Beca leads the way, stumbling past doorways and furniture. You follow her closely — at least, as closely as you can while half-carrying Chloe, whose legs had ceased to function in the last few minutes. Beca slings Chloe's arm over her shoulder in the last few yards to your car, letting you run ahead and open the door.

She smoothly deposits Chloe in the back seat and attempts to follow, bumping her head on the roof as she did.

"Are you —" you start to ask, but she only shakes her head. She tries to get into the car again and hits her head a second time. You're still stressed from being caught with Chloe, but this almost makes you crack a smile: Beca, impressive composer and attentive lover, can't get into a four-door sedan.

"Here," you beckon, opening the door to the passenger seat, and she ducks in. "Lower." She pauses, chuckles, and bends her knees, getting inside without a hitch.

"So used to riding shotgun," she mumbles when you get into the driver's seat.

"You've been drinking, too," you console.

Beca checks Chloe on the rear-view mirror. The redhead had curled up on the backseat, asleep.

"Am I that drunk, or were you and Chloe really…"

You start the engine and let it roar, hoping she'd abandon the question altogether. When you finally look over, her face is buried in her hands.

"I am so drunk," she whispers into them, the words sounding like they were spoken underwater. For a moment you're unsure what to do next, but then her shoulders start shaking and you realize drunk is her way of admitting confusion. You scramble out of your seatbelt to hold her.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into her hair. "I'm sorry." The gearshift presses painfully into your rib, but you're too absorbed in making her feel better through sheer will to care. "Will you at least let us explain?"

She scoffs into your shoulder.

"It's hard to believe, but I promise you there is a rational, rather…strange truth behind all of this." You cup her face into your hands, drying her tear-stained cheeks. "You were trying to tell me you loved me earlier." She nods. "I love you, too. Nothing about this is meant to hurt you. But if any of this is going to work, you need to trust us. Please."

She considers, her dark eyes searching your face, and nods again.

"Okay. Let's get us home."

Chloe is so far gone that she doesn't even register being clumsily carried out of the car, or being dropped into the hallway when Beca kicked the door closed. To Beca's credit, she quickly catches Chloe before she brings all three of you down.

You steer them towards your bedroom, but Beca clutches Chloe and holds her ground.

"My bedroom," she growls.

You're too tired to map where this possessiveness is coming from, so you wordlessly march to their bedroom and watch as Beca presses Chloe into bed. She's removing Chloe's shoes when the redhead suddenly sits up.

"What?" Beca asks, slightly alarmed.

"You are so jealous," Chloe slurs, and then she starts to laugh. Beca glances at you — rather, tries to — before Chloe cups her chin, drawing her back. "You suffer from being excluded…being aggressive…" Beca flinches, her full attention now on Chloe, "…crazy. Common."

Chloe's eyes sweep unsteadily across the room until they find you, her gaze bright.

"Do you even know how long Bree's felt that way?"

You're holding your breath, and so is Beca, judging from the catch in her voice as she responds. "No."

"You idiot," Chloe chastises, her smile gone. She thumbs the back of Beca's neck with her other hand, caressing it languidly before kissing her. You feel awkward, intrusive, at witnessing this moment that is solely meant for the two of them. You retreat as quietly as possible and shut the door.

In your bedroom you find your copy of A Lover's Discourse — a book Chloe gave you on some distant Christmas or birthday or maybe even a nothing day, because Chloe is fond of giving you things before you'll ever want or need them. The first page of the book still reads C.M. Beale in her looped handwriting.

You leaf through it until you find the line on jealousy that Chloe had paraphrased. It doesn't hold your interest, despite knowingexactly what Beca and Chloe are doing in the other room. You flip through the pages absently until another passage, underlined in pencil, catches your eye. You never mark your books; you never fold pages. Chloe underlined this in the past for you to inadvertently find in the present.

Sometimes I want to play the part of the one who doesn't wait; I try to busy myself elsewhere, to arrive late; but I always lose at this game. Whatever I do, I find myself there, with nothing to do, punctual, even ahead of time. The lover's fatal identity is precisely this: I am the one who waits.

When you finally drift off to sleep, the book resting on your chest, it is dawn.

"Hi."

Chloe's above you, taking the book from your hand and setting it neatly on your bed.

