Buenas noche's, nerds. It's the year of our Lord, twentygayteen, and I'm here to paint this shit gay and make it reign. So, stand by and prepare to have your crops watered, eventually. This will be a multi-chap fic. Slow-burn, but not, like, so bad that you can smoke meat or anything. Maybe? Probably. Look, if it smells good, it smells good. I'm fucking impulsive. Don't listen to me. I have a few chapters ready to go and I'll submit them when I can. Questions will be answered via AN's down the bottom in said chapters.

Rated for language and, uh, eventual NSFW material. Winky face.

Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. I do not own Pitch Perfect, but take note, Universal, you pussies. Get woke.

Chapter One:
Well. Fuck.

It was… truly something.

Borderline unreal, maybe, but not entirely. Yet it's the first thing that springs to her mind when she eventually struts backstage. The quintessential feeling that grips her suddenly and holds her, that pulls her into a lulling sensation of awe as everything unveils, one gilded moment after the other.

It's a rush. An almost-dreamlike magnitude of overloading sensory that embraces her just as naturally as one blinks and breathes -which she had done often, like a lot- because it doesn't feel real. To leave one life and step into the next. Anxiety is something of a fleeting medium that rarely, if ever, unbalances her. Sure, she feels it. Probably more than she likes. Yet it's the tension, in all its terrible weight. Quite often it can be undoing. In the past and now, even, she's often been the proverbial shoulder to cry on. Been the gal to bolster effect, to reassure rather than be the one asking. She's never really been a people person. She doesn't have to be. But it doesn't stop her from caring. It's always been of her caliber to build up the allegorical rubble that's collapsed into a crazy pile of feelings and breathless doubt.

That's it. That's what it is.

Breathless. Yeah, she'll go with that.

She feels breathless.

Head skyward in wordless marvel, mouth agape. Just all sorts of breathlessness.

Because, yes, it all feels decidedly unreal to her.

It doesn't feel like she's just essentially secured her once dubious future, turned clear-cut stairway to heaven, as a soon-to-be-signed solo artist with an EP in the mix. (Like, God, seriously?!) It doesn't feel like her world has officially changed for the better. Like the people beyond the stage are all cheering and clapping with approbation, for her. It's not exactly what she imagined for herself.

Her, of all people. With her curiously melodramatic life, her forthcomings, her voice, her girls. Oh, the girls.

She feels her mind clear as she puffs out her chest.

There is a literal sea of people out there. Barely half an hour had since passed following her pivotal debut. Her set of covering the classic anthem penned by George Michael had been nothing short of tremendous, phenomenal, and dazzling even. Theo's way of embellishment had been to use a lot of colorful adjectives. He'd quickly made off before they could be intercepted by five different journalists, each sashaying their VIP lanyards like it'd been their God-fearing rights. Bless him, he'd ushered them away to answer a few of their questions as she quickly escaped backstage. The girls had since evaporated into different directions as the intermission lapsed, but she knew where they'd be after. For now, she really just needed to quell off the shaky adrenalin before she leaped into the Mediterranean like a crazy lady.

The belletristic Roman theatre was now a kaleidoscope of aimless movement, suffused in brilliant color. Flashing strobes of silver, gold, crimson, and blue illuminate the mass of uniquely cultured individuals like fireworks. Citizens, servicemen and woman, and celebrities alike. All had been congregated together to inspire and celebrate the electrifying finale of the USO tour.

After Beca's opening, heralded by the man himself, Khaled, with the Bella's by her side, she felt she could barely keep it together. Sometimes happiness and sadness get all mixed up. Her heart had hurt, laden with feeling, and her eyes had felt uncharacteristically heavy with unwept tears. Everything had felt like a wellspring of bubbling emotions all wrought with bittersweet significance. It was perfect, and it'd been damn-near impossible for her not to lose it. But she hadn't. Not completely. Not with those idiots by her side. Just, being them with their invisible ties stretching onto her.

Flo, with her enduring happiness and determination to persevere.

Aubrey, even, and her ability to strategically (frustratingly) analyze every foreseeable mishap, yet still remain miraculously optimistic.

The 'rise above' outlook essentially silkscreened into everything Cynthia Rose does. Beca's secretly a major sucker for it.

