Micah is an investment banker from Delaware who wears tailored suits, coaches middle school basketball, and always wanted to be a rock star but instead was put into cello lessons at age seven. He has a vinyl collection that Beca would kill for and that he grants her full access to without her even asking, a kind smile, and a wicked sense of sarcasm. He isn't perfect—he works long hours and sometimes forgets birthdays and doesn't really speak to his brother anymore for some unknown reason—but he's pretty perfect for Chloe, and Beca wants to hate him.
She can't, though, because he's classic rock and pop-punk to Chloe's house tech and a capella; because he'll sit for hours talking about whether or not the Clash were as much of as a watershed as they considered themselves to be when Chloe won't last thirty minutes before she starts fidgeting and wanting to dance to Deadmau5; because he treats Chloe with all the flattery she wants and just enough of the pragmatism she needs. Beca wants to hate him, but she can't.
When Chloe and Micah have been together for a year, he surprises her with a weeklong trip to San Francisco to celebrate. Not a week of that year has gone by when Chloe hasn't slept with Beca at least once.
"Beca, hey!"
She slows to a stop at the sound of her name, frowning and tugging the earbuds loose. Her blood thumps heavily through her veins, chest aching from the last two miles, and she turns to see Micah waving at her.
"Hey, what's up?"
"I didn't know you ran," he says. He's also dressed for a run, a wide smile gracing his features. She curses, for the hundredth time, the fact that she only lives a block and a half from Chloe.
She also curses the fact that Micah is obviously about to go from a morning run from Chloe's apartment, where he has half the closet and recently helped her completely reorganize her kitchen.
"I thought I'd give it a try," she says faintly. "I'm not very good at it."
"Do you want to go running together sometime? I keep trying to get Chloe into it, but she'd rather go crazy on an elliptical. I think she's afraid of getting her pretty white running shoes dirty."
Beca glances down at his shoes. They're Brooks, blue and what was once white, broken in and comfortable looking. Her own feet are wrapped in two-year-old New Balances, and she shifts uncomfortably. His eyes follow hers, brow creasing.
"I don't want to sound like a jerk, but…how can you run in those?"
She shrugs. "I just do?"
"You should be careful," he says. "You can really hurt your knees and back if you run with old shoes."
"You can?"
"Yeah, you really can." An easy grin spreads across his lips. "I was actually going to go get a new pair myself this weekend, these have too many miles on them. You want to come with me? You can get some real running shoes."
"I—okay," she says, biting down on her lip. "Sure."
"Awesome." He punches her shoulder gently. "I'm gonna get going. I'll give you a call later, yeah?"
"Sounds great."
He salutes her with a smile and takes off. Beca watches him go, studying his stride for a brief moment before stalking her way into Chloe's building.
She's had a key since Chloe moved in, and Chloe barely blinks her attention away from her yoga when Beca walks in.
"We need to talk."
"Just a sec," Chloe says distractedly.
"No, now." Beca plants herself in front of Chloe.
"Okay? Is everything okay?" A frown creases Chloe's face. "Were you…running?"
"Why is that so shocking?" Beca mutters. "Not the point!"
"What is the point?" A slow smile curls at the corner of Chloe's lips, and her fingers slip under Beca's collar, finding the strap of her sports bra and tugging gently at it.
"That's the point," Beca says, swatting her hand away. "We can't keep—not when you're with Micah."
Chloe huffs, rolling her eyes. "Come on, Beca, it's nothing. Why do you worry about it so much?"
"Because you're treating us both like crap!"
"I am not! Micah and I talked about it, he doesn't care."
"You what?" Beca freezes, jaw dropping. "You told him we—that we're—"
"Not you," Chloe says, frowning. "I wouldn't tell people about your sex life, Beca, not even Micah, you know that. But he knows that I'm not really up for a traditional relationship because I told him up front. We have an agreement. We can both do what we want as long as we're honest about it."
"But you're not honest about it," Beca says slowly. "Unless you did tell him that you've been fucking me in secret for the last year."
"I tell him when I sleep with other people. I don't have to tell him who."
"People? How many—"
Chloe sighs. "It's just you, but he doesn't know that."
"That's what we need to talk about!"
"Why? It's just sex, Beca. We're friends who sleep together sometimes, it's not—"
"I'm gay!" Beca exclaims. "And it's something to me."