"What —?" For a moment you're disoriented by her presence. She never woke you up, even when you still lived together. You gradually recognize the impressions she's left around the house: soft music in the living room, traces of lavender in the air.

She plants the lightest of kisses on your nose. "Today's the day," she whispers.

You actually had not planned anything for this morning, having assumed a conversation would happen between the three of you last night.

"Come." She's beaming. "I made pancakes. Or tried to, until Beca took over."

You sit up, trying to collect your anxious thoughts. "What are we going to do?"

"Well," Chloe moves to coil herself around you, "we wait for an organic moment to bring up our history, I believe, and then I'd tell Beca how long I've been in love with a bookish, svelte, incredible blonde…"

"...and I with you." It's there again, the odd twinge in your chest. A surge of fondness that makes you wrap your arms around Chloe.

"And then we make out."

"We don't," you protest, weakly. She's nuzzling your throat, your face, her hands everywhere all at once until she senses you melting underneath her weight.

"We'll see," she hums.

Beca's pouring coffee when you get to the kitchen — the last step in her breakfast routine, with or without Chloe. You don't have to glance around to know she'd already set the table and put out the butter crock. Beca is the kind who would miss classes due to sheer forgetfulness, but maintained order in the most unexpected places.

You place a hand on her shoulder. "Hi."

She half-turns and hands you a mug. "Hey." In the cold morning the steam rising off it is a welcome feeling. Beca's gaze linger over your lips; not suspect, just…curious. They feel swollen after all the kissing you and Chloe had done.

Instead of saying anything, however, Beca only presses her face to your hand. And just as quickly, she sets off to stop Chloe from taking a pancake with her fingers.

It's jarring to settle into your usual seat at the kitchen counter and see the two of them right there. Little breath-laughs escape Chloe every so often, her halo of curls glinting red and copper in the light of day. Beca is sharp and somber: spur-of-the-moment witticisms, cheekbones that could cut glass, red-rimmed eyes.

"...Bree?" Chloe calls out.

You've been waiting for an opening for so long that the lull of their voices has given you a rise. Your coffee is cold when you lift it to your parched lips. The liquid does nothing because your nerves had been mounting since leaving your bed.

Chloe senses your turmoil. "Beca," she starts, in the calmest voice you've ever heard her use, "you know Bree and I have been best friends for a very long while, right? We share my family, we've weathered so much together, we've…" she turns to you with a smile, "we know everything about each other, don't we?"

You nod, your heart pounding too fast to speak. But before Chloe could go on, Beca exhales — unknowingly throwing a wrench into your planned spiel.

"I know what this is about." She glances at you, then Chloe, her pale and tortured expression the complete contrast of the redhead's hopeful demeanor. And she did not know at all, because the next thing she says is, "I'm cheating on you with Aubrey," before bowing her head, hands clutching at her hair.

Clearly it's up to you to restore order, with Chloe thrown in a mild panic by Beca's guilt. It had been nothing but sudden — Beca's reddened eyes should have clued you in — but your chest still aches seeing her like this.

"Beca." You reach across the counter to Chloe, who grips your hand. Hers was equally clammy. "It's okay. Chloe already knows."

"And it's totally fine," Chloe adds, "because I was actually trying to tell you I love Bree, like…romantic-style."

"I love Chloe, too." Chloe raises an eyebrow at your brevity. "Romantic-style," you concede, throwing your free hand in the air, "which doesn't even have to be said, given what you saw us doing at the party last night."

Beca lifts her head enough to see your entwined hands on the counter. Her voice wavers when she asks, "What are you saying?"

Chloe brushes tears off Beca's face with gentle fingers. "Since we're both clearly in love with you…" she inhales slowly, almost inaudibly, before she finishes, "we're saying the three of us should date."

Beca's looking back and forth at you and Chloe, mind undoubtedly on overdrive, probably gauging where you fall on the scale from crazy to serious.

If she says anything, anything other than yes, you will fucking break everything in sight.

Beca's silence stretches on.

"Do you need time to think about it?" Chloe prompts. You're clenching your jaw so hard you'll need a hard slap to the face to ever regain the use of your mouth.

"I — don't have to," Beca finally breathes out. "Yes. Yes. I have so many questions, but yes."