Sweet, beautiful, stupidly unassuming giraffe-like Emily and her stupidly infinite glee.

Lilly. Esther. Whatever the hell was going on there. If that geek monstrosity can prance around apparently bedeviled by some mute, malignant spirit for near-seven years, then Beca can sure as hell grin and bear through this, she thinks.

Pinpointing Amy is, well, freakishly beyond the bounds of what Beca credits as being normal. The bits-and-pieces making up that eccentric yo-yo of a woman certainly has her perpetually questioning everything in creation. So why bother, right?

Stacie, if she were here, with her astonishing, questionably moral, and unrestrained sexual prowess and self-confidence.

Stacie, the mother. With precious little baby Bella. When Beca thinks of that tiny, toothless human all she wants to do is bite down on her fist and lay in a tragedize fetal position because God damn it, it's just too fucking beautiful.

Jessica and Ashely. Meh.

And Chloe.

There's an interesting notion.

Oftentimes, Beca's inclined to believe that Chloe is something of a curiosity.

Not in the sense of an exhibit, where the oddity of something so strange stirs within her feelings of alarm or worship. No. It wasn't like that. It was, well, another type of curiosity. One stringed within a wavelength of constant surprise and an intense desire to know something. To simply understand. When Beca thinks of Chloe, she thinks about the sensation of being curious. Like the woman exudes a sort of question that Beca feels is quite often directed at her, but she can never really place it. It's like looking at someone with the intention of speaking. Eyes like saucers. Mouth parted, lips on the cusp of forming actual words, yet nothing ever comes. The breath dissipates like smoke and instead of coherent sentences, there is instead a loss of something vital, something worth mentioning. But it's gone. It fades just as quickly as it materializes and then there's just… silence. A weight and a flicker of an enigma. An atypical awareness. Yet the feeling remains though. Imprinted. Along with the question… the curiosity. To know.

It's not exactly odd. Maybe it's odd. She's not too sure.

Actually, yeah, she is sure. Positive that it's not.

Might it be odd?

Chloe is Chloe though.

And when she really thinks about it, all that Beca is today is, in no small part, because of that curious girl.

Confidently walking into an already occupied shower stall stark fucking naked, with blue starry-eyed demands, can be quite the incentive apparently.

But it's easy to call all of the Bella's family. Natural, like water. When she sees them, she's seeing a cluster of people who fit together seamlessly. Like easily recalled memories that linger. Because memories are a flair of the mind and the most sublime memories are better remembered, right? They're always there, at the forefront and simply waiting. Associating experience to an easily wayward moment solidifies its magnitude. It makes it golden. Makes it forever.

Beca knows without a flicker of doubt, with seamless conviction, that she'll remember tonight until the day she dies.

Things have changed, yes, but none of them, her. They're not that different.

It's all in the way one looks at things, really. Perspective, and all that shit.

"Things are going to be enormously different now, I guarantee it."

Then there's Theo, who's so allegedly certain of everything. It takes a second before Beca realizes that the man is standing next to her. It seems he'd successfully managed to maneuver his way out from the topics of half frenzied publicists, seeing how no one was following. She resists smiling, only slightly, but it's a marginally useless battle in the end. Really, the guy's likable, if not a little overly amicable. Charming, yeah, why not? In conjunction with being offensively cavalier. Beca can't really fault him for much other than his gnarling persistence. A zero-cool personality with a meritable eye for talent. The swanky British accent and suave looks were, maybe, an added side benefit.

"Oh, well, if that doesn't make me feel a little edgy," she quips suddenly, voice dripping with barely concealed cynicism.

Theo's response is merely a quick roll of his eyes.

"You have nothing to be nervous about, Beca," he says, "You know the full particulars of the business, the structure. It's second nature, right? And you're already capable, with a singular talent and an ear for boss tunes. You've no doubt stood where I'm standing, and I know you've probably fed the same quintessential nonsense to some chancy musician stumped before their prime but-…"

"Wow, look at you, with all your words."

"Seriously. It means we can be plain to one another. Speak easy, I hope. Different is good, Beca, but different can be scary. It'll just take a little adjusting."

