"I'm in love with you, Chloe."

Beca's face. God, her face: open, and scared – but determined; the hard lines of her jaw, and the furrow of her brow; the nervous bobble of her throat as she swallows, and the tiny, worried smile that slants over the edges of her mouth.

Chloe downs a shot – of what, she isn't sure (but Chloe doesn't care) – and holds up her empty glass, silently demanding another. She'd ask the bartender politely, Chloe's sure of it, but it's too loud. Everything here – it's just too loud; the bass rocking in her bones, and the eager, carefree shouts of patrons pleased with the house DJ's work; even the lights, somehow – though noiseless, as lights usually are – feel loud, to Chloe.

But maybe what she means isn't that it's loud, but overwhelming, instead.

But it's what she needs. It's what she'd wanted, and exactly why she'd come here.

Chloe can't handle conversation. Chloe can't handle speaking at all, because words – simple words, uttered earnestly through her best friend's lips, paired with a kind of vulnerability Chloe had never borne witness to, not in anyone, not in Beca – are exactly how Chloe had ended up here.

And the bass that rattles, the chatter around her, the lights that blaze in time to the beats of songs that all sound the same to Chloe, right now – they're overwhelming, sure.

But not enough.

"Chlo," Aubrey shouts from beside her, "take it easy, sweetie."

"I- Beca, that's- I'm straight, Bec. I'm sorry. I- I'm so sorry."

It's true.

Chloe thinks it is, anyway, and she's nothing if not honest with her friend. Because Beca, for all of her emotional guardedness, has never once told Chloe a lie (and Chloe values that in Beca).

And Chloe– she tries her hardest to give back all that Beca gives to her.

So she's honest, too, even in the face of this; even in the face of Beca's hopeful, skittish gaze, and her sweet (unwanted) words.

And then Chloe leaves.

She can't take it easy.

Chloe should, but she can't. It's rude of her to leave Aubrey with the drunken mess that she's bound to become, soon, but she can't slow down, or take a break, or even surrender her glass until it's been replaced by another (this one full – at least until Chloe throws that one back, too).

Chloe wants to dance, but she doesn't give Aubrey a choice.

Because Aubrey might say no, and Chloe needs it: the distraction; the active participation in the club around her.

Chloe needs it.

So she takes Aubrey's hand and drags her to the overly populated dance floor, and Chloe ignores the drink that splashes halfway down the front of her top, courtesy of a clumsy girl somehow drunker than she is.

Chloe just dances, occasionally grinding into Aubrey in a way that Chloe knows makes the blonde uncomfortable. But she does it anyway, because this Chloe doesn't have to think about.

This is easy, and fluid, and simple.

It's not words.

"I'm sorry, Chloe. Okay? I'm sorry. I- I'll get over it. I can. I will. Just- talk to me, okay? Call me back. Please."

It's a crackle on Chloe's phone; a message that she can't bear to erase, even though she should (because that message haunts her – even in the day, but especially at night).

It's desperate, which Beca doesn't do, but Chloe can hear it in her voice; in the lie that Beca declares to begins with – because no one 'gets over' love; no one who Chloe has ever known has really, truly 'gotten over' love (but she guesses Beca can't know that, so Chloe doesn't count it as a true lie) – and in the sigh that stretches through the plea at the end.

It's desperate.

And there are more words than Chloe can stand to hear.

But she listens to it, over and over and over again, until the cadence of Beca's voice echoes through her mind and haunts her.

Chloe doesn't know what's happened – she doesn't, because all night, Aubrey had been more than content to silently bend to Chloe's whims – but she's being pulled through the club (and thrashing, sweaty pools of happy people who clearly have nothing to forget, tonight; not like Chloe) until she and Aubrey burst through a door.

And Chloe gasps in a breath of chilled air that she hadn't known she'd needed – and then another, and another, until her throat feels dry and aches for another shot that Chloe can't go inside to retrieve.

"Chlo," Aubrey sighs worriedly, and it's too quiet.

Underwhelming.

Chloe can't answer. She knows that she should, but she doesn't want to. Chloe has no words, and she has no use for them tonight, anyway.

"What do you need?"

