"Becs, you're being silly," Chloe laughs, and she shuffles her laptop over her thighs – Beca can tell, because the camera shakes and the position alters, just enough for her to catch of glimpse of Chloe's family's living room over the redhead's shoulder.
"Dude, I am not," Beca argues defiantly. "Dad is, like, the worst. The worst, Chloe."
"He just wants you to have dinner," Chloe reasons softly. "It's not so bad. Come on, he can't be that bad, right?"
"Yeah, you know what, you're right," Beca nods agreeably, shoving a USB drive into the port of her computer to move a few mixes into a file that she can mail for Chloe while she's thinking about it, so she doesn't forget. "He's not the worst."
"See!" Chloe claims, grinning broadly with sparkling eyes. "I knew you'd come around, Becs."
The picture is clear – Beca had made sure that they worked out all of the kinks in Chloe's Skype program before she left, because HP computers are decidedly more difficult for the redhead to navigate than Beca's Macbook, and Beca doesn't understand why Chloe doesn't just buy one, anyway – but still, even with the 15.4-inch screen, Beca knows that no amount of definition or quantity of pixels could possibly do the shimmer of Chloe's eyes any sort of justice. And they never look quite so blue, either.
It hurts.
When she realizes it (every time she realizes it), it hurts a cavity in Beca's heart that hasn't been touched in years. Because Beca's never let anyone else near enough to touch it, anyway.
No one but Chloe, who really hadn't afforded Beca much of a choice.
But still, it hurts, and Beca has to avert her eyes, mindlessly curling the cord of her headphones around suddenly weak and disobedient fingers until she can compose herself. Because they don't talk about it – the distance; the pain. Like so much of what they share together, they just don't talk about it, because they never need the words.
Sometimes– yeah. Sometimes it hurts worse. Like now, with Chloe's eyes paling so sharply in comparison to the real thing (the real thing that Beca hasn't seen in three months). Sometimes, like now, it hurts worse.
But the hurt is always there. Always.
It's an ache in Beca's chest as 'Titanium' blares through the radio of her brand new Accord; it's a tremble in her palms that flickers in time to 'Party in the USA,' knowing that Miley Cyrus won't ever make it sound as good as Chloe does when she sings distractedly to a closed bus window, her breath pooling into fog across the glass; and, when she's not careful – when she's sleepy, and tired, and Beca just misses her – it's a sob that traps in Beca's lungs, late at night, when she realizes belatedly (far too late to do anything about it) that she's idly humming around the melody of 'Just the Way You Are.'
But they don't talk about it, and it wouldn't do any good for them if they did, anyway, because it won't fix it. It won't conjure a teleportation device for them to utilize at will, and it won't bring Chloe to Barden, or drop Beca off in Maryland for the weekend, either.
So Beca clears her throat, and insists hoarsely, "Dad's not the worst. Sheila– Chlo, I swear to God, she's the most wretched woman I've ever encountered in my life."
Chloe smiles sympathetically, and nods, "Yeah, she does sort of sound like a bitch."
Beca chuckles. The emotion (and the wistfulness that's making her actually, literally feel crazy) clears – just a little; just enough – for a chuckle.
Because, seriously, no matter how many times she hears Chloe Beale curse, it still strikes Beca as amusing when the kindhearted redhead says things like "bitch" and swears that 'Call Me Maybe' is "just the fucking best."
But, okay, Chloe's not wrong to feel that way, because while Beca is being dramatic (and whining a little, too) about her father, Sheila actually is a monster, and she's never cared much for Beca at all. Not that Beca actually minds, because she has very little interest in getting to know the home-wrecking, homophobic, hypocritical Christian, anyway.
"She is a bitch," Beca agrees fervently. "And I could handle dinner with Dad or whatever, but it's just- why does she have to be there, too?"
"It'll be okay," Chloe promises. "You can call me after to vent, and we'll Skype together over a bottle of Jack, and everything will be okay."
"Fine," Beca huffs. "But if this turns into a nightmare, I'm blaming you, Beale."
It's easy.
Okay, no. It's not easy – but it almost is. At first, anyway.
Beca can almost pretend that Chloe's just away for a little while. She can almost pretend that the redhead will be back in a couple of weeks, and that the ridiculously painful moments that they shared after Chloe's graduation never even happened. Beca can almost pretend that they're fine.
