Have this angsty one-shot that no one asked for! For those of you following Obvious, I promise, I'm still working on it. It's just moving at it's own snail pace. Also, I've been collaborating on something else that is very interesting and fun, so, that should be coming relatively soon... ;) cheers.
Beca's no junkie, but she has a problem.
There's just something about her life, and being two steps behind.
When in highschool, she found out her ex-friend Margot had started dating the town's skeevy drug dealer in the twelfth grade, and dropped out. It would turn out that the rest of Beca's 'clique' knew about her drug problem for some time, but she had been none the wiser until it was too late. And then she was graduating, standing on the stage looking over her peers, when she was struck with a kind of melancholy. If she had known, maybe there was something she could have done to prevent it. To help. But, to this day, as far as she knows- or as far as Facebook could tell her- Margot was still tweaked out and has never come around again.
When the first inclination of her parents divorce happened as she came home from school. Her father had patted her on the head, like she was the trustworthy family dog, and stuffed his last suitcase into the trunk of a taxi. "I love you, Beca." For some reason, she hadn't seen it coming.
When the closest thing to a highschool love slipped through her fingers like grains of sand. Jonah Rudd, allegedly, shared the same feelings for her as she did him, but she had been so blinded by her own insecurity to ever let herself believe that it could ever have a positive outcome. And as she watched him interact with his new girlfriend from across the cafeteria; sneak up behind her, and greet her by tickling either side of her ribcage, that it dawned on Beca that she had had a chance, after all. Because that was the same way he used to greet her, and she hated it, but the realization choked her all the same. It was too late now, though. He had moved on.
Hell, she'd never even slept with anyone before Jesse came along. But she won't even get into the ins-and-outs of that whole scenario.
Upon reflection of any of these life events, however, Beca can dig up painfully obvious signs that should have alerted her. The nosebleed jokes about Margot. The relenting-but-not-really way that Jonah would do her calculus, but then tell his bestfriend to shove it when he asked the same of him. Except- Beca hadn't asked, he'd offered. The way that she would lay awake and listen to the muffled shouts of her parents through walls and closed doors.
She had let all of these things fly over her head, though, because it was easier that way. It was easier not to care. It was easier not to be involved. To keep her head down, stay in her own world, and keep everyone else out. Independence was always something she had been good at, or so her parents say. And she keeps that close to her.
Beca likes to think it's not really her fault that she's a social jaguar; preferring to skulk through life on her own, an observer. She has the perfect genetic makeup for it.
Her father, as his ancient highschool athletic trophies would promise- was great at running. Her mother was quick-tempered and ready to spill over at any moment, or she was beaten down and ready to disintegrate. It was only natural course- be it her DNA, or the case of nurture- that they would end up with someone with a personality like her own.
So, no. She didn't notice a lot of things. She was too busy stuck inside of herself, focused only on keeping her feet moving. Relying on herself was the only viable option for her- and Beca was, typically, unreliable- and it was far better than allowing herself to be let down by anyone else, in her opinion, thank you very much. She saw how that disappointment in another human being affected her mother; on the days where she wouldn't even leave the bed.
Beca found it pathetic.
The less people she could be disappointed by, the better. Human beings will always disappoint you, or so she's found. There's no sure-fire way to prevent that. In fact, she disappoints herself nearly every day. But she's learned to live with it; telling herself that every other person in the world is disappointed in themselves about something. It's normal. Regret is not one of life's more fickle emotions; when it plants a seed in a person, it tends to stay. Even if it doesn't always blossom, it will always be under the soil. Music had played a fundamental part in protecting herself from these feelings; it always provided a ready distraction, and when she found out that she had a knack for manipulating it, it soon became her vice. She could park herself in front of a screen for an unhealthy amount of time, obsessing and perfecting. There soon came a time where the headphones were never away from her.
When she arrived at Barden, she was disappointed. At the time, she would far rather be holed away mixing music; living off of garbage energy drinks and cheap fast food. Until her eyes burned and it gave her an excuse to finally go to sleep. Not that she was a bum; she had a distant twinkle of a goal ahead of her, even if she wasn't quite sure how she was supposed to get there. But she was perfectly content living that way. After being cornered in the showers, however, the Bellas just seemed like a necessary evil to help her convince her father to help with that.