And she knows he's right. Knows little other than to be cautiously optimistic when Theo suddenly smiles that ridiculously debonair smile. His hand is on her shoulder, albeit a little hesitantly. It's a small gesture of reassurance that, in turn, prompts Beca to smile because she knows he means well. That ultimately he means to safeguard any burgeoning anxieties she may or may not have because if there is one thing she can admire about him, it was his abiding confidence.

If tonight's turnover was any indication of what her future may conceivably look like, then it feels good knowing someone like him has got her back. Regardless of said British swankiness. Standing out here under the blistering stage lights, though hidden, she takes a small breath. Label appointed technicians roamed to and fro. Some stared, while others simply paid no mind and were otherwise absorbed with preparations for the next set, sporting masses of cables or clipboards.

"Yeah?" She knows the answer, but asking him anyway feels kind of nice.

"Yeah." With a quick squeeze of her shoulder, he releases her, then starts promptly, "Also," He frowns, slightly at a loss, "I feel, as is my burden that I should maybe… apologize? About before…" He pauses, pursing his lips as he thinks suddenly. She waits, with an inkling of knowing where the conversation was heading but instead opts to let him finish. She was nothing, if not cordial. Though to herself, it was admittedly hilarious watching him try to formulate semi-coherent sentences when he couldn't even look at her without getting laughably flustered.

She throws him a wordless nod as a little incentive when he seemed to struggle. It was comical, really, if not a little intriguing. "I, well, before when I…-" he summons every ounce of breath and pushes through when she begins smirking almost mirthlessly. "Well, when it looked like I wanted to kiss you."

There it was.

"Oh," And she's not even surprised, despite how she parades it, very deliberately, because it's funny watching the man's words careen into a bubbling cesspool of indecision, "You mean before? When you definitely wanted to kiss me?"

"It was terribly unprofessional of me and I-…"

"Cause I was confused when your head started to, like, lean down-…"

"-… Yeah, yeah. Well, I just thought you should know, because I am…"

She squashes the heel of her palms together then, as a crude precedent, of what she believed perfectly imitated two faces, "Is this, wow, is this how kissing works?"

He releases a labored breath then, resigned to ridicule but nevertheless astonished. "Jesus. You weren't kidding."

"Aaah…?"

"When you said you'd be a handful."

"Does Khaled get this much attention? Because I feel that might warrant a very serious political discussion, about a lot of things, worth discussing," and at this point, she's not even bothering to conceal her thinly veiled amusement. He's watching her, smiling but not smiling, and she sees that he's trying to keep it together. If not a little precariously. "Inequity of power, and all that," she finishes.

Theo lets out the biggest sigh of relief and scarcely looks around before he's settling his eyes back on her again. "This all seemed… rather simpler… when I was rehearsing it over in my head."

She tries to adjust her look of feigned guilt, but she knows there's little to no point. "Dude, that was barely half an hour ago. We haven't even started living like hermits or gone through the stereotyped plot of ceasing all contact from one another yet." She can't believe the words spewing from her mouth. Jesse would be nauseatingly thunderstruck if he heard her.

"Yes. Well, my poor deflated vanity has pushed me to do the unthinkable. I just want to ensure that we're on the same page. Classic movie elements aside."

"Oh, we definitely weren't."

"Weren't, yes. Now, I'm… something shy of hoping that we can maybe forget that I attempted anything at all. Ever."

"Really?"

He pouts. "Pretty please?"

She hums thoughtfully, mulling it all over until a small semblance of sense slips decisively through her brain. She can see the insistence in his eyes, the rose-colored flush, and flicker of something optimistic. She can see that it was actually genuinely bothering the executive. Her silence probably wasn't helping the situation much either. Hinging him on her word, however, was a gimmick all for theatrics. It was fun. A little cruel, maybe, though the man did just try to kiss her. In that though, Theo was extending a truce, of a sort. Not that they really needed something so terribly theatrical as that, but the fact that he felt it was necessary to apologize in the first place meant enough to her to convince her of his priorities.

And at this point, he was literally holding his breath, so, "We're alright, dude."

His expression turns skeptical. "Really?"

"Yes. Really. I mean, I can't really afford to hold grudges right now anyway, and it's physically exhausting, so."

"So." And he's smiling again. Though eying her carefully, he appears more relaxed despite the later. Beca was still holding her microphone. It was secured snugly into her crossed arms. When Theo's gaze falls to it, he points suddenly. "I had intended to tell you how incredible you were on stage, you know, before… well. Plus, there were things I wanted to discuss."