But there's one word – just one – that creeps through.

"Beca."

"Is she okay?"

It's Beca, and the sound of her voice makes Chloe gasp for breath again.

But it doesn't calm her, like before. It only reminds Chloe that she's missing something; something important; something that she needs, but doesn't have.

And no amount of air can replenish what Chloe's lost.

"No," Aubrey answers, holding the phone halfway to her mouth, like she maybe isn't sure that she should keep it on speakerphone, any longer, and wants to turn it off.

Chloe wraps her hands around Aubrey's and lowers the phone between them, watching the screen with diligent eyes, even though it's black. And Aubrey keeps it on speakerphone.

"She- doesn't want to see me, Aubrey. I can call you a cab, or – "

"She asked for you."

There's a pause – one that Chloe isn't sure what to do with (and isn't sure if she can do anything, anyway) – but it stretches several moments too long.

"Twenty minutes. I'll- Just give me twenty minutes."

Beca's never told Chloe a lie (never, not once).

So Chloe watches the digital clock on her phone, and waits; waits for Beca. Because she can't explain it – it was Beca and her words and feelings that Chloe was running from – but Chloe needs her, and Beca told them twenty minutes.

It only takes twelve.

"Chloe," Beca breathes, winded, and confused, but Chloe doesn't care.

She can't care.

She wraps herself around Beca, and she barely notices that Beca hesitates to cradle Chloe's lower back in her palms. And Chloe gasps for air again, but this time – this time, it feels okay; like she's finally gotten what she'd needed, and her body relaxes, calm, and sated.

Chloe stays there until Beca tugs at her hips, pushing her away. But Beca's hands reach up and her fingers swipe at Chloe's face, and it's only then that Chloe realizes that she's crying.

"She's been like this for half an hour," Aubrey says quietly.

Absently, Chloe wonders how that could be (but Aubrey's punctual, and great with a clock, so Chloe believes her).

"Chloe?" Beca encourages softly. "Are you okay to move?"

Chloe shakes her head.

She doesn't know why. She can move, and she bounces her leg a little to be sure of it. But she doesn't want to, and she isn't okay to do it.

Chloe isn't okay at all.

"Okay. Alright, that's fine," Beca says calmly. "I'm gonna sit- just right here, okay?" She points to the wall, and the ground below it. "And you can sit with me when you're ready," Beca says softly. "Okay?"

Chloe nods frantically and watches – because Beca's never told Chloe a lie – as Beca lowers herself into the spot, just like she said.

It's dirty, and there's trash everywhere – cigarette butts and empty beer bottles, and some peanut wrappers, too, littered all across the concrete of the alley – but Chloe slowly moves toward the wall and sinks down it, anyway.

Until she's with Beca.

"You're okay," Beca murmurs.

But Chloe isn't.

"I'm not," she whispers airlessly.

"You are," Beca argues gently. "You're fine, Chloe. It's a panic attack, and a pretty bad one, but you're fine. Me and Aubrey- we're here, okay? And nothing's going to happen to you. You're okay," Beca insists, and her palm rises to rub softly against Chloe's jean-clad knee.

"You – !" Chloe fumes. Because she's angry. It's a sudden burst of feeling, and Chloe doesn't know where it came from, but she recognizes it for the fury that it is. She's angry. With Beca, and with herself, and with the damn trash on the ground. "You happened to me!"

Chloe thinks she should feel guilty when Beca jolts away from her and stares down at her thighs, remorse kindling a dull flame in cobalt eyes that Chloe sees in her dreams and behind closed lids in the daytime, too. But she doesn't feel guilty.

(Not yet. That part comes later.)

"I'm- I'm sorry, Chloe," Beca breathes brokenly.

"What is she talking about?" Aubrey asks, and there's an edge in her voice – a protectiveness that Chloe's familiar with, because Aubrey only uses it for Chloe – when she directs the question at Beca.

"I – "

"She loves me," Chloe bites out bitterly, her nails digging sharply into her trembling palms.

"I'm sorry," Beca breathes again.

