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Chapter Text

The wave of heat is nearly unbearable as Beatrice shoulders open the heavy basement door. Following fast on the heels of the toasty blast of air is the thick floral scent of spilled and crusted laundry detergent and abandoned dryer sheets; she'd wipe away the sweat beading on her brow or cover her nose were it not for the mountain of clothes weighing down her arms.

Panting from the four flights of floors traversed, Beatrice sets down the overburdened hamper and begins to drag it down the hall. Unlike the normal dorm hallways, the basement utility hall was only half the distance, containing the maintenance and supply closet, a few overflow dorm rooms (the three groups of boys crowding the triple rooms called themselves 'Sub-Zero', a cruel jest considering the heat), and, most importantly, the shared laundry room. Even from the opposite end, Beatrice can hear the whir and rumble of the machines, ever-busy.

As she approaches, another sound drifts to her ears: an off-key, almost nasal humming.
"You've got to be kidding me," she mutters. The sound gets louder the closer she gets, increasing in intensity, rising to a crescendo.

"Waaaaaaaahhhh, bom bom bwaaaaaammm!" a voice sings out.

Beatrice is highly tempted to turn around and trudge right back up those four flights of stairs. It's a Wednesday night, she has a French test in two days, and no amount of coffee or secretly stashed beer will give her the patience to deal with what lies just beyond the laundry room door. But... it's a Wednesday night, and she has a study group tomorrow night that she needs clean clothes for, and a party on Friday that guarantees she'll get nothing done for the rest of the weekend. Beatrice will have to endure.

"Bwaaaaam, bom bom booom!'

"Hello, Wirt."

There's a sharp shriek, followed by the painful sounding clatter that only comes from slipping off of a dubiously sturdy dryer. It was worth it, Beatrice decides, to stay.

Wirt - gawky beanpole also in his freshman year - quickly props both elbows on the dryer behind him and leans back, aiming for cool rather than the panic of 'you-just-gave-me-such-a-fright-that-I-slid-off-a-machine' that reads in his face. He blinks at her, twice, before a smile forms and falters on his face.

"Oh, hi, Beatrice," he stammers, "Fancy seeing you here."

"Yeah!" she says, "It's so crazy how we both ended up in the same laundry room! What. A. Coincidence!"

There's no restraint in the bright sarcasm of her voice; Wirt stares down at the floor and squirms. Beatrice lugs her dirty clothes behind her and down one of the two aisles of machines.

"Beatrice, there's n-"

"Whatever, Wirt."

"But-"

"Yeah, okay."

Her eyes dart to the small panel on each washer, which displays the amount of time still left in the cycle. Each machine is full. Sighing, she drags her clothes back down the aisle, and is about to start down the second row, where Wirt stands, when she spots the basket of clothing at Wirt's feet.

"They're all full?" Beatrice says, "Why didn't you say something?"

"Well I was trying to, but-"

"Ugh, you're killing me, Wirt," Beatrice groans.

Wirt crosses his arms over his chest. The gesture is likely meant to seem defiant, but on his reedy frame, he looks more like he is folding into himself.

"The next washer will be done in like five minutes," he says, "Assuming whoever's clothes are in there actually shows up on time."

For the next eternity, or at least the next ten minutes, Wirt pouts while Beatrice fumes. He resumes his place perched on one of the dryers, while she slumps against the wall. Neither look at one another.

Or, well, that's not quite true. Wirt looks at her plenty, his attempts at covert glances noticeable despite the fact that Beatrice is definitely not sending her own glances his way. Only once in the time does he try to start a conversation - she shuts him down quickly.

A few minutes later, one of the washing machines rumbles, the thumping of its spin cycle slowing until it stops. The washer lets out a sharp buzz, and both Wirt and Beatrice lift their heads to look. The clothes are done, but there's no one here to move them over.

Without hesitation, Beatrice crosses over to the washer. She's just reaching out to lift the lid when a thin hand darts out to circle her wrist.

"What are you doing?" Wirt asks. He stares from her to his hand, looking a little startled at his own actions. Still, he doesn't let go - if anything, his grip only tightens.

"Pulling the clothes out," she says, "The cycle's done."

She tugs away, and still he doesn't let go.