She can almost pretend that everything is just fine.
Because it's almost easy, in the summer, when the only things available to occupy their time are Beca's shifts at the radio station, and Chloe's summer job at a local coffee shop in town. It's almost easy – almost too easy – for Beca to forget that it won't always be this simple.
They talk, every day (just like Chloe promised her; just like Chloe swore the day that she left), and, though it hurts all the time, it's not as bad as it felt like it would be the day of Chloe's graduation. It sucks, but it's tolerable.
Until, one day, it isn't.
Because Chloe starts med school in August, and it's hard, and exhausting, and she's busy, and Chloe's schedule gets hectic just when Beca's does, too.
Beca has the Bellas, and Luke's been giving her more airtime on the radio, so she has to make more time to create fresh mash-ups and mixes, and her Calculus course is kicking her ass all over the campus library and her classroom, too, and it's- it's not easy at all, anymore.
It's not easy to find the right times for Skype, or sometimes even phone calls.
They text all day, and it's nice – but it's just barely satisfying. Chloe's meeting new people, and Beca is treated to humorous anecdotes about students she's never met (students, Beca tries not to think, who she might never meet), and Beca keeps Chloe posted on the Bellas and all the funny things that happen in the group.
But it isn't enough.
They make time – they force it, if they have to; Beca skipping work or Chloe bailing on a study group, if it's absolutely necessary – to Skype on Saturday afternoons, every week, but it's not enough, and it's definitely not easy, anymore.
And it's sad.
Because, yeah, Beca has her friends – but nothing can compare. Nothing can compare to this thing she has with Chloe, and it feels wrong that Beca doesn't have her nearby. It twists in her stomach until Beca is convinced that she will undoubtedly pull a Posen and projectile vomit into the hair of the blonde girl who sits in front of Beca in her Music Appreciation class.
But on the random, October Friday when that happens, Beca trudges her feet across campus, anyway (determined not to sulk; determined not to flake on rehearsal because she's a certifiable idiot and fell in love with her best friend the same year that they met, and the very same year that Chloe was leaving), and she only pauses for a second before she sends Chloe a text.
Beca: I miss you, soulless ginger.
And when she gets to practice, the very first thing that Beca is greeted with is an indignant proclamation.
"I'm not that soulless, you know."
Beca's head snaps up, and her lungs– Beca just doesn't know (or care) what's happened to them, but they're definitely fucked up, somehow, because they're definitely, miserably failing in their job – their one job – to provide Beca with oxygen.
But it isn't important, because Chloe is almost like oxygen, for Beca – almost as important; almost as necessary for regular function – and she instantly gets a healthy swallow of the redhead, because the next thing that Beca knows, she's literally being tackled to the floor with Chloe's arms around her, and Beca can breathe again, and she doesn't care that the ground is hard or that her back is aching from the force of the impact, because Chloe is here.
Her eyes feel wet, and her body is shaking, and she doesn't know why Chloe's here, or when it happened, or how, but she can breathe again. Beca can breathe again, with her nose shoved up against Chloe's collar and the redhead's delighted laughter curling through her ears like wisps of smoke.
"Happy birthday, Becs," Chloe murmurs into her hair. "And, fuck, I've missed you, too."
And Beca didn't even know that it was her birthday, but she trusts Chloe to remember it better than she does, anyway – because Chloe knows Beca almost better than Beca does, anyway. And she doesn't really care, either, because even if her mom never calls on her birthday (and her dad is probably afraid to, since he walked out on so many of the others) this is already the best one that she's ever had.
Beca just winds her palms around Chloe's hips and holds the redhead snugly against her, and chuckles something breathy and incredulous.
"What are you doing here?" She manages to croak, eventually.
"My professor's had a trip planned for this seminar in New Castle since the beginning of the school year, and he typed it up on the syllabus, and I booked a ticket right away, because I was already upset that I would miss your birthday, anyway, and I just- I needed to see you, Becs, and I wanted it to be a surprise, so I couldn't tell you, and I'm sorry, but it – "
"Don't apologize," Beca rasps. "Don't ever apologize for coming to see me. I just – " Beca breaks off with a shake of her head. "I was half convinced that I was never going to see you again," she chokes out, blinking her tears away with fluttering eyelashes that flicker across Chloe's neck.