The guilt – the previously, suspiciously absent guilt – flares, then. Because Beca's eyes water, and she looks up at Aubrey like she's never felt so miserable or shamed in her life. And it's not even Chloe that Beca gets to answer to – because Chloe hasn't answered Beca (not since that day; not in three weeks).

It's Chloe's best friend, who (Beca is convinced) already despises her that Beca answers to, and that isn't right.

"I should- go. I shouldn't be here, Aubrey," Beca frets, toying with the ends of her sleeve between restless fingers. "She doesn't want to see me. I told you she doesn't want to see me."

Chloe thinks that isn't true, but she can't say so, yet. She doesn't know why. Words are failing Chloe in every way, because they seem to be there when Chloe doesn't want them (or simply has no use for them), but they aren't here, now. Not when Chloe actually needs them.

"Beca, you- she's… confused," Aubrey says gently.

Chloe thinks that's strange, because Aubrey doesn't talk to Beca that way; Aubrey talks to Beca with steel and finality and austerity, but not like this. Not with that easy comfort that Aubrey generally reserves for Chloe.

She doesn't understand why that's changed, now.

"She's not a child, Aubrey," Beca says, irritated. "She can make her own decisions, and she- doesn't want to see me. She's been pretty clear about that."

Chloe just thinks that she hasn't been clear enough.

"She asked for you," Aubrey repeats. "You're helping, Beca."

But Chloe understands what's changed, now. Because Beca's helping Chloe – even through her murky thoughts and defiant feelings, Chloe knows that Beca's helping her.

But no one is helping Beca.

"I'd do anything for you, Chlo. You know that."

It's a playful assertion. Beca's teasing, a little, across from her in the booth at this rundown diner in the middle of nowhere – but there's a flash of genuine emotion that Chloe spies sparking in her eyes.

They're just words, Chloe knows.

But they aren't.

Because Beca's never told Chloe a lie.

"I know," she answers, beaming bright and grappling for the DJ's hand overtop the table.

"I'd do anything for you, Beca. You know that," Chloe whispers, watching Beca's hands as they flit over frayed flannel.

Beca swallows. Chloe doesn't see it happen, but she hears it.

"You're okay," Beca repeats.

But Chloe isn't.

Because that's not the line that follows in Chloe's memory, and she thinks that maybe Beca doesn't remember.

But Beca remembers most things. So maybe the problem isn't that Beca doesn't remember; maybe the problem is just that Beca doesn't know.

Maybe the problem is that Chloe hasn't shown her.

Chloe turns her head, and she isn't sure what propels her to do it – because her thoughts are melting in together, and all of the things that Chloe thinks she should do, her body refuses; except for this – but she presses her mouth to Beca's.

Just once.

Quick. And simple.

But it's not quick, or simple, because it feels like it lasts for days, and it only makes Chloe more confused.

And then Beca turns her head away and frowns.

"Tequila," she scoffs simply.

Chloe guesses that's what she'd been drinking.

"You shouldn't have done that, Chloe," Aubrey says tiredly.

But that's the only thing that Chloe wanted to do. And, she realizes faintly, she wants to do it again. So she does.

Only, this time Beca jerks her head to the side, so that Chloe's mouth only just barely brushes across the flexing muscle of Beca's jaw. But that's okay, because her skin feels nice, and warm, and soft, and it makes Chloe feel a little better, anyway.

Because it's not simple, like she thought. But it's easier than she expected, too, and she thinks that's important.

"Beca," she sighs, though she has nothing to follow it.

Just Beca. Just her friend. Just her Beca.

"We should get you home," Beca says.

Her voice is strained; thick, like Chloe's only heard it that one time, after Beca's mother died.

Like it was right before Beca cried, and pretended that Chloe didn't hear her sobs echoing in the night through the wonderful acoustics of Barden's showers while Chloe waited for her outside.

And Chloe doesn't want Beca to cry.

"Don't cry," she pleads softly.

"I'm not- Jesus Christ, Chloe," Beca sighs, tracking her fingers through threads of woven brown silk.

Chloe tracks her fingers through it, too.

"Don't cry," she whispers again.

She can feel Beca's breath splashing over her mouth, and she can feel herself shaking all over, and something still doesn't feel right; something still hasn't been fixed.

