footsteps on the front path they'd move from the front door, unless they wanted the door smashed into their face and a black eye.
If the walls of the kitchen could tell, they'd tell you that the scorch mark above the stove was from their very first night in the house, where Fat Amy forgot about the rice and almost burned the place to the ground (and when they brought it up, she was quick to correct them. "I NEARLY burnt the house down. I didn't ACTUALLY burn the house down"). If they could talk, they'd speak of the times that "ten am is too early" Beca Mitchell found herself baking cupcakes with cream cheese frosting and sprinkles for breakfast ("if the frosting has cream cheese than its healthy and acceptable to eat for breakfast", was her excuse for eating four before anyone was awake. And also, no one had replied to the "I'm awake get up and play with me" message she had sent to the entire group).
If the walls of the Bellas basement could talk, they would only have the stories that the other walls had to share. On their first night in the house, they'd gone around exploring as a group- and then they realised the basement was haunted. So they high tailed it out of there screaming and Fat Amy tried to convince them to board up the door, and they hadn't gone back since. They weren't going to go through that again.
(Beca made a mental a note to tell Emily, when they officially handed over the keys to the house, that it was haunted. While the freshman had never gone inside she wasn't sure if they'd ever explained why she wasn't to.)
Beca took a seat on the couch, tucking her feet underneath her and pulling the worn polar fleece blanket around her. So much had happened in that house, more than any place in Barden (except for the radio station- but she and Jesse had already said goodbye to that place.)
If the walls of the Bellas house could talk, Beca would have sat there and willingly listened, because a lot of those stories involved her. She would have sat there and listened to their commentary of her fixing the lock on the front door. She would have sat there and listened to their take on her minor concussion, and the way Cynthia Rose carried her down the stairs, bridal style, insisting she was too injured to walk. She would have listened to all the secrets they'd shared in the darkened living room, where they were tangled in a pile of limbs and boobs.
If the walls could talk, Beca would have sat there all night to listen to their stories, even though she had lived them. She would hear of all the nights that, unbeknownst to her, Emily has snuck into Chloe's bedroom to confide in her (despite finding it easier to talk to Beca, she had admitted later). She would hear of all the nights that Stacie had been caught sneaking in, often bumping into Beca's roommate in the process ("I just went out for a smoothie Stacie, stop accusing me!" "I didn't, I went out for sex"). She'd hear about the one and only time Cynthia Rose brought her girlfriend to visit ("sit down bitches this isn't a show"). She'd hear all the times that Lily correctly predicted their future ("so do you think she's actually psychic?" Fat Amy had casually said one night, just as Beca was falling asleep. That had woken her right back up, and made her think).
She would have sat there and listened to all their stories, cataloguing her own and discussing them with no one, taking one last look at the walls she knew so well, a single drop of salt water leaking out of her eye.
If the walls could talk, they would have said their goodbyes as well. But, the walls couldn't talk, not even a little bit. So they were content to sit there in silence, knowing that their time with that particular bunch of girls had come to an end.