Learning Kisses

Liz sighs. "I don't want to become a 40-year-old virgin," she groans, rolling over on her chest. "But I'm not for casual, no-strings-attached kind of sex either. Damn."

Natasha slides a pen to mark her place, and then slams her textbook shut. She adjusts; props herself higher on her elbows, and glances curiously at Liz.

Liz takes that as a cue to continue. "It's like everyone around me is getting some. I visit the library and there is someone fucking behind the shelves. I go to my friend's room and finds forgotten - and thankfully unused - condoms tucked under the pillow." She glares. "I come back to my own room and hear my very roommate moaning in there."

"Sorry," Natasha says, but her lips are quirked.

Liz rolls her eyes. "Like hell you are." She buries her face in her arms. "I just want a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend, I supposed. Never thought much about it. This is college, and somehow I have never had anyone even show the slightest interest in me. Ever."

"It's not that bad," Natasha tries.

"That's because you never had this problem," she snaps. Really, Natasha is too pretty to not have a gaggle of admirers lining up outside waiting with flowers for her lecture to end. "Look," she continues, "if by the time I'm thirty and I'm still a virgin -" She stops. "If - I don't know actually. I just want to get laid by then."

"I'll sleep with you if you're still a virgin then," Natasha declares. Liz feels the bed dips, and then Natasha's head is on her shoulders, heavy but so very warm. Liz tries her best to be a good pillow. "I'm a friend, so it isn't really all that... casual. But only if you want me to."

That is unexpected. "Is that a promise?"

Natasha replies with a non-committal hum. Liz takes that as a yes, and tucks the memory into the back of her mind, behind all the titles and figures of her economics notes, and holds up her notes to memorise all over again.

Life is... busy, to say the least. Not that Liz is complaining, because she's paid well and she's promoted high and she gets to order stupid arrogant Beilschmidt from middle school around now that he's under her command.

But then it's been ages since she last exchanged a conversation with someone that is not related to work, and longer still that she has time to herself. Her manager takes one look at her, glances at the calendar, and declares that she now has a week's leave in lieu of her unwavering loyalty to the company and her goddamn birthday.

Which she completely forgets about.

Nevertheless, a break is a break. It's just that when it's been so long since she's had leisure time, she forgets what to spend her free time on.

Even though Liz has switched off her alarm, she still wakes as early as per usual. She tries going to sleep, finds out she can't, and decides to prepare for breakfast instead.

She scrolls through her contacts on her phone and blinks in surprise when she notices unread texts instead of emails awaiting her. One is from Beilschmidt, wishing her well despite being phrased in a roundabout and obnoxious manner as Beilschmidt is prone to do to show that he doesn't care; another is from her manager, assuring her that all is fine and well, and she can truly drop everything and enjoy herself.

The last message, though, is from an old number that fades into the deep crevices of her mind. It simply says, What's your address? and Liz wonders if Natasha ever learns how to make small talk after all these years.

Liz's reply is as brief and direct: she replies with her address with only a short, I'm at home now. On leave, and then stares at the screen long enough until she feels certain that Natasha is not going to reply.

Well bother. Natasha has always been scarce with her words anyway.

When Natasha arrives, it is with three crisp knocks on the door and the hour hand hanging just slightly below the number three. She wears her hair in a loose bun and her body with a nipped black dress and a loose cardigan, and somehow Natasha doesn't seem to have aged at all after so long. Liz feels inadequately sloppy looking at her.

"Happy birthday," Natasha says, her rare beams lighting up her face and fuck, she's even more beautiful than in Liz's memory.

"Thanks," she replies, a little awkwardly, and invites Natasha in.

Natasha sits on the couch, her single luggage carefully pushed below the coffee table as she waits for Liz to joins her. And Liz obliges, but not before mentally steering herself in the kitchen and bringing over some cups of coffee as an excuse.

"You haven't changed at all," Liz says by way of a greeting.

Natasha blinks. And then she chuckles; a sharp exhale, silent as always befitting of her, and replies, "You haven't changed much too. Physically, at least."

"The keyword here is much." Liz grins over the brim of her mug. "Anyway, what brings you here today? You normally wish me happy birthday via Skype calls." Because an airplane ticket from Eastern Europe to the States certainly isn't cheap.

Natasha scrunches her eyebrows. "I made a promise to you," she argues, looking increasingly doubtful of herself. "Unless... You actually dated anyone after graduation?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, you are still a virgin?"

And then the memory clicks and that particular conversation from all those years ago claws its way back to the forefront of Liz's memories.

"I still am."

The word tastes slightly foreign on her tongue. It's been a long time Liz cared about anything related to relationships, and longer still for her to become resigned to her fate as a spinster. The idea of virginity seems so juvenile now. "And what if I am?"

This time it is Natasha's turn to hesitate. She crumples the cloth under her fingers. "I don't break promises," she finally mutters.

The statement drops like a shell. "Oh."

"Yes."

"Wow." The air thickens, and suddenly Liz's face feels too hot. "This is abrupt."

Natasha nods, and refuses to look at her.

"How do we even go about doing it?" Liz is aware that she is babbling, but something needs to fill the silence. "Do we need to set the mood, and, er, relax or something. I don't know. I've never done this before."

"Well," Natasha begins, before their eyes meet and her cheeks flush pink and she clams up again. It takes several long seconds of nervous lips-chewing before she finally gathers her nerves. "Maybe we should just take this slow."

Alright. Slow. Liz has totally got it. "Does that mean we start with, er, first base?"

"No one calls it first base anymore, Liz. We're not highschoolers."

"But we do start with kissing, right?"

"I just - you know what?" Natasha stands up and grabs Liz's shoulders. "We're going on a date."

"What."

"A date. To get to know one another, and set the mood and all. Or maybe just to have fun," Natasha snaps. "Get dressed; we're going out."