"You're…what?"
Beca is certain that Chloe has never looked at her with such surprise before—not when she first sang for the other girl, not when she auditioned for the Bellas, not when she explained the setlist that would win them Nationals for the first time—and she squirms under the scrutiny, fidgeting in her too-old running shoes.
"Say something," she says quietly. "Please just stop looking at me like I punched you."
"You're gay?"
"I think so," Beca says.
"I…oh." Chloe pushes a hand through her hair, taking a deep breath. "I didn't know."
"Are you—"
"No!" Chloe says sharply. "I'm not. We're just—we're friends, and it's just fun."
"Chloe, come on, it's not a bad thing if you are."
"I'm not!" Chloe snaps. Beca stares at her, eyes wide and unsure, because Chloe is the most open person she's ever met, the one who started dragging Cynthia Rose to GSA mixers and gay clubs to find her a girlfriend, but suddenly she's recoiling from the word gay like it might burn her.
"It's not a bad thing," Beca repeats. Her voice hasn't sounded so small since the day her father walked out of her life for his new wife. "Is it?"
"It's—Beca, no, it's not bad if you're gay, of course not." Just like that, her best friend is back, concerned and comforting and warm, her hand hovering over Beca's shoulder and wide blue eyes holding hers. "There's nothing wrong with who you are."
"But you're not gay," Beca says softly. "Then what are we—"
"It's just sex, Beca, come on."
"It's not!" Beca says. "Not for me. I can't just have sex and have it not mean anything, Chloe, you know that's not who I am."
"Fine, okay, we can stop if you want, all right?"
"That's not—Jesus, Chloe, I don't want to stop sleeping with you, I want to be your girlfriend!"
Chloe recoils, her head snapping back as if Beca had punched her. "Beca, I can't—I'm not—"
"Right," Beca says coolly. "You're not gay. We don't want the same things. I got it."
She brushes past Chloe, a cold ache settling in her stomach. She's halfway to the door when Chloe grabs for her wrist, yanking her around.
"Beca, don't, come on, don't leave mad."
Beca jerks her arm free. "Just—stop, okay?" she says, tired. "Just don't. I'm not a kid, Chloe, I can deal with rejection."
"I'm not rejecting you! I'm just not gay."
"But you've been sleeping with me for months," Beca throws back. "It's not just some one-off from your birthday, it's more times than I can count. This isn't something you can just shrug off like a drunk frat party stunt. This isn't me always finding you, this is us finding each other time and again. You keep coming back to me."
"I'm not—Beca, I like guys, I can't be gay."
"Then you're bisexual! Who cares? It doesn't matter!"
"I care! It matters to me."
The ache in Beca's stomach drops out, and she settles back on her heels, arms crossing protectively over her stomach. "What, being gay is good enough for me, but it isn't good enough for you?"
"That's not what I—"
"No, that's exactly what you meant," Beca spits out. "You're such a coward, Chloe, God. You think, what, if you show people enough then they'll never look for anything more? You run around in dorm bathrooms with strangers, you have open adult relationships with your boyfriend, you make out with people on the dance floor, all so no one will ever look deeper and figure it out?"
"There's nothing to figure out!"
"Oh, there is," Beca says lowly. "You're just too afraid to deal with it. Jesus, Chloe, you think I don't know you better than anyone else? I know you, I know you better than your mom, better than Aubrey, better than Micah. You're the only thing in the world I know as well as I know music, and you're a coward."
It's barely of a quarter of a mile from slamming Chloe's door to her own building, but it takes three miles and her chest hurting more from want of air than being let down by her best friend for her to make it home.
In the 48 hours after she came out to Chloe, Beca hasn't heard a word from her. She calls in sick to work, tables every project she's working on, drinks her bodyweight in Jack Daniels, and sleeps for forty of those hours.
Her phone doesn't ring once the entire time.
Sometime around three days after she left Chloe's apartment, Beca is edging into sobriety from her bender, and the pounding on her front door makes her head ache.
"What?" she mutters, yanking the door open.
Chloe is standing in the hallway, leaning heavily against the doorjamb. "Hi," she says breathlessly, eyes glassy and red-rimmed and even drunker than Beca's. She surges forward, fingers tangling clumsily into Beca's hair, and kisses her, heavy and bitter and careless.