"I can't forget you," Chloe whispers into her ear, and it's heavy, and meaningful, and exactly what Beca needs to hear – this reiteration of Chloe's promise five months ago. "I won't ever forget you. I'll always come back for you, Beca."
Beca tightens her arms around Chloe lower back, and mumbles, "Good. That city air can't be good for you, anyway."
Chloe laughs, and nuzzles her nose warmly into Beca's hair before she gently pries herself away, straddling Beca's waist in a half-sitting position.
And, God, those eyes. Beca was right. The laptop, the distance, the waves of wireless communication– they could never do those eyes justice at all, because they're bright and warm and honed in on Beca's, and they look so damn happy.
"Is this a group affair? Because, I have to tell you, DJ, I'm not sure how comfortable I feel getting all up close and squishy with all these bitches' lady bits, but, eh, I could probably get over it since it's your birthday, and all, yeah?" Fat Amy asks earnestly, but with her face scrunched up to indicate her supreme discomfort with the notion.
Beca laughs, and shakes her head, placing her palm in Chloe's when the redhead stands and offers it to Beca with a mildly repentant, sheepish smile turning the corners of her mouth.
"Sooo," Stacie begins, "this means there's no rehearsal, right? Because Chloe's here, and obviously you guys should spend some time together right now," she insists with urgency that has Beca narrowing her eyes distrustfully, "because – oh, yeah! Because we have this party planned for you and all, and there's this adorably blushing kid who sits by me in Psychology who I'd just love to convince to come, because, mm," she hums throatily, "the things that I could show that boy…"
"No rehearsal," Beca shakes her head. "We'll pick up on Monday. You're leaving Sunday, right?" She turns to ask Chloe.
"Monday morning," Chloe sighs sadly and tucks a wandering curl behind her ear. "I have to be back before my afternoon class, and I'll already be missing an exam review as it is, but- I wanted to stay as long as I could," she says, reaching for Beca's hand and stroking gentle fingers along the veins of her wrist.
"Okay," Beca swallows, and tries to ignore how badly she wants to beg Chloe to stay; to just stay here, forever. But Chloe is here now, and Beca's not going to waste her time thinking about how little time they actually have, so she nods, and offers a crooked grin, and says, "Okay, so, no. No rehearsal until Monday."
"Aw, yeeahh!" Fat Amy thrusts her fist in the air.
The girls twitter excitedly behind them as they move to leave (because, honestly, they've had rehearsal every weekend since school started back up, and, though they have nights free, they haven't exactly had as much weekend time as they'd like), and they call out birthday wishes to Beca over their shoulders, but Beca doesn't care, because she's busy being cradled in Chloe's arms again.
"I missed you so much, Becs," Chloe breathes.
"Yeah, I- I missed you, too, Beale," Beca manages. "Skype, it's- it's not the same, y'know?"
"I know," Chloe echoes, tightening her hold briefly before she pulls away. "Come on, I haven't been able to eat since last night, because I was just so nervous, and now- I'm kinda starving, Becs," she laughs.
"Why were you nervous?" Beca asks, allowing Chloe to lead them away in the direction of Mariatti's (Beca knows that's where they're going, because it's Chloe's favorite restaurant in Barden, and she's been complaining for weeks that none of the Italian food in Philly even comes close to paralleling Mariatti's).
Chloe bites her lip, and shrugs. "I guess I thought that- that maybe it wouldn't be a good idea for me to come."
"Why?" Beca demands harshly.
It wasn't exactly meant to emerge quite so bluntly, but, honestly, that's the stupidest thing that Beca's ever even heard, and it's next to impossible to keep that incredulity from leaking through her words.
Chloe sighs, and mutters, "We didn't exactly- talk about anything, before I left, but this – " she presses, squeezing her fingers around Beca's. "It isn't exactly easy, you know?" She asks softly, searching Beca's face for her agreement.
"It sucks," Beca returns blatantly.