"You can't do that Beatrice, those aren't your clothes," he says. The whine in his voice is grating, and she pulls away with greater force.

"But they're late!" she exclaims, "You expect me to just sit around and spend the rest of my life waiting for a washer to open up? I'm not you, Wirt."

"Uh, excuse me."

Synchronous, they both turn towards the voice at the door. A blonde girl - freshman, Beatrice recognizes her and thinks she might be from the second floor - shoots them a nasty look and, with empty laundry bag swung over her shoulder, approaches the machine they're standing at. Wirt, with the kind of scrawny strength that surprises Beatrice into submission, yanks Beatrice away from the washing machine and over to the other side. Unprepared as she is for Wirt's sudden pull, Beatrice stumbles back into him and tips them both back into the line of dryers. His back slams against the dryer, her shoulder catches him in the chest, and it's one, two, three heartbeats of locked eyes before Beatrice springs away.

The other girl cuts them down with a look and a snotty, "Whatever, weirdos."

Oh no she didn't. Feathers ruffled, Beatrice puffs up at the tone in the girl's voice. She opens her mouth to speak, to rip this girl to shreds, but like before, a hand jumps out to stop her. This time Wirt plants his hand right over her mouth.

His palm is damp with sweat and growing warmer with each of Beatrice's angry huffs. She's been mad before, sure - most of the time, in fact - but she's certain she now understands the meaning of "seeing red". There's not a second of hesitation as she parts her lips and licks his palm.

"Beatrice!" he yelps.

The blonde, now turning to put her clothes in the dryer, raises her eyebrows as she sees them.

"Get a room, losers," she says, "This building is literally full of them."

Wirt drops his hand from Beatrice's mouth the moment he hears the door to the stairwell slam shut. Alone once more, Beatrice spins on her heel to face Wirt. It's impossible to tell who is redder in the face.

"I could kill you," she hisses.

Wirt doesn't say a word, instead slipping out from between her and the dryer and moving jerkily to his laundry basket. Were it not for the very obvious blush on his face, he might have been confused for a robot. He bends over, picks up his laundry basket, and takes it over to the now empty washer. From the top of the basket, he pulls out a small thing of laundry detergent. He opens the lid.

"Wait, what are you doing?" Beatrice asks.

She grabs her laundry and stomps over to the washer.

"I'm using that one," she says with a scowl.

Wirt's face folds into a frown.

"No way," he says, petulant, "I was here first, I had to wait longer."

"But I need to get my laundry done now."

She sets both hands on her hips and stares him down. At 5'6", it's more of a staring up, but despite Wirt's nearly half a foot on her, Beatrice knows how to look threatening. His hands, already reaching for his first pile of clothes, hesitate.

"Come on, Beatrice. I was here before you, and besides, I always do my laundry on Wednesdays."

"Boo hoo, I need to wash my clothes and I'm not going to wait, so shove over and let me get my clothes in."

His scowl wavers, and it looks like he's about to give in. A burst of satisfaction blossoms in Beatrice's chest - he's such a pushover. She hefts her own laundry detergent up and sets it on the washer.

“I always do my laundry on Wednesday,” he says, and the force of his words surprises her, “You know this Beatrice - it’s how we met. I’m doing my laundry, and, uh, you can wait. Why don’t you just go back up to your room or something and wait until it’s not so busy.”

“No way! I’m not hauling all of this back up to the third floor. Why don’t you go back to your room, you’re only one flight up.”

“I was here first,” Wirt says again, as if the repetition is suddenly going to convince her to back down.

“I’m not leaving.”

“Then you’re going to have to wait for another washer to open up.”

“I’m not waiting.”

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Wirt rolls his eyes and picks up an armful of his laundry. He’s just about to drop it into the washer when Beatrice slams the lid shut. She doesn’t give him a second to react - she places both hands on the top of the washer and lifts herself up, situating herself on top of the lid.

Wirt attempts to pull a hand through his hair, but ends up dropping half of the laundry in his arms. Rather than pick it up, he continues the motion and tugs at the ends of his hair, exasperated.

“You’re acting like a child” he groans.

She sticks her tongue out at him and crosses her legs. As close as he was to the washer already, her toes graze his chest. The thought of pushing him back just using her feet flits across her mind, but Beatrice thinks she might not be able to handle the ferocity of his whining complaints afterwards.