But then things happened that weren't supposed to.
She wasn't supposed to feel like she had disappointed the Bellas with the 'Bulletproof' mashup. There wasn't supposed to be a boy. She wasn't supposed to be confronted about her debilitated social mannerisms. She wasn't supposed to feel bad about it. And she certainly wasn't supposed to stick around longer than she was absolutely required.
She wasn't supposed to trust anyone. She had spent the entirety of her formative years cultivating the necessary walls to keep her ideals safe. Her independence. She didn't want to rely on anyone, and she didn't want anyone to rely on her. That idea in itself, is terrifying.
She wasn't supposed to think of these people as her friends. She'd never really had those. Margot- and the other girls in highschool that she clung to- were simply those who she could tolerate, pass the time with. She'd watched them be vulnerable with one another, and the sight made her clammy, and nauseous. Especially if anyone looked at her, as if they expected her to return the favor and open up. That was just not how she operated.
She wasn't supposed to rethink that.
And she never would have thought, all those years ago, that she would end up thrown amidst life with all of those people still by her side. That she would be working as a music producer for shitty underground rap dudes, living in an equally shitty shoebox apartment with Fat Amy, and Chloe Beale- of all people- the very same girl who had cornered her in said showers all those years before. Never would have thought that she would, voluntarily, end up sharing a bed with her. The catalyst for almost every event in her life, up until now. That was not supposed to happen.
As it is, however, all of those things did happen.
And every single one feels so good.
But she never would have put money on this outcome. The broody girl from all of those years ago still lives inside of her, frightened and in fetal position, but she would probably scoff and roll her eyes at the whole idea. And Beca truly understands why she would.
A couple of months ago, she would play the appropriate card and blame Jesse for all of this. Now though, with more clarity, she blames Chloe. Because God knows that she would never point the finger at herself. Felines are proud creatures. But things are different now.
When the mornings sometimes find her early, she can quietly revel in the feeling of Chloe's arm draped across her midsection. The steady rhythm of Chloe's breaths pressed into her back, lulling her, rocking her like an easy boat at sea. When it's the middle of the night, and Beca can feel Chloe's lips against her neck where she's nuzzled in her sleep; and Beca thinks, while listening to the patter of raindrops against her window, that there's no place she'd rather be. It's a sensation that gets her some kind of high. Similar to that of music; only, music makes Beca feel wired. It makes her blood sing, sends ideas and sounds flitting through her mind at warp-speed. This is melodic, too. It turns her muscles to gelatin. Like meditation, it wipes her mind clear of anything other than the present. She can't think when she's like this, in the best way. When it used to be Jesse behind her, holding her close, she could still think. But now, she wouldn't even dream of it.
If music was her cocaine, Chloe's breathing was her heroin. The highs were different, but it was something visceral all the same.
Chloe was something different. She had friends now- many, she was happy to say- but Chloe stood on a different pedestal. Maybe that's what best friends are. God forbid Amy find that out, though.
They were just different, together.
Never before could she communicate with someone without speaking. All communication wasn't a strength of hers, so take away the actual use of words? And sure. They had lived together for six of the seven years they'd known each other. But this was a skill she had yet to discover with anyone else. Once, the three of them had gone out for dinner, and Amy had raised her eyebrows at her from across the table- lips pursed like she had a secret, and eyes darting towards the waiter who was currently filling Chloe's water. Beca hadn't understood. But when he had returned, and Chloe had looked up at her from under her lashes, one eyebrow coyly raised, Beca knew. As simple as if she'd said it. "That waiter just checked you out." And it was only then, that she had realized Amy had been trying to convey the same thing.
Or that Chloe could come up behind her in their apartment, wrapping her arms around Beca's waist in a hug that topples them onto the bed. That she could smother Beca with affectionate kisses over her cheeks and head, squeezing her so tightly that Beca worried there was going to be some kind of damage to her ribs. But "Happy birthday Beca!" could be screamed into her ear, and she wouldn't even care.