She nods, smiles, and takes a short moment to look around her once more before hastily cantering her gaze back to him. "So you mentioned."

"Intriguing song choice."

She scoffs before giving him a pointed look. "Uh, care to elaborate, Tin-Tin?"

He chuckles, rubbing his beard contemplatively. "Well, do you?"

She grins sheepishly, pausing only to tap her microphone against her chest. "There's nothing," she says pensively, "really to it."

He nods, frowning slightly. She doesn't miss the note of cynicism in his voice when he replies. "If you say so."

After a moment's consideration, Beca gives him a disbelieving look, one eyebrow rising slightly. "What-what is this? What are you doing right now? Stop it."

"What? Nothing. Calm down," he tells her, shaking his head. "Are you," he starts then, "alright? Honestly. Like, how are you feeling?"

She feels like she should defend herself, for whatever self-conceited reason concocted by her mind. She doesn't exactly feel clear-headed, but she'd regarded that as being merely high-strung up on psychedelic energy evoked by the opening. Instead of motor-mouthing an illicit string of words, she says simply with a punctured sigh, "It's a little overwhelming."

"Look, it will be. I won't lie. Promising otherwise would be a little unfounded on my part," he declares without hesitation, and it strikes her just how thoughtfully candid he sounds suddenly. Is. Like he genuinely means for her to feel better or untroubled about everything without having to resort to lying. Because lying is easy, she knows. So is evasion, because sometimes openly lying about something is out of the question. Sometimes the guilt is too much. The retreat, for example, all those years ago. When she'd made the conscious decision to avoid telling the girls about interning with Residual Heat. It'd been… anything… but harmonious for the Bella's, especially with Chloe. Because lies are lies and Chloe is Chloe, and Beca might as well have just laid down on her mud-strewn back and pretended to be a filthy bedraggled rug for all the good she felt afterward.

She hadn't lied, only avoided, and for a while, it'd been okay. Sort of. Until the retreat, anyway.

Lying can be safe, only because most people don't want to hear the truth, or can't bear to tell it. Others would even settle to hear a misconstrued half-truth. There's no accurate way of telling when people are being honest or not, so what's the harm right?

She's confident about Theo though. Surprisingly. What little she information she'd managed to garner from his personality over the tour has quickly led her to surmise that clever antics, such as trickery and evasion or lying, is simply not a medium for him. She likes that about him. Especially since, during her turbulent stint as a music producer, Beca could scarcely say or remember whether she'd afforded others the same courtesy that Theo was currently affording her. Actually, when she really thinks about it, she can probably say with certainty that it'd been a tireless and near-repetitive constant in her life. Unfortunately for her, her previous job often involved consoling up-and-coming artists with personalities as mundane as soup. Just… a bunch of featherbrained fools who were duller than a capital-centric Marxists debate on bread and cutlery patterns. Terminating her contract had been a blessing in disguise.

The point. The sad, universal truth of the matter was that her deliberate razzle-dazzling of the enterprise had been necessary then. When your boss periodically assigns you to singers/songwriters/rappers/fucking muppets with downright ridiculous names such as Pimp-Lo, who have little to no clue or leeway or experience, then it becomes an inescapable point of action. To lie.

She never enjoyed it, of course. The lying. The overwrought confidence. The need to sprout bogus smiles and acknowledgments far too comically superficial to be accepted even remotely, but were taken anyway. Because idiots. The hijacking tracks and demos afterhours, and stripping them down to its elemental base, layer by layer, to rework it pro bono because she cared if the artist surmounted to more than your typical wordsmith. Only then to be rejected in favor of an unoriginal stereotyped sound. It became a tiring obligation to perfect the make-believe happiness by that point, and when Beca finally capsized… when she'd finally clung to a realization that made her seriously toss around the idea of wrecking physical bodily harm to one Pimp-fucking-Lo, she succumbed. She accepted it. Fell, head first and willingly, to failure, to bed. Doomed to repeat and wake up and see, in plain painful clarity, what had essentially become her life. That she was working simply for the income. That she didn't care, and that the career she'd worked for and argued so passionately for was nothing but a means of currency to live off of.