"Yeah," Chloe releases a breathy chuckle. "Yeah, it super sucks. But I just wasn't sure if- if maybe it was something that we should- move on from; something that we should let each other move on from. And I wasn't exactly positive that you'd even- that you'd even want to see me, Becs," she confesses vulnerably, ginger eyelashes playing wildly beneath her eyes.
"Chloe," Beca sighs, halting their motion just in the quad and stretching her free palm up to card her fingers through that soft, red hair that she misses so frequently, and so much, "I don't know what we're doing," she admits. "I don't know how it works, or where it ends, and I don't know how this goes, but- I always want to see you. And maybe it'll suck when you leave – "
"It's going to super suck," Chloe pouts – not that manipulative, playful one that Chloe does to get what she wants, but the genuinely troubled one that betrays her emotions that Chloe can't even help – so Beca grazes her hand lower to brush her thumb gently across that adorably protruding bottom lip.
"Yeah," she agrees softly, nodding. "It's going to super suck when you leave. But I don't- Chloe, I don't want to move on. You're- it. It's complicated, and messy, and I know we can't actually do anything about it, because we're over seven hundred miles apart, but- you're it. I don't want anyone else."
Beca thinks that if this were anyone else (anyone else but Chloe; anyone else but the other half of this crazy passionate, overwhelming, painful- thing that they share), there would be questions; there would be quizzical inquiries about what that even means, and probing into Beca's words; there would be more discussion.
But there isn't. Because Beca knows that Chloe feels the same way (she knows, because Chloe's spare hand curls around Beca's neck and her fingers drift easily along Beca's flesh, and she looks at Beca with adoration, and love, and the same foolish hope that's swelling in Beca's heart).
And they don't need to say more.
Because, God, it's fucking complicated, and Beca doesn't know how to explain it, anyway – because she can't date Chloe; not when she's so goddamn far away, with half the world newly revealed to her and barely enough time between the two of them to manage a Skype call once a week, and no sort of consistency at all to how often they see each other in real life – but Chloe is it.
Beca doesn't know what 'it' is, but she doesn't even care, because whatever the hell it is, it lives in Chloe Beale. And Beca won't find it anywhere else. Even if she could, Beca doesn't want to try, because even if she does find it somewhere else (some of it; parts of it, if she's lucky), it won't be this. It won't have this- thing, and it won't make Beca feel clammy and sick and healthier than she's ever felt before in her life, all at once.
Chloe is it.
"So," Beca smirks, shoving away everything about how messed up this situation is – how badly it hurts, and how desperately she wishes that things could be different; that they had more time; that they just had better timing, period – and locking it up in a vault to be left secured until Monday, when things would super suck again, "Mariatti's?"
"Oh my God," Chloe groans deliciously. "Yes. So much yes, Becs. You don't even understand how annoying it is to not have constant access to it. It's the worst."
Beca rolls her eyes, because it's a relatively new thing – this proclivity that Chloe's adapted for that phrase, since Beca mentioned it before things got busy, back in the last weeks of summer – and the frequency with which Chloe uses it is, to put it plainly, just the worst.
The party is fine.
It's good, and Beca feels warm all over when she thinks of how much effort that Chloe and the Bellas must have put into its conception (especially considering that, as Beca learned, the Bellas had even known about Chloe's surprise, and somehow managed to keep it on the DL), but Beca just doesn't really care.
She leaves it after a couple hours, because, damn it, Chloe and her jiggle juice are just a force to be reckoned with, and the redhead has been shaking her perfectly fine ass all over Stacie's living room pretty much since the moment they arrived.
And they only have the weekend, anyway.
So as soon as she's tugged Chloe out the door, both of them drunk and unsteady on their own two feet, leaning (dumbly) into each other for support, she essentially traps Chloe against the wall, slamming into her for a hard, sloppy kiss that leaves them breathless and panting.
"Oh," Chloe blinks rapidly. "Oh," she whispers, tangling her fingers in Beca's hair as Beca glides down her throat to nip sharply against it. "Okay. Okay, Becs. But- but we need to- leave, okay?"
She's winded, and she wants it, too, because her cheeks are flushing and she's making the most enchanting noises that Beca's ever heard, cooing them into the top of Beca's head.
"Sure," Beca mumbles, but licks her tongue down the 'V' of Chloe's t-shirt, anyway, and makes no move to obey.