That Chloe could come home one morning after an early jog with coffees for her roommates, and Beca could transcend basic gratitude. That the action, and the handwritten 'Beca' with a heart on the cup could fill her heart with sticky, hot goo. That somehow, she would be so moved that a few days later she would go out of her way to get up at the buttcrack of dawn and grab breakfast croissants from that bakery down the street. Just so that she could see Chloe's expression light up, and find it a little bit adorable.
That the two of them could finish a whole bottle of red wine one evening and drunk Tinder swipe for each other. Only, Beca hadn't swiped right for a single man because she was too painstakingly aware that not one was good enough for the girl sitting across from her. And Chloe had laughed at her for it, and Beca hadn't spared one single thought of her dignity when she admitted that.
And there were days where she still felt like shit. When she would sit down in the shower until the water started to go lukewarm- and then she'd curse herself- and only then would she pull herself out. Amy would comfort her, and tell her she didn't suck, and try to 'rub out some confidence'. Usually, the feelings of doubt lingered around her though like cobwebs. But then Chloe would appear, and her tenacious belief in Beca and her ability was bordering on psychotic. But it never failed to dust away the cobwebs until the next time spiders appeared.
She never failed Beca at all, actually.
Maybe she was the one person who wasn't disappointing. Which is why she doesn't flinch away from her in the mornings where she wakes up to find the other girl clinging to her.
It's why Chloe feels like her gravity; the center in which Beca revolves. It's why whenever Chloe will drop her hand, Beca's will twitch in the direction that she went, craving more. A phantom warmth that exists long after contact is lost. Beca can hold onto it.
So no, she wasn't supposed to feel disappointed the nights Chloe curls her hair and puts on a cute pair of shoes and doesn't come back. She wasn't supposed to wake up in the mornings feeling like she was shaking, or anxious, or that the shirt on her back was sticking to her sweat. She's not supposed to look at Chloe's empty side of the bed and feel like someone had performed surgery on her in her sleep and removed everything from her chest. Those days are always the worst.
When Chloe texts her that she's not going to be home that night, she's not supposed to dread going to bed by herself. She'd gotten so used to Chloe staying up late to watch some documentary on Netflix next to her, laptop balanced on her thighs, and headphones plugged into her ears. She'd gotten so used to the presence. She's not supposed to dream and feel Chloe leaving. She's not supposed to worry about that at all.
And it's harder when Chloe comes back. Without a lilt in her step, completely unaware that anything is amiss, she will slip under the covers on her side of the bed, and Beca will sleep with her back towards her. She doesn't ask. She knows Chloe has been, obviously, somewhere else, tangled somewhere else, with someone else, happy. And Beca should be happy. She's not supposed to feel anything other than that; a passive happiness that Chloe had a nice time wherever she was.
She's not supposed to forget everything she feels the next time she wakes up with Chloe curled around her.
But she does do all of those things.
And until the next time, the sadness that accompanies those nights fades away, and she's calm again. Secretly wishing to herself that she could wake up with Chloe every night, for those few fleeting minutes of undisturbed, transcendent peace. She was never supposed to feel that safe with anyone other than herself.
But Chloe will grab her hand as they walk down the streets. She'll start singing some random song as Beca cooks eggs over the stove in the kitchenette, smirking to herself. And Chloe's breath will be behind her ear, humming, inadvertently slipping an arm under Beca's to remove the pan from the heat and bring Beca with her to dance, or sing, or both. And they're in sync, every time.
Beca will bring home a box of chocolates and advise Chloe as she's about to eat one with coconut- that it's coconut- so Chloe won't like it. And Chloe will pause with the treat near her mouth, and Beca will open her own, and Chloe will smile and pop it in for her. Because Beca happens to love coconut, the same way that Chloe is crazy about those disgusting raspberry cream chocolates, which Beca can't stand, so it usually works out perfect.