“Oh my god,” Wirt says.

His entire body seems to slump over as he stares at her. Beatrice shoots him a sweet smile in return.

“You know what? No, absolutely not.”

Wirt straightens back up and, with a determined set to his face, closes the distance between them and puts his hands on her waist.

The contact makes her jump. Wirt starts to half-lift, half-slide Beatrice off of the lid, but he’s not nearly strong enough. It’s only the pure shock that ricochets through her body at his, his boldness, that has her wriggling under his hands, trying to free herself. She manages to slip off of the washer, his hands still at her sides.

“H-how dare you just-”

Immediately Wirt’s hands come off of her waist and lift into the air, defensive.

“You forced my hand, Beatrice!” he exclaims, voice going high with nerves.

“Alright, you know what Wirt? You’ve got more guts than I thought. Clearly, you’re going to keep finding ways to annoy me, and I’m not leaving here without a basket of clean clothes, so we need to find a solution.”

Annoyance and fear are funny expressions to see smeared together on one face, and were Beatrice not so pissed off at Wirt right now, she might have laughed at the way his face twisted as he looked from her to their clothes.

"Look, my load isn't all that big, and it doesn't look like you have that many clothes," he says, "Let's just combine our laundry and be done with it."

It's actually not all that bad of an idea. Sure, it means more time in the presence of the wimpiest kid on campus, but at least she'd finally get her clothes washed.

"Fine, but we're using my detergent," she says, "I don't like that dumb floral smelling stuff."

"Wh- fine," Wirt sighs.

Side by side, Wirt and Beatrice fill the washer with their clothes. There's a lull in the complaints and insults as they make quick work of their respective piles.

Wirt has already finished putting all of his clothes in as Beatrice is checking the pockets of the last pair of shorts to go in. She doesn't think of the last time she wore these shorts as she reaches in and tugs out the inner fabric, but as a square foil wrapper falls out, she wishes she had.

The world slows to molasses as the unwrapped condom drifts past her outstretched hand and lands, with an echoing plop, right on Wirt's shoe.

Like statues they stand, the entire universe coming to a grinding halt with the presence of a condom on a shoe. Beatrice hears her heart pound once, hard, in her ears, before giving out from sheer embarrassment.

"Ah," Wirt starts after a millennia of stricken silence, "Drop something?"

She doesn't bend over to pick it up. Refuses, even. Even if her face hadn't adopted a shade of red only seen in tomatoes and her hair, she knows there's nothing believable about the way she says, "N-no."

Wirt stoops down to pick the thing up. He holds it in two fingers and turns it from side to side with the delicacy of an lepidopterist examining a shiny, winged specimen. The condom - a freebie from the student health center - is wrapped in lime green foil and features a cute cartoon version of the Hulk saying "That's my secret, I always ask for consent." Beatrice had secretly been hoping that she might have had a chance at the party last week to find out if the condom was green as well, but she had struck out. Now, all she's hoping to do is sink into the floor and never reappear.

"O-kay," he says, and wow, did he ever stop blushing, "I guess I'll just-"

Wirt crosses over to the small trash can used for cleaning out the lint filter and throwing out dryer sheets. He deposits rather than tosses the condom there, then walks back, stopping a few feet away from Beatrice.

Hastily, Beatrice pours in the detergent, swipes her laundry card, and slams the lid shut. For nearly five minutes, the only sound that fills the room is that of the machines. They stand uncomfortably, not looking at one another.

After about five minutes of silence, Beatrice's heart has restarted and she's determined that Wirt probably isn't going to bring it up. Maybe he won't even talk to her for the rest of the wash. She makes up her mind and pulls a stack of flashcards from the pocket of her baggy sweatpants. Beatrice lowers herself into a sitting position on the floor and leans against the washer, legs stretched out in front of her. Wirt, still standing, now seems to loom over her, but she opts to instead focus on the vocabulary cards.

"You're not going back upstairs?" he finally asks.

"All the way up those stairs and then all the way back down twenty minutes later? No way, I'll just endure my misery down here. Besides, I have a test to study for, and usually there aren't any distractions while my clothes as washing."