Beca stumbles back, yanking at the hands in her hair and jerking away. "Jesus, what the hell?" she spits out, shoving back from Chloe and putting the couch between them.
The door clangs open the rest of the way, and Micah is there, panicked and breathing heavily.
"Oh, thank God," he breathes out. "God, Chloe, don't run out like that."
"Anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" Beca says darkly. Her arms cross over her stomach protectively, and she glares at the way Chloe is swaying drunkenly.
"Nothing," Chloe says, just as Micah says, "We had an argument."
"Go home," Beca snaps. "Both of you, get out of my apartment."
Micah's eyes widen even more, and he turns from Chloe to face Beca. "Are you okay?"
"No!" Beca shouts. "So get out, both of you."
"Beca," Chloe says plaintively. "Don't be angry."
"Don't be angry?" Beca barks out. "Seriously? Micah, I swear to God, get her out of here."
"What's going on?" The words come out slowly, his eyes jerking back and forth between the two of them.
"Your girlfriend is what's going on," Beca says, bitterly. "Or did you miss the whole her showing up and kissing me thing?"
"Beca, you know how our relationship is—"
"Micah, no," Beca snaps. "I don't give a shit about your open relationship because it's stupid and you know it and we all know it, so just don't. Take her home."
"It's not stupid, we're both adults and there's nothing wrong with-"
"It's stupid because she only wants it because she's a coward and you only want it because you don't want to lose her! Everyone is lying to themselves and I'm tired of it, so just stop."
"Becs," Chloe says, reaching out. Beca jerks back, slapping her hand away and wincing at the wounded look flashing across her face.
"Don't," she says quietly. "Did you tell him? How long we've been sleeping together? How I came out to you and how you freaked? How I wanted to be your girlfriend and you freaked even more because you can't possibly be gay? Did you tell him all of that?"
The apartment is silent, Beca glaring at Chloe and Chloe glancing uncertainly at Micah and Micah staring at Beca.
"Yeah," Beca mutters. "I didn't think so." She folds her arms across her stomach once more. "You need to leave. I'm not your hiding place anymore, Chloe, you need to figure your shit out without using me or him or anyone fucking else. Get out."
Chloe is staring at her, eyes wide and confused and hurt, and Beca watches stoically as she crumples, spine curving and chin dropping and shoulders slumping until Micah instinctively grabs her to hold her upright.
"Go home," Beca says softly, for the last time. "Don't do this to me anymore."
She disappears into her bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind her. By the time she emerges, the sun has set and she has a plane ticket in one hand and the number for a moving company in the other.
"So," Jessie says conversationally. He's leaning against a column at baggage claim, hands in his pockets. "Not that I mind my best bro coming to see me, but why did you fly out here in the middle of the night?"
Beca walks straight into him, clutching tightly to his coat and burying her face in his shoulder. His arms hold her up instinctively, pulling her close as she squeezes her eyes shut and focuses on the scratchy wool of his coat.
"I'm gay," she mumbles into his shoulder. His hands rub soothingly up and down her spine. "I'm gay, and I'm in love with Chloe, and she's been using me for months."
"It's gonna be okay," he says softly, squeezing her tightly.
"This isn't a movie." Dull laughter chokes out of her. "It doesn't always work out nice and pretty."
"Maybe not always," he says. "But this? This will work out."
"You don't know that," she grumbles.
"I do," he says solemnly, pushing her back and gripping her arms tightly, gazing sternly down at her. "This will work out, because you're incredible and Chloe loves you. Even if she doesn't love you the way you love her, you are her best friend and she will not be willing to lose you."
"You don't know that, either."
"Maybe I don't." He rolls his eyes. "But you don't know that I'm wrong either, so just shut up and let me be supportive."
"Fine," she mutters, and sinks back against his shoulder once more. "But—"
"No," he says sharply. "If you keep arguing I'm going to insist on carrying you to the car like a five year old."
"Don't you dare."
"Come on," he says, edging around her and grabbing her familiar suitcase as it slides by on the conveyor belt. "We're going to get drunk and you're going to do that thing you do where you make awesome music when you're shitfaced, and you're going to be okay."
"Okay," she says, dull and tired. His free arm wraps around her shoulders once more, and they start towards the parking garage, Beca leaning against the solid weight of his side the entire time.