And it turns out you didn't need a slap; it only takes Beca saying yes to split your face into a smile so wide and painful it would give you a headache later. Chloe pulls Beca in for a kiss, and then you, across the counter, for another.

She is yours.

They are yours.

"I'm not sure I can stop being jealous," Beca admits.

The three of you had moved to the living room couch, where Beca, and occasionally Chloe, peppered you with questions on how all of this would work. Chloe broke out the wine bottles sometime around noon; pizza, courtesy of Beca, appeared an hour afterwards.

"That's a natural reaction, and one you shouldn't keep to yourself." You pour yourself more wine, having completely shaken off your midday-boozing apprehensions by your second glass. This is a reward, anyway; while Chloe didn't care for your collected literature on polyamory, you couldn't be more proud of yourself for having memorized them. "We're so used to defining fidelity in terms of monogamy, so it's understandable that you'd be jealous whenever Chloe is with me. We're also used to treating jealousy as an irrational emotion that needs to be buried. But if we want this to work, we have to address our jealousies — and turn them to compersion in the long run."

"...uh, what's comper-?"

Before you can answer, Chloe leaps from the middle of the couch to brazenly sit on your lap. "This makes you jealous?" she asks Beca, and, as if you weren't stunned enough, she takes your hand and presses it to her breast.

"Chloe!" The heat creeping up your face now seems par for the course, given Chloe's aversion to keeping her hands to herself. And she wasn't even drunk yet.

Also, palming Chloe's breast felt…nice.

"I'm jealous you get to touch Aubrey," Beca deadpans, "not the other way around, babe."

Chloe hardly deflates. She stretches one leg until it reaches Beca, attempting to slide it between Beca's thighs. Beca jumps up so fast she almost drops her wine glass.

"Chicken." Chloe sticks out a tongue at her. Beca resumes her seat, blue eyes going darker and darker as Chloe mindlessly fawns over your hair.

"How is sex going to work?" Beca finally asks, voice several octaves lower than usual.

"I'd fuck you both," Chloe immediately answers, "apart, and together. I won't mind if you have sex without me — which, let's face it, is probably going to happen a lot when I go back to college."

Chloe's frank answer is short-circuiting your brain. You've often imagined the three of you doing things together — most of them innocuous, the dirtiest somewhere along the lines of pairing off with them in public spaces — but sleeping with both of them at once had been a very remote possibility, a bridge you refused to cross, or even look at until Beca had agreed to be with you and Chloe.

And now Chloe just drove all three of you to the precipice.

"I'm fine having the same terms," you muster — more than fine, in fact, because sex with both of them at the same time is now all you can think of. Beca is deeply intimate in bed; Chloe is extremely open-minded, and you're willing to bet she's into some strange kinks. The two of them combined…

Beca is looking from you to Chloe, clearly thinking along the same lines.

"Wow. Okay, well…"

"Use your words, honey," Chloe drawls, her voice low, and at this, Beca blushes furiously — an inside joke you're dying to take part in.

"I've been with both of you separately, and the whole…three-way, it all sounds hot, in theory," Beca acquiesces. "But I think I'm going to have a heart attack if we do it right away, so…can we take that last one slow?"

"Aww, babe," Chloe coos. "We'll take it as slow as you like."

"We kind of have to," you add, regaining some semblance of logic to placate Beca's very real fear — insecurity comes to you like second nature, and being with two people as amazing as Beca and Chloe would surely make you deal with it more than usual. "I need both of you to understand that a lot of our time is going to be spent checking in on each other — even more than you did as a couple. We have to negotiate, we have to be specific," and you smile at Beca as you say this, "we have to be honest, especially if our feelings ever change. Are you both okay with that?"

"Totally." Chloe puts an arm around you and kisses the top of your head. "No more secrets."

"No more secrets." Beca scoots closer, taking your hand. Then she continues solemnly, "I guess now's the best time to say I hide peanut butter cups in the kitchen but I keep forgetting which drawer, exactly, so…"

Epilogue, Part I of III: Chloe

"Done right, turkey breasts can be really good. And the best thing is you can actually add the stuffing into the turkey before roasting them for less work. I mean, it's called stuffing, anyway…"

Aubrey's parking the car in record time and somehow still non-stop brilliantly arguing why turkey must be part of your Throuple Thanksgiving dinner. Aubrey's driving is grade-A, like most of the things she does; whereas you've been banned from driving her car exactly two days after she bought it from your sister Caroline (who never let you drive the car, either). Apparently you 'talk so much you miss turns'and 'run too many red lights' and 'break the side mirrors too often while parking'. Whatever.