It'd been incredibly… depressing, to say the least.

She often wonders about that. Like, a lot.

How different things might have been, if Aubrey had never reached out to her militaristic father in the first place in order to arrange a spot on the USO tour.

Because overanalyzing things to cultivate the negatives out of positives is something of a peachy pastime for her. It's unhelped, it's really not necessary, but Beca dwells nevertheless. She lacerates her mind about things better left forgotten and she sweats it. She's a muser, and she thinks, knows, that maybe there's something wrong there. Yet nonetheless, she doesn't see the point in changing what she believes to be merely a slight downside to being a self-anointed freethinker.

Amy had once heralded her, "Ah, thee th're, Prophet of Doom, thy nameth is Killjoy."

But Amy says a lot of things.

It takes her moment, a fickle second blurred in amongst the near-constant diversified haze of ongoing music, voices, and energy charged by the neon-fuelled night, but when she realizes that Theo, bless his little heart, has been talking to her, guilt pools within her like muck. "… and if I were to hazard a guess," he continues, blissfully unaware of her wayfaring mind. It prompts her into a gracious smile. "I imagine our mutual friend, DJ Khaled, would say something along the lines of, 'it's straight to the victory line from here.'"

Stupefied, but nevertheless unwilling to maim his encouragement, she quickly nods and breathes in. "He's a… special guy, that one."

"Well, certainly enlightening in a sort of savvy way, I'll give him that."

Nodding. More nodding, "Yeah, sure. I can see that."

He laughs. "Though I'm happy I could alleviate some of your concerns. I know it can be rather stupefying. It's a big thing…" He signals with his hand, gesturing to the throngs of aimless people wreathed in digital light and fluoresces, "… all this. I appreciate you listening."

She nods mechanically, once more, with little to no deviation. Though in reality, and admittedly without saying, she's grateful for his fortitude, "Yeah, that's… awesome. Fine, I mean. It's fine. Sure." Jesus H. Christ, Beca.

"So we're definitely good to check off the nitty-gritty publication of 'Beca Mitchell's au'naturel autobiography' from the itinerary I just talked about then? It was the only way I could elude further questions from the journalists."

…

Fuck.

"I, actually," she starts, and in the name of all that is secular and non-vulgar, he's already hoisted an absurdly manicured brow and grinning down at her like the Cheshire cat, "maybe, have some choice ideas for… that. Namely, the whole thing."

It would be insulting if the whole thing wasn't so ridiculous.

"It's my turn to be coy," he says.

She lets out a breathy chuckle. "Dude, what are you…? Twelve?"

"Oh, what gave it away, the beard? Accede to defeat, Mitchell. Or… maybe pay attention next time? Because aside from your inattentive hearing, you seem to lack the cognitive ability to properly see with your own two eyes. Twelve, really? I thought you were original."

She forces herself to try and relax, despite the overwhelming part of her that's competitive, easily agitated and vociferous when presented with a challenge. It's straight up screaming for retribution. She's aware of his teasing, the deliberate goad and willful intent behind it, but she can't help but take it personally. In a sort of defend-thy-honour habitual kind of way. With an exaggerated eye roll, she says, "Well, there's no need to repeat yourself, sweetie. I ignored you perfectly fine the first time, and you picked me. Remember that."

"Yes, you like to dally away to far-off things, don't you? It's hard to get your attention back, let alone keep it. I should know."

"Well, that's just rude."

"It's… accurate?"

"That's, totally, not that true." Her face, she knows, is crinkling up into a laughably pained expression. Mostly because she doesn't believe what she's saying, or how she's saying it.

"What just happened?" His own face was quickly becoming the epitome of skepticism, a pinnacle of which she'd already ascended in her highly colored mortification. She must admit though, between the both of them, the banter merited a medal. "Before. You had absolutely no idea what I was saying."

"Apparently I was off in la-la land or something. It's hard to keep up with the semantics of it all. You should really write that down somewhere."

He's shaking his head, and he doesn't know what to do with his hands because they're all over the place by virtue of his ever-tangling bewilderment. She counts it as a victory. If you can't slay 'em, she thinks, confuse 'em. "I… don't even know where to go from here, to be perfectly honest."

"Hm, well. I accept apologies in the form of blundering invasive Brits, thank you."