"Beca," Chloe sighs out softly, her fingers pulling absently at Beca's hair, "take me home."
(Beca's too drunk, then, to ponder how nice it would be if her new, off-campus apartment really was Chloe's home – but she'll think about that later, on Monday, maybe, when she's sober, and that terrible vault of angst has been breached once more.)
They trade messy, inebriated kisses the entire walk back – it isn't necessarily far, but it does take them some time, given everything they're doing along the way – but when they stumble into Beca's apartment, the urgency of it has increased tenfold.
Because, okay, they're obviously wound up, so it's understandable, right?
And it's been months. Because Beca hasn't been with anyone since she was with Chloe (Beca briefly, internally scoffs, obviously), and taking care of herself is so not the same at all, so she's hot, and they're both sticky, and alcohol is pretty much seeping out from their pores, so there's nothing – no restraint, no order, no compulsion to make this slow – to hold them back.
Beca all but tears Chloe's shirt away, whipping the material over her head, temporarily mesmerized by the way that Chloe's hair drops back beneath it like a red, burning waterfall once the fabric has been stripped away. Beca's shoes follow, and then Chloe's, and Beca's shirt, too. And Beca moans something desperate and primal and low when Chloe's fingers press hard against the seam of her jeans before – a moment later – divesting Beca of the thick material altogether.
It's minutes (maybe; if that long, even) before they're collapsing naked onto the floor of the living room, and Beca– she'd been below Chloe, before, but she won't be, tonight; not right now, anyway. Right now she's on top, with Chloe's bent legs cradling Beca's hips between them, and every time (every. fucking. time.) Chloe's nails carve the length of Beca's spine, and she bites Beca's bottom lip with that knowing, playful glint in her eyes, Beca's hips rock into Chloe's.
Fucking Christ, Beca doesn't think she's ever been so wet or desperate in her life.
Her mouth skids across Chloe's chest until she's low enough to wrap her lips around a pebbled nipple, and she flicks her tongue across it as Chloe gasps, swiftly following it with a not-as-gentle-as-sober-Beca-would-have-planned scrape of her teeth.
"Yes," Chloe gasps mindlessly, as her back arches upward. "Oh my God, Beca."
Beca smirks lazily, but this is taking entirely too long, because she's pretty sure that she can smell how wet Chloe is, even from here, by her breasts, and that just- it needs help.
Beca, she drunkenly decides, is good at helping Chloe.
So Beca draws her mouth over Chloe's ribs, and closes her teeth over Chloe's side (Chloe yelps, but it melts, somewhere, into a low, pleasured moan). When she reaches it – her destination – it's barely a second before Beca's mouth is on her, and Chloe's nails are biting into her shoulders, but Beca just can't find it within herself to care (and, secretly, she thinks she'll enjoy bearing the marks of Chloe's desperation, anyway).
Her tongue thrashes over Chloe's clit, unapologetic and unrelenting, and she sweeps her hand down from Chloe's bent knee, over her thigh, and up, up, up, until Beca shoves three fingers into Chloe's opening.
"Fuck!" Chloe cries out, clearing Beca's hair from her face with her fingers, and holding it tightly in her hand to roll her hips upward, and keep Beca's head steady and firm against her as she does it. "Becs, you're so- Oh, god. You're so fucking good."
(It's not particularly amusing when Chloe curses, this time; it's electrifying, and it's hot, and it's driving Beca kinda crazy; it's- definitely not amusing.)
Beca keeps her fingers thrusting, hard and quick and somehow matched by the movement of Chloe's hips, until Chloe mewls out this long, delicious keen of noise that Beca thinks could be (should be, truthfully) a song in and of itself. She presses her mouth to Chloe's stomach as she comes down, but she keeps her fingers still inside of her until Chloe's walls relax enough for her to pull away.
And then the world is shifting – spinning, whirling, blurring away – until Beca realizes, with a couple hard blinks and a lot of disorientation, that she's been flipped to her back with Chloe's knees pressed against her hips.
"I'm gonna fuck you so hard, Becs," Chloe pants, sketching her mouth beneath Beca's ear. "After that – " Chloe shakes her head. "I'm gonna fuck you, Becs. I'm gonna make you feel so good. I promise, okay? I need- Just give me a second to breathe, little DJ, and I'll fuck you so hard, I promise."