The store parking lot is only a quarter occupied. Aubrey had insisted on going just in time for opening, when it wouldn't be too crowded; just one of the million things she factors in when planning something as normal as a trip to Trader Joe's. "You've been outvoted two to one, babe," you tell Aubrey. "Need I remind you of Beca's opinion on turkey and cranberries? They're always as appetizing as —"

"— week-old roadkill," Aubrey finishes, wrinkling her nose. Adorably, if you may add. "I suppose Cornish game hens would be juicier. Fine."

"Goody. And now the Throuple Thanksgiving shopping commences!" You give her an excited hug before getting out of the car. You're giddy just imagining the food samples inside.

"That is…not a thing," Aubrey mutters as you drag her through the doors — she's reviewing the grocery list, probably making sure she doesn't have to go through the same aisle twice or something. If it was Beca you were with she'd be riding a cart now, but she's off covering Jesse's morning shift at the radio station, despite your numerous pleas for her to ditch.

With Aubrey, at least, you won't forget anything and be forced to panic-rush a 7-Eleven later.

Aubrey immediately puts you to work, making you push the cart while she computes pricing on her phone and gauges your culinary opinion on everything from flat-leaf parsley to green bean casserole. After that, she stops you from taking a third sample of cold brew latte dessert popsicles in the frozen food section — which, okay, is reasonable in hindsight — but you're bored and pouting by the time she says, "Buying a whole pie is too much. How about baked sweet potatoes with maple and brown butter?"

"You never let me have any fun," you retort, maybe a little too dramatically. Still, the pout-and-feet-stomp ploy works. It's almost too easy sometimes.

"Why don't you cool off at the sample section while I finish?" She steers the cart off your hands, giving you a distracted peck on the mouth. Before you can skip back to the frozen items, she adds, sternly, "Not with the popsicles."

So you graze at the samples section to your heart's content, and stay there long enough to make friends with the store employees manning the area. An Asian girl named Elaine even lends you her lei necklace so you can offer people little cups of eggnog. You've taken a third popsicle and invited her and the others to Beca's DJ set at The Garage when you remember you're here to help Aubrey with the groceries.

You find her at the counter, chatting amicably with the cashier as her items are rung up.

For years, people like this cashier would only ever meet Business Barbie Aubrey: the version who struts into rooms with her chin jutting out, back too straight, barking orders at everything in sight. Seeing Aubrey completely relaxed, putting her kindest foot forward — living her best self at Trader Joe's, of all places — makes your heart melt in new and unexpected ways.

You'd like to think you converted Aubrey into a believer of human nature all by yourself, but your girlfriend also had a hand in that. (Your other girlfriend, you quickly correct yourself). It killed you to spend your first days in Baltimore completely cut off from the two people you loved most. But it forced Beca to see Aubrey in her own light; it made Beca care in ways you never even asked.

You're just so proud of both of them.

This feeling floods you as you stand in the produce aisle, so you're grinning by the time Aubrey waves you over. "Feel better?" she asks with a smile. You nod and loop an arm around hers.

"My girlfriend," she says to the cashier ruefully, before rubbing at something on your chin. "She likes your latte popsicles too much."

.

.

.

Aubrey is so precious, you think to yourself, mesmerized by her silken-halo hair every time it caught light from the kitchen window. There's no reason you can't have her now; it's two in the afternoon, the house is quiet, and this entire Thanksgiving suburbia fever dream needs rocking, anyway —

She's putting away the last of the groceries by the sink when you stand behind her, slipping a hand into her nape. She leans into the touch, a trusting fawn, and all you can think of is roughhousing her and pushing her head over the sink. But Aubrey doesn't know you're an imp — yet; doesn't know the frenetic cat-and-mouse sex games that you like; best to take it easy, you surmise, as you slip your other hand up front, unbuttoning her blouse.