He spends a long moment just looking at her. "Seriously?"

"Too soon?"

"Is this, here… is this going to be a constant?" He's motioning a finger between them and simultaneously scrunching up his face at the notion, like he already knows the answer, and it's terrible. "Because if we're going to be doing this on a regular basis then I'd like to take a monthly sabbatical. Please, and thank you."

"You're welcome, and that hurts my feelings."

"Would you like a fruit basket to compensate?"

She caves. "If you ever," and he's frowning slightly with his head slightly inclined, listening, "ever," she steps forward and thrusts her microphone threateningly into his chest, "mention a fruit basket to me again, or any other well-prepared assortment of fruit condensed into a nimbly woven container," Theo, completely taken aback, has already splayed his hands up in defeat. His head is shaking from side to side, unsure and taking it all in and still grinning like an overweening bonehead, when Beca bites out the last sentence. "I will design a machine that will throw your body down an eternal flight of carpeted stairs so you die by carpet burn and broken limbs."

Mortification quickly flashes like an unforeseen panic attack over his face as triumph brightens hers. She's a reservoir pompous self-satisfaction when she hastily adds, "Also, I'll shave your beard."

"I'm done."

She scoffs. "Done? We're done?"

He stares at her, completely dumbfounded and shamed beyond all reason, "You don't threaten a man's beard, Mitchell."

"Listening to you right now only validates my belief that you need to seek therapeutic treatment if that's what you picked up from all that just now."

"Okay, but… white flag here. Don't shave my beard, please…" he shoves his hands complacently into his pockets and leans forward a little with a whisper, "Fruit baskets? What on Earth… do I even want to know?"

"It's a sore spot, I'll admit."

"What a wonderful example of eye-popping stupidity."

"Take a note, underling."

The look in his eyes. It's almost hard to place, she thinks. It's something akin to unsettled confusion and astonishment, with a portion of willful ignorance. "Anything else I should know?"

Tapping her chin, she considers, "What, like, dislikes, passions, pet peeves? Are we playing twenty questions now?"

"Whatever tickles your fancy, I suppose. We're going to be spending a lot of time together. So…"

"I don't like brown M&M's."

"Um, excuse me?"

"Like, if I wanted regular chocolate, I'd buy regular chocolate. Brown M&M's are just nonsensical items in an otherwise colorful collection, right? Not to mention, there's also more artificial coloring in the brown than other M&M's."

He immediately sweeps his hand through the air, automatically ticking off the non-existent checklist above her head with a tapered finger. "Weird, but oddly concise. Anything else?"

"Rain makes me sad."

A nod, then another short tick through the air. "Deep. Likes?"

She ignores the stupidity she feels circumvents the question, and instead begins to methodically number the points over her hand. "Music, obviously. Playing it, writing it. Showers. Food. Having something 'click.' Flannel shirts…"

"Flannel… shirts?"

"No fabric epitomizes the free spirit so much as a flannel, my friend."

"Alright, New Age traveler. Any regrets?"

She likes this. Whatever it is they're doing that constitutes a friendship. And that's what it is, really, she thinks. She honestly hadn't expected it, because there hadn't been any prior evidence to suggest that she'd actually get along with Theo apart from their mutual interest in music and whatnot. His very-obvious interest in her, romantically, had been a little off-putting. His apology, however, kept her doubt in check. She wasn't interested. At all, and professionally, in a hypothetical romantic scenario, it was all kinds of messed up and just… absurd to her. There's a part of her that thinks that Theo knows this, she hopes. It's weird. But he'd apologized. Wanted them to forget it, even. So she's inclined to believe that, yes, he knows. Now that she's officially going to be a soon-to-be-signed solo-artist and possible songwriter onto the label he represented, having this little on-going repartee with him suppressed whatever imbalances she felt in regards to, well, the whole damn thing. "I once forgot my headphones, then ended up on public transit next this incredibly loud speaker."

He rolls his eyes sheepishly and she's almost certain he wants to get into that further, but he expunges any and all questions regarding said memory. "That sounds almost horrifying," he mocks, "That's your deepest regret, is it?"

"Two words: Candy Crush."

