Beca and Chloe have rules.
You have stupid rules, rules that mean that you can body tackle Chloe to get under her umbrella, but can't hook your hand in her elbow to keep you both under that umbrella as you walk. You can share a tent with her, but you can't put an arm around her to keep yourself out of the rain. It has to hover a few inches from her side as you jog awkwardly, sideways, leaning too far into her but still not touching.
There's a reason you were so struck by Kommissar. You hadn't felt a touch like that since The Rules, since you started dating Jesse. It crumpled you to your core, and you knew Chloe was right there, could feel the hurt and confusion radiating from her but because you have these stupid rules you can't even remember what Chloe's hands feel like on your face any more; you have no grounds for comparison here. You just know you haven't been touched like this for far too long, haven't felt like this for far too long.
At Worlds Jesse's in the crowd. Of course he is. An overnighter with Chloe? Of course he has to come too. He's the reason you're sharing a room with Fat Amy. Here, and at the Bella's sanctuary.
Chloe is allowed to stand behind you, pressed up against you so close that you can feel her exhales on the back of your neck, you can feel her breasts pressed against you, feel the hardening of her nipples. But you can't turn your face to her because she's too close, and if your nose bumps hers, that's a boundary you've crossed that you can't take back. If your lips were to meet, that would be on you. So you stare straight ahead, ignoring the hand that she rests on your back to steady herself, to pull herself closer to you.
She's allowed to hold you as she pushes past you on a log, while you try desperately to keep your hands off of her warm and slightly sweaty skin. You try not to lay an open palm on her, unless she offers a five. Then it's just rude, right? But her waist, her shoulder – anywhere you would want to touch her, even casually, you can't.
Chloe is allowed to play with your hair, if it's in your face. It's always in your face; you make sure of that. Or, apparently, if you're trying to sleep.
Chloe is allowed to tell you she regrets not experimenting more in college. And you can't say a word.
The look on her face when you babble complinsults at Kommissar almost makes you even.
Chloe is allowed to dance with you. It would make the Bellas nearly impossible if she wasn't. But at the afterparty, with Jesse watching, Kommissar dances with you in the way that Chloe is not allowed to any more; not if it isn't for a show. Her hands wander the way Chloe's do and you revel in it because this isn't breaking the rules and it feels so, so good. She's not Chloe so you don't have to stop her. Her hands are soft and cinnamon fills your senses and you can forget about the stupid rules. When she pushes your hair back from your face, you can lean your head into her hand. When she pulls you closer, you can steady yourself with a hand on her shoulder, which slides down to her waist, the skin so soft but the muscles firm and taut underneath. When she cups your face, you can forget about everyone else in the noisiest event you've ever attended.
You made all these rules about Chloe. You never thought you'd have to make them about someone else.
Kommissar smells like cinnamon, but she tastes like raspberries, and when she kisses you it makes every other kiss pale in comparison. Her lips are so soft and yielding, and the words so harsh are more than made up for by her tongue so gentle.
And then Chloe swoops in, grabs you out of the German's grasp. She pulls you away, only to envelop you in her own embrace. She claims you as her own in front of Kommissar, with her hands, her eyes, and eventually her mouth. She dances close, runs feather-light touches from hand to shoulder, then from shoulder to waist, and from there, waist to chest, and chest to face. Her lips brush your cheek, her nose nudges yours and her lips press so lightly against your own that you're beginning to believe you could be hallucinating the entire Copenhagen trip.
Kommissar storms off, followed by a crowd of Germans. Your knees give out and Chloe holds you upright by the belt loops of your jeans. It feels more practical than sensual but now that Kommissar has gone, there is no point to her charade. You were a damsel in distress, and now that you're been rescued your friendship can resume normal services. She pulls you tighter against her and sighs. She says something, something about Jesse but you press your lips to her neck, rules be damned because this moment is slipping away and you can say later if questioned, that you too slipped.
There's a reason these rules were made.
The look on Jesse's face is enough to remind you.
The way that one kiss with Chloe completely eclipsed every moment you spent with Kommissar is more than enough to remind you.
And now that Kommissar has stormed off into the crowd, Chloe actually has to pick you up and carry you back to Jesse because your legs don't work; nothing works. Those few moments you hang limp in her arms as she carries you like a baby through a moving, dancing crowd are burnt into your memory. She says nothing, but the warmth of her makes your eyes close. You want to remember this, the way your head rests against the soft cushion of her breast, her pulse fast beneath her skin. It's the closest you'll ever get to her heart. She deposits you in his arms, and he nods his head in thanks.
You don't need to touch her to feel the rhythm of her heart. It transmits wirelessly to your own. Your skin, where it was pressed against her, tingles. Chloe tastes like coconut; you'd always wondered. She tastes like coconut and heartbreak. And still you haven't broken any rules, and you got to find out that Chloe tastes like coconut and kisses with the same kind of enthusiasm and intensity that she usually reserves for singing.
You have these rules. Because you feel so much, and she feels nothing.
Chloe doesn't even know about the rules.
Author's note: Beca just shies away from Chloe almost all movie long, almost like she had a rule about not touching her.