Beca watches her. Carefully.

Her eyes flicker across Chloe's face, and Chloe doesn't know what she's looking for, but she doesn't care, because she's looking for it in Beca's face, too.

"Are you ready to go?" Aubrey asks, clearing her throat a little.

Chloe shakes her head, and tugs absently on a wayward lock of pretty brown hair.

"That's alright. What do you need, Chloe?" Beca asks softly.

Chloe's heard this question before. Recently.

And she knows her answer.

"You."

"Chloe –"

"I just need you," Chloe manages.

And something settles. Something clicks into place, like the battery covering of the remote for the television, slotting through the gaps it was made for.

Whatever it is, it belongs there. And Chloe feels better.

But Beca doesn't feel better.

"You're drunk," Beca shakes her head with a tiny, sad smile.

"I'm not," Chloe argues.

But she is.

"I am," she amends. "But I still need you."

"Chloe, you're- you can't say shit like that, okay?" Beca whispers shakily.

Her eyes are watering some more.

Chloe traces her fingers over the lines of Beca's brow, ghosting them across her eyelids when they flutter shut, and down, until the pads of her fingers coast along Beca's parted lips.

"I need you," she repeats, heedless of Beca's warning.

"You need a friend," Beca corrects. "And I'm not the right one, okay?"

"Chloe, I think- I think you're hurting Beca, honey. And I think you're okay enough for us to take you home now, alright?" Aubrey says comfortingly, kneeling down to face Chloe.

But Chloe doesn't want to look at her, because she's busy looking at Beca.

And Chloe doesn't want to go.

"I want to stay," she determines. "I want to stay with Beca."

"Chlo – "

"It's fine," Beca says quietly. "It's- I'm fine. You can stay. I'm fine."

She isn't.

"You're not."

"Chloe," Beca puffs out bemusedly, "I don't- I don't know what you want from me," she whispers, shaking her head. "I don't- fucking Christ, Chloe, talk to me."

"… Just- talk to me, okay? Call me back. Please."

The words are so similar. More frustrated, more desperate, somehow (though Chloe isn't sure how that's possible), than the message on Chloe's phone.

And Chloe's heart stammers.

Because Beca's right. Chloe hasn't told Beca what to do; Chloe hasn't told Beca what she's allowed to do. And that can't be fair, can it?

"I need you," Chloe says again, simply.

It isn't enough. Chloe can tell, because Beca's fingers curl and her eyes, conflicted and unsure, waver away from Chloe's.

"I love you."

That's it. Those are the words she needs; the only words that Chloe cares about.

Because they'd broken her, before. She hadn't known what to do with them, before. Not when Beca had said them. But now Chloe's saying them, and she means it.

Chloe's never meant anything more profoundly in her life, she realizes.

"Don't," Beca hisses. "Don't say that to me."

"I love you," she says again, simply.

"You're straight," Beca snarls abruptly. "You told me that you're straight, Chloe."

"I am," Chloe nods. "I was," she corrects. "I have been. But I love you."

"Chloe," Aubrey tries, worrying the inside of her right cheek, "think about what you're saying. Please, Chlo," Aubrey implores.

"I don't want to," Chloe shakes her head. "I don't need to. Thinking is what got me here. I thought too much. I think I thought too much," she decides with a nod. "But I can't think. I can't think, or move, or dance, or breathe without you, Beca," Chloe murmurs, idly stroking her fingers down Beca's slim, pale throat.

"Chloe," Beca breathes, shaking her head.

She's confused.

That's fair.

Chloe kisses her again. "I'm straight. But you aren't just a girl," she says. "You're Beca. My Beca," she presses thoughtfully; reverently. "And I don't need a label. It's just- Chloe, in love with Beca. It's enough."

Beca blinks. Twice.

And then she nods.

"It's enough."

And Beca Mitchell has never told Chloe Beale a lie.

So Chloe kisses her again.

Author's Note: I truly don't even know what this is, and it's not as chipper as fics associated with Chloe generally are, especially when told from her perspective. But it gnawed at me until I typed it out, anyway, and somehow it feels okay. Let me know if it's too out of character, though, and I might consider pulling it down.