"Um… Okay," Beca agrees.
Because, really, what the fuck else is she supposed to do? Chloe's apparently a dirty talker (Beca neither knows – nor, at the moment, does she actually care – if that's due to the alcohol, or the decided lack of love-making, replaced by the urgent need to just get off with one another), and it's screwing with Beca's head and she thinks her sex is actually dripping with so much arousal that it could be leaking into the carpet beneath her, right now.
Chloe, as has already been proven (with phone calls, and Skype, and texts, and a surprise goddamn visit to Barden, all for Beca), does not break her promises.
And Chloe proves it to her again.
The rest of the weekend is- calmer.
They recover on Saturday, and Beca – without much actual persuasion – allows Chloe to curl into her side while she watches some stupid movie on Lifetime as Beca types an essay for her English Literature class.
She'd have put it off until Chloe left (she wants to; she so, so wants to, because there are so much better things that she could be doing with Chloe here, in her apartment, that don't even begin to involve her schoolwork), but it's due tonight, so Beca has to write it.
When she's done, they order Chinese, and they have enough left over to cover dinner, too. They lie together, nude, in Beca's bed, and they wake in each other's arms on Sunday, and basically repeat the entire damn thing that day, too (minus the essay, obviously).
And when Beca takes Chloe to the airport Monday morning, it hurts.
It hurts all over, from Beca's watery eyes down to her trembling knees, and it feels like that awful graduation day all over again. She presses a sweet kiss across Chloe's temple, and she sheds tears – not like the first time; not those earth-shattering sobs; she could keep that much, at least, under control until she was home again, for Chloe's sake – and Chloe just cries that saddest tears that Beca's ever borne witness to, until Beca's throat feels so swollen that it might have closed off altogether.
But she whispers.
"Don't you forget about me, Beale."
It's a thing, now, and Beca isn't sure why; she isn't sure why she feels the need to say it, because every time she says it, her heart feels vulnerable, and so fucking raw, and every emotion that she's never wanted to feel – hurt and pain and gut-wrenching sadness, tied together with a hastily knotted, messy bow of love and, God, so much wistfulness that it aches – just surges to the surface in a flow of unsteady tears.
But Chloe catches them with her thumb, and promises, again, "I won't forget you, Becs."
And Beca knows why it's a thing; Beca knows why she feels the need to repeat those notorious lyrics into Chloe's ear, and she knows why she feels so exposed, too.
It's because she needs to hear the one thing that Chloe always says back to her. She needs to hear the promise again, to be sure that Chloe still means it; to be sure that Beca won't become a forgotten memory while Chloe is away.
And when Beca looks back on their weekend together, she blinks. Because she doesn't remember it. Not most of it. Beca doesn't remember what they actually did.
But it doesn't matter what they did, because it wasn't important. It wasn't the awful movie on television, or the essay she typed, or the Chinese food that makes Beca's heart thrash wildly against her ribs. So it doesn't matter what they did.
All that matters – all that Beca thinks could ever matter to her, ever again – is the feel of Chloe's hair, tickling under her nose as they calm their breathing in bed; all that matters is the delicate stroke of Chloe's fingers over her hips while Beca awkwardly tries to type around the redhead's need for physical contact; all that matters is the teasing, mocking way that Chloe shoves a glass of milk into Beca's palm over lunch, at Beca's request, with the assertion that it was a good idea, too, and that maybe, if she's fortunate, it'll help Beca to grow taller.
It doesn't matter what they did at all, because they could be doing anything (any goddamn thing at all) and it would all be the same, to Beca. It would feel like warmth, and smell like the ocean; it would look like a tan palm covering the pale flesh atop Beca's heart; it would taste like sweetness and candy and a hint of something fruity.
And it would sound like music.
Chloe, to Beca, would always sound like music. It's important – Beca isn't sure why, but she knows that it is; it's so important – that Chloe registers to Beca as music incarnate.
Because Beca– she loves music.
Beca can't live without it.
Author's Note: I tried to tone down the sad in this one, a bit. The last one was rough on me (and you guys, too, apparently). Please review, and let me know if I took too much of the emotion away.