"What are you…"

You know perfectly well, you wanted to growl as you make quick work of the front clasp of her bra, pulling fabric and straps off. Instead you remain completely silent, stoking desire with practiced hands. You drag your teeth across her pale shoulders. You don't fumble when you lift her breasts from their cups, you do it so lightly she actually sighs. You couldn't see her face but how hot would it be if Beca came home now, passing the kitchen window and seeing everything you're missing? Aubrey's flush, Aubrey's fine, fine collarbones, Aubrey's tits are out in full view of the driveway for everyone to see.

The thought is so panty-twisting fucking hot it makes you press her harder into the sink.

"Anyone can see us," Aubrey laughs, half-crazed.

"Anyone," you agree hoarsely. You slide palms over her breasts, going in a firm, measured pace, trying to obliterate any more of her coherent thoughts. Aubrey is smooth, soft, positively buttery; you know you just have to taste her all over later.

The material of her skirt — luxury suede in deeply arresting sienna — is sandpaper next to the inside of her thigh. You bunch up the hemline as your right hand goes higher, higher, and she hums as you kiss her neck, a pleasured vibration that hitches sharply when you reach her underwear. Silk, soaked, it slips aside like nothing under your steady fingers. You've never been big on religion, but now you're praying Beca would come home very fucking soon.

You rub Aubrey the way you rub yourself standing, in the shower and in front of your bedroom mirror.

Aubrey is self-conscious, refusing to make anything louder than the occasional gasp. You push her stance wider with your leg and she leans back into you, canting her hips towards your moving hand. Her breathing becomes increasingly labored, but she is rigid, entire being bottled before the friction from your fingers.

And then, at the last possible moment before she tips over, you draw your hand away.

She whimpers, clearly very close, and she jolts a little when you touch her thigh again. But you only pull her skirt down and make a show of wiping your fingers on the suede.

"Took you five years to admit you loved me back," you taunt in her ear. "What's the rush?"

"God fucking dammit, Chloe," Aubrey hisses desperately — you're glad to see her claws are still there — but she's drawn so taut she's unaware you're still mostly supporting her weight. You release her without warning and she collapses forward on the sink, almost to her knees.

"Were you close?" you ask idly.

She nods, her back still towards you.

"That's called edging, babe, and if you wait just a little bit longer, maybe I'll finger you so hard and good you'll spill profanities out of your pretty mouth. Turn around."

Aubrey spins and she's a sight to behold: half-naked, hair a mess, her dusty-rose nipples erect in the cool air. You pretend to inspect the nails in your hand, making sure you have her full attention, before inhaling her musk on your fingers.

"Bedroom?" There is only one answer. She nods again, which is lazy, really, given how hardworking you were at your errands earlier. "I don't think you want to."

"Yes," Aubrey exhales, green eyes fixed at your hand.

She follows as you walk to her room, albeit slowly, like she was trying not to spill from the overstimulation you've given. You lie in the middle of her bed. She closes the door, posture ramrod-straight in a last show of dignity.

"Who told you to close the door?"

Aubrey looks scandalized. "But Beca —"

"— will just have to see you well and truly fucked, Aubrey. Strip."

A flicker of doubt crosses her face. "W-what?"

"I thought you'd be smarter than this, babe." You make a show of sighing before removing your shoes. "You don't get to do anything until I ask." You take off your shirt. "You don't get to talk until I ask." You pull off your jeans and toss them at Aubrey's chest, reinforcing your point. "You're not going to come…" you touch yourself through the fabric of your underwear, "…until I ask." You tip your head back into the headboard, inhaling the woody, floral scent of Aubrey's skin all over the sheets, and you would have easily masturbated to completion if Beca hadn't been fucking you these past few nights. You bend your knees and spread your legs wider, really putting on a fucking show. When you hear Aubrey moving towards the bed, you open your eyes.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes." Her eyes are wide, hypnotized by your brazenness.

"Strip," you order. Aubrey slowly removes her skirt and panties. She is hauntingly beautiful; she could pass for ethereal if not for the goosebumps on her arms. And you're demented, dying to debase her, wanting nothing more than to be fused to her from mouth to hole.

"Come here," you almost beg. She lies next to you and makes the smallest of moans when you coil yourself around her, wrapping her into your arms and the covers.