And as they lay across their bed, both of them sicker than dogs- half-eaten bowls of chicken noodle soup across their nightstand and an alarming empty bottle of cough syrup between them, Beca is dozing off when Chloe drops her head onto her shoulder. Asleep, Beca can tell immediately, thanks to the drool. But it's not gross. She simply slumps down, giving in to the feeling of Chloe's breathing, and she's convinced that their hearts probably beat the same.
And when a groggy hand comes up to splay across Beca's stomach, she knows that she's fucked. There has maybe never been a moment where she hasn't felt better, which panics her. Suddenly, there is a video montage of every memory she has of Chloe, in unison, the horrific, fictitious what-if scenario. She sees Chloe leaving. Moving on- it's not malicious, it's just life. But the idea, the thought, yanks at some loose string of her psyche and begins unraveling. And suddenly, the idea of life without Chloe is the single most devastating thing she may ever have to encounter.
It hits her the way a speeding car kisses a lamp pole. She can't have Chloe leave her. Not when Chloe holds her the way that taxi cab had held her father's belongings before he left; she had singlehandedly smashed in all of Beca's windows and entered her like a robber coming to steal everything she owns. Her independence. Her resolve. Chloe had made her gold, and Beca was irrevocably okay with that, so long as she didn't have to leave.
Chloe could bend her under fire until she fit whatever shape she needed. Mend her into a cup so that when she gets too drunk, she would think of her. Into a ring or some piece of jewelry so that when people see Chloe with her, they could compliment her on her taste. A belt buckle. For all Beca cared, if she was gold, Chloe could put a diamond in her so that people wouldn't notice her but will see that she still possesses something- or better yet, a music box. Open her and people will feel enlightened. A trophy, or a medallion, or even a locket, so that Chloe could put a picture of whoever made her feel best in her, and she would forever live close to her heart.
Chloe could do any single thing to her and Beca would always forgive her. Would always be glad to.
And Beca could leave too, she knows. Could hit up any of the Tinder men that Chloe had matched for her and go. Not that that kind of thing appeals to her, but she could. There's not a thing stopping her. Except that she doesn't think any pair of arms would ever give her the same fix.
And who is any of this fair to?
Certainly not to Beca, who is incapable of dissecting what any of this means, even if she has made leaps and bounds from her freshman year. But she'd never agreed to this. And she supposes, no one ever plans to become addicted to anything. Everyone thinks they will be stronger. That it won't happen to them. And then the next thing one knows, they're looking for one more line- one more hit, one more cigarette, one more drink. Or, in Beca's case, she's slumped into her bedframe, hugging her knees, hoping for one more night. Because she can't even sleep anymore without the weight evenly distributed across the mattress, not with so much damn space. She'll spend her time flipping around in the sheets, unable to find comfort, not ready to say goodnight.
It's not her thing to want.
It's not fair to Chloe. Who will gleefully gush on and on about whatever semi-serious boyfriend she has encountered, and his achievements. And Beca will listen, and cling to every last bad thing about them. "He doesn't think you should have a milkshake? Oh, Chloe, you can do better than that," because after all; while Chloe had managed to steal those things from her, when she was around, it wasn't really like those things were truly gone. But add a man to the equation? Mix it with Chloe's passion for love- which, unsurprisingly, consumes her every time- and it makes for Beca's time to be cut in half. Her supply dries up fast. And she's left yearning for those things that she'd once had, that she can't manage to scrape up anymore. She's not sure if it's intentional, but there are less mornings found in Chloe's embrace when she's got a man somewhere in her life.
Beca's always been possessive. She'd been reprimanded for it- quite harshly- several times. So there's been some improvement on that front, as well. But the ugly green monster will still rear it's head and dig it's horns straight into Beca's gut, but she'll gag down the blood and bile as she watches some douchebro give Chloe a sloppy kiss, and then not even hold the door for her as they prepare to leave.
In her defense, usually, Chloe has a shitty taste in men. But Beca knows it's her life, and she hasn't got any real say in it. And while she wishes she could support Chloe's happiness she just-
can't.
She's too empty to do it. Without her independence, her aptitude, she's lost. Sure, she'll get up in the mornings and go to work, and hold it together, but it's always on her way home that she's reminded of that. She'd given up her autonomy. Allowed it to be taken from her.