He smiles a touch too darkly and casts his glance furtively once again over the crowds amassing into the beautifully constructed and cobbled citadel. They were finally beginning to converge. Taking their respective seats and preparing, no doubt, for another stellar performance or commemoration for the occasion. From where they were standing out of the public view backstage, it looked almost remarkably rhythmical in the way they all settled in accord.

"I think I can have a guess at something," Theo interjects suddenly.

She raises a brow, with a glinting blue eye and a smile gleaming over her lips. "Oh yeah?"

"One word," he begins.

"I'm riddled with anticipation."

Without a breath of hesitation or delay, he says, "Chloe."

Her eyes slide into his, just as quickly and unexpectedly as the smile on her face vanishes away.

There's a hollow moment, tensed. Ringing was the sound in her ears.

Far off, in the distance, Beca can make out the rolling of applauses and uproarious acclimations as the next act begins. A din pandemonium of thermionic music starts up, bass noise, full-toned and beating rapidly, so heavily and thickly just as the blood within her veins suddenly beats too hotly to bear. It's a resounding, repetitive thump, thump, in her ears.

Theo, at least, has the aptitude to look somewhat apologetic. The nerve was struck. "There it is," he says quietly.

She opens her lips, with a small breath. "What?" She's beginning to shake her head incredulously. "I mean, I don't…"

He only stares, for all that's worth, not daring to blink even for a moment. "I get it, you know."

"Get what?" She's partially aware of how her voice sounds right now. Can see, how he absorbs it after a few incalculable seconds, one pregnant beat after the other. She knows just how unjustifiably annoyed she's become. It's a light of exasperated frequency, sounding almost bitter against the mounting pressure she feels within her chest. It's not enough that she feels vulnerable all of a sudden, a sensation of which she neither wants nor cares for, but it's not knowing why, exactly.

Thump, thump.

She exhales, rallies herself as well as her wits, and blinks.

Takes a moment.

Beca does know. Is… at least, reluctantly aware of it. The urge to forgo it was irresistible, though useless in the end, really. Only, acknowledging it simply makes it real.

"I'm sorry," Theo. A light gleams across his eyes as a beaming strobe attuned to the cybernated rhythms flashes against the backdrop. People are singing, clapping, cheering. They're methodically trilling to the music and equal parts matched to the beats given. She wonders fleetingly, regretfully, if the Bella's are there, all collated together in blissful harmony. She wants to be there with them, she realizes. Wants to be wherever they are. Only…

"I saw it. Well, saw you, actually. How you looked, when she locked lips with that soldier."

Her voice, grave and low, softly chuckles as she absorbs his words, one awful word after the other, in all their biting transparency. "And yet, you still tried to kiss me."

He shrugs his shoulders, a light of laughter returning to his guiltless features. "I'm a scumbag."

"A sympathetic scumbag, at least."

A novella of remarks look like they want to escape his grinning mouth as he opens it, then promptly closes it before opting for anything. It doesn't escape her that, along with the adorning merriment accompanying his charismatic face, there's a subtle flare of pity there as well that weighs like lead. It's barely there, underlining, but there nevertheless.

"Does she know?" he asks, voice genuine.

She bows her head. Breathes. Long, plaited hair falls over her face. She pushes it back with an air of frustration and sighs a little too loudly for comfort as her eyes drift skyward in defeat. "Dude, just… leave it," and when Beca's clouded eyes fall back, gaze trailing dispiritedly over the man standing dubiously before her, she's remiss not to realize the burden, in all its painful gravity, of just how twisted and ripped her resolve has now become. "Please." Stinging.

Quick. Easy. Like a papercut.

The executor, with his seemingly heavy heart and unexpected benevolence, nods. There's concern there, she notes, for her. Genuine. It makes her forget for a moment, however cursory the feeling. He knows better, she thinks, and she's grateful for it.

"You'll be alright," he states then, with not an ounce of ambiguity. He's walking, watching her still with careful sincerity. He saunters passed her and she follows with a punctured frown, wondering. When he settles by the foot of the stairway and stares off and over at the stage with his hands secured above his hips, he looks back as she wordlessly fixes herself beside him. "You're Beca Mitchell, right?"