"Undress me," you murmur into her temple, carefully setting your trap.

She had been ogling you for years: eyeing you as you change into your Bella uniform, or come out of the shower. So you understand when she lingers at her task, reaching for your bra and panties almost reverently, eyes drinking deep as she bares your skin.

She eventually takes everything off with light fingers, and now there really are no more secrets. You kiss her, touch her in the most worshipful way, try to tell her the opposite of your commands: this is a game, this is how it is to be with me, this isn't going to hurt. You work your hands, mouth and body all over her, going up and down and all directions, wanting to hear more than her pulse thrumming underneath yours. She forces contact with anything her center can press on: your knee, your thigh. But she is still in her head, holding back sound.

"What are you being quiet for?"

Her eyes are shut, too aroused to speak, and this is just perfect. You rub her left cheek with your other hand, as if caressing her — then make a learned estimate and strike her, firmly, with your palm.

She yelps in indignant surprise. You have her full attention now.

"I don't enjoy quiet fucking, Aubrey." You rub the spot where you slapped her, making sure she isn't hurt. Her cheek will be smarting for a few seconds with no lasting damage. "Makes me think you're not enjoying yourself." You push two fingers into her mouth. Beca bites when you do this, but Aubrey opens her mouth wider, lapping at you with her tongue. Oh, she is very, very good. "What — are you — being quiet for?" you demand again, withdrawing your fingers and slipping them inside you. Your knees collapse at the much-needed friction: this feels downright fucking euphoric, and you hotly moan so above her.

"I — have to," Aubrey barely gets out from parted lips, watching all the hedonistic expressions crossing your face.

"Says who?" You pull out with a lot of effort — it'll have to wait, you want her to make you come — and move down her sweat-slicked breasts, toying with them, lulling her into another false sense of security before nipping at them with your teeth. She gasps, a notch louder than her own tortured breathing. It's still nowhere as loud as you want her to be.

You cup her between the legs — Christ, she is wet — and start rubbing slick, slow circles, fingers fluttering and dipping. The smell of sweat and wet earth rises towards you, enveloping both of you in its heady steam. Aubrey whimpers, the sounds low and feverish, and you just know she's going to come hard, fast. Beca may reach a part of Aubrey you'll never fully eke out, but you're going to sear yourself into Aubrey's memory in your own debauched way.

"I need an answer," you remind her, slowing down.

"I — I don't —"

You work fingers inside her, all the while drawing your circles smaller and smaller around her clit. There's a hiss from her as she adjusts; the whimpers turn into one delirious, drawn-out whine. She offers her hips higher.

"Use—" thrust — "your—" thrust — "words," you drawl in your most sarcastic tone as you plumb her deep for the third time.

"Please," she implores through gritted teeth.

"Please what?" You pick up your rhythm: two shallow dips and then a deeper thrust that grinds the heel of your hand into her clit. Her legs tremble as a succession of toneless, precarious moans tear out of her mouth.

"Fuck me…fuck me…fuck…fuck —"

You hook your fingers inside her and she cries out, once, twice — it cuts through the stupor of the afternoon.

"That's it," you murmur. Her orgasm clenches around your fingers; she is boneless except for her core, bucking so hard you almost slip out of her. She is babbling, riding your hand. "That's it…good girl."

.

.

.

She's staring at the ceiling, trying to catch her breath, when you collapse beside her.

Who would have thought your Aubrey — domineering, order-obsessed, always-gunning-for-number-one Aubrey — is a total fucking switch in bed?

You're mulling over this incongruous fact when Aubrey starts to laugh.

"What…the hell…was that?" she gasps in disbelief.

You slip your arm under her. "Wait 'til we get to face-sitting, babe."

She presses herself into your shoulder, still laughing, and you hold her close, because her joy also courses through your veins somehow. You're throbbing but you'll wait out this calm before the storm: later, on her turn, you'll let her do whatever she pleases. And you weren't this generous with Beca the first time.

"Did I really make you wait five years?" she asks.

You've loved her for far longer, but you're not complaining. "Sophomore year," you remind her.

"Oh, I've had my head up my ass for so long," she sighs. And then, as she brushes hair out of your eyes: "You are the first person I've ever loved."