It's not even fair to Amy, who will laugh with her, and drag Beca to all of these ridiculous places in search of a good time. And Beca will do it. She'll watch some bizarre puppet show in some dingy, sketchy underground pub- the five dollar entry fee wasn't too steep for her budget, and the chicken wings were impressive. And the two of them could snort, and make remarks, and Amy never failed to be her interesting self. Beca would smile, and laugh when she was meant to- but there was a vacancy somewhere in her that reminded her how much of a greater time she would be having if it was Chloe who had dragged her here. And then she thinks about Chloe. And then she misses Chloe. And then she remembers where Chloe is. And then her smile will slip from her face, and she'll pray to God Amy will say something that will distract her soon.
The nights that Chloe will come home will become few. Beca will chew her nails to stubs, cook her eggs without any music on, sit in the shower. She'll sweat out the night. She'll suffer her withdrawals in silence, she'll strain to hear Amy's breathing- which is erratic, and not right- and so she'll count the beats of her own heart until she can't feel it.
She'll come home from work and know that Chloe had been there- notice the subtle changes on her side of the room. But she's gone again. Beca will tap her feet, staring at the area. Imagining Chloe there, seeing her in every shadow. She'll fasten her headphones on top of her ears and blast the music, even though she's a bit tired of sound after being around it all day. But it's her safe place to land. She'll do her damndest to get high on it, find something that gives her any bit of edge, any bit of energy that's not in the form of her restless limbs. She'll stare at her blank phone screen, thinking about the unanswered text message.
Wondering who the fuck this is fair to?
It'll be a long few weeks- days that stretch into one another, where Beca will live for her meticulous routine. Work. Home. She'll fuck around for a few hours, maybe order takeout, maybe go out and do something irrelevant with Amy. And she'll lay in bed as soon as possible. Because sleep- if she can find it- and getting on with a new day is better than being awake.
And then her phone will vibrate against her nightstand, louder than an earthquake, jolting her awake at one thirty in the morning. And Chloe's name will light up the screen. Beca will spare a thought to how she feels, how it's disappointingly close to disappointed, but her impulse will have her answering. Because she doesn't have to think about forgiving Chloe.
She just wants her back.
So when the call is full of drunk slurs from an emotional girl, Beca hasn't even hung up the phone by the time she's got her jacket over her shoulders and her shoes on her feet. Ready to go out into the biting winter night to sedate herself like any other desperate addict.
She'll hear all about Chloe's blowup with her man. She'll let the satisfaction of having ultimately foreseen every awful thing about her rival slink into her, pacifying the monster. Privately rejoicing in Chloe's romantic failure, though she's fully aware of what a shitty person that makes her.
She can't help it.
Addiction does things to a person. It's a well established fact.
She'll help Chloe out of her shoes as quietly as she can, hushing her gently, weaving red hair between her fingers in a quick braid. Rediscovering the sensation of her presence. She'll use one of Chloe's makeup wipes to give her a quick rundown, set her up with a water bottle for the morning, and another for now. She'll use every excuse to touch her. Fingers that brush. Stray locks of hair that need to be moved. A reassuring squeeze to the knee.
It's selfish.
She relies on Chloe more than she had ever relied on herself. It keeps her up at night.
And so when she finally slips under the covers, at nearly three o'clock in the morning, she can cast a sidelong glance at Chloe as the girl huffs. Soft moonlight pools in through the window, giving her a silverish blue hue. But her eyes find Beca's, and she's so scared that this is the only thing she wants.
She's so scared when Chloe hesitantly slips her hand towards Beca, fingers crawling into her palm and dropping there.
She's so scared because she's always been so behind.
She's so scared because she doesn't know if this is love. She doesn't know if love is this beguiling feeling.
She's so scared because she's so happy. She's so weak. She's so confused.
"I love you, Beca." Chloe whispers as her eyes slip shut, as she's nudged over the soft edge of her dreamscape.
She's so scared because Beca doesn't know if Chloe will leave.