She can see them from here, and automatically she feels lulled into serenity. The Bella's are standing up in front of their allocated seats, along with the rest of the enlivened crowd. They're clapping to the ongoing musical cadence, laughing together, singing in unison, and gravitated to the sound and echoing the thrill of the occasion shared by many. "You think?" she asks suddenly, albeit with a smile now as her glazed-over eyes spot each of the girls within their perfectly content demeanors. There's Amy, and Cynthia Rose, in all their shameless glory. Lilly is dancing with Mr. Social Anxiety, and Jessica and Ashley are typically in their own little upbeat world, hand in hand and always laughing. Her heart sores with affection at Emily, who seems hopelessly forsaken to glee as a child is in a toy store on Christmas. Aubrey is there trying to curb the brunettes sprightliness, though she appears much the same, and Flo is off on a tandem all on her own. Her heels are off and in her hands.

Chloe is not there.

Neither is whatshisname.

"Of course," He throws her another narrowed-eyed glace. "Trial and error, Mitchell. Trial and error. The universe can be a whimsical thing, like life, really. Just imagine it being the music industry for a moment. It's okay to restart and recreate. Just remember there's always another chance."

In truth, she wants to agree. Acknowledges, even, that there is some wisdom in his endearing optimism.

But Beca's lips have parted, ever-so-slightly, and she's breathing in, lost.

Her eyes draw thinly far afield despite the self-shrilling protests, and she cannot help it. The heaviness of her heart…

And sees, with a sudden aching lurch beneath her rib cage, Chloe and Chicago on the other side of the theatre.

Completely and undeniably enamored with one another.

"Yeah. Sure."

There's something so terribly poignant about realizing an abrupt and unforeseen truth, Beca thinks.

It's like nothing you've ever felt before. Every little thing is reconsidered. Every minute detail; deconstructed, rendered abruptly, into tiny little pieces, then analyzed into a near passing hysteria. Until truth and illusion become interchangeable. You become an unbeknownst slave to history and all its probable hidden meanings. It's strange, really, how it happens. How you can live beside someone in ignorance, with the inability to realize the cues screaming in the limelight. It's a fantastic disregard of sorts, as the pale imitation of the world lightens and burns in the reflection of the eyes you find yourself suddenly doting upon. Harmony is the spirit of your existence, and you revel in it, in all its wonderment, because it's safe. It's nice, and it's understanding.

Until, with waking clarity, the ill-lighted scope of reality closes in around you, and darkens.

Because it's the frightening realization that you've known something of substance all along, for a long time, yet never acted upon it, which hurts the most. It's a muscle ache that won't go away. Water that you can't quite drink. It's a… constant, gnarling curiosity, with all its terrible weight. And fuck, it hurts. It really does.

So when she sees Chloe smiling brilliantly from across the stage, laden in close-fitting black leather, all legs, bliss, and sunlit red hair rolling brightly under the glittering film of light… something interesting happens to Beca then. It manifests into an abrupt reality, a wave of a larger existence where everything else is merely just an afterthought. It hits her just as quickly as it frightens her, and all at once it fills her with the worst kind of yearning. She's breathless and torn because what she feels now is too far gone. It's wrong and it's misplaced. She's feeling nothing because she's feeling everything because there's nothing she can do. There's nothing she can do without feeling rash or dumb because whatever it is she's feeling now… it's become unreachable.

Magnetized, powerless, Beca sees her.

Looks, without forethought.

Their eyes merge together from across the luminous amphitheater. The world around her falls quiet as Chloe, hand in hand with Chicago, flashes Beca a gorgeous smile coupled with a friendly wink of voiceless implication. She's all excitement, bubbly exterior, and beautiful harmony. She's waving with a small bounce in her step and then turning away before Beca can even think to concoct a smile to field back in acknowledgment. She's latching onto another, fingers pulling and eyes enraptured. The man's arms are around her, locking, and his gleeful grin is so unbelievably far-reaching and happy and suddenly Beca feels all her thoughts and feelings explode all around her. She's pinned against the truth, defenseless against its sway and seized once more, quickly, when Chloe's eyes flitters back to Beca. So she smiles back. She shows her teeth, she accedes to the redheads draw and waves back with a beam of playfulness because she can't help it. It's fruitless and it's too late.

Cracked in her defeat and, still smiling, she grits her teeth and exhales in a throaty whisper, "Fuck."

AN's: Let's smoke this meat.