Beatrice doesn't even look up from her cards as she speaks, though she can feel his gaze on her. A few seconds later, he sighs and, based on the little puff of exertion he makes, lifts himself onto the top of one of the machines to sit.

She gets another solid ten minutes of studying - words muttered under her breath, the light flick of cards - before she's interrupted again.

"You're taking French?" Wirt asks.

This time she does glance up at him. His long legs trail down the front of the dryer he's on, and kick lightly back and forth. Even though he's in college and at least nineteen, even though he's definitely close to six feet tall, Wirt looks an awful lot like a little kid, staring down at her expectantly.

"Yeah. Language requirement. It's okay."

"Oh. I got all of my language credits in high school. Italian, so I could read Dante in the original language," he pauses and rubs the back of his neck, "I wasn't very good at it though."

She lifts her eyebrows, fighting the urge to care even less.

"Good for you," she deadpans.

Wirt pauses, lips puckering in some kind of displeasure. He stares hard at her, and she stares back, eyebrows still raised, daring him to challenge her.

"You're really not the non-abrasive, conversationalist type, are you?" he asks.

She'd probably be more offended if she hadn't heard it from others before; instead, a bulb of anger unfurls but does not explode.

"Basically," she says, "I'm shocked it took you so long to figure it out."

She expects him to take offense. Instead, he does that stupid neck rubbing thing again and says, "Yeah, apparently I'm not always the most perceptive about people."

And as if to prove his point, Wirt continues, asking, "So what are you majoring in?"

With a displeased groan Beatrice sets down her index cards. The washing machine behind her is still going strong - there must be another 10 minutes before they'll be able to switch it over.

"Biology. I'm Pre-Vet."

Wirt nods.

"That makes sense," he says.

"What do you mean?" Beatrice asks, unable to keep from sounding defensive.

He shrugs. "You like animals more than you like people."

Apparently Wirt is not the only one who would be blushing profusely all evening - Beatrice lifts her index cards up higher and stares hard at them, half-hiding her face, half-keeping her from looking at him.

"You said you weren't very perceptive," she grumbles.

"Me," Wirt continues, as if he didn't hear her, "I like animals enough but I'm not like, all about animals. I'm okay not having a pet in the dorms. My brother Greg, though... Total reptile enthusiast. If it's cold blooded and scaly, he love it. He'd probably love you, now that I think of it."

Beatrice's head shoots up. With a growl, she leaps to standing and stalks over to Wirt. For the first time all night, he pales.

"Beatrice, come on, it was a joke-"

She reaches out and grabs hold of one of his stupid, big ears. With a yank, she pulls him right off of the dryer. Wirt yowls in pain and cups his ear once she lets it go. When he finally releases it, Beatrice can see that it's red, but not injured in any other way.

"It was funny," she says, and her lips twitch into a smile - though admittedly in part from his pain.

"Yeesh," he mutters under his breath, but says nothing more for the ten or so minutes it takes for their clothes to finish in the wash.

They move their wet, heavy clothes across the row to the dryers, being careful not to bump into the other. Wirt tosses in a dryer sheet, swipes his laundry card, and the forty-five minute wait for their clothes to be done begins.

Even with her best attempts - and threats of bodily harm - Wirt reels her in. He shares his major: musical performance, but with a minor in creative writing, just in case. Beatrice reminds him of how hard it is to get a job in the industry, but Wirt simply shrugs and prattles on. He regales her with the story of his first encounter with Campus Police - "Did you know you can get a speeding ticket on your bike?" - which somehow turns to the story of how he and his younger brother got locked in their town's cemetery overnight one Halloween and had to climb the roof of a mausoleum to jump over the tall fence and avoid getting in even more trouble.

Somehow he cajoles her into sharing, and suddenly she's listing off the names of all of her younger siblings -"We've got a real Brady Bunch thing going on" - and debating over the merits of cereal and chocolate milk from the dining hall as a balanced dinner. The drying time speeds by, and forty-five minutes later Beatrice's giggle is drowned out by the loud buzz of the dryer.

They carry the mixed-up laundry to the narrow folding station and form a few piles. For a while most of their interaction is a quiet "Yours," followed by the handing over of some garment. Beatrice picks up a piece of clothing that proves to be a pair of Wirt's boxer briefs. As skinny as he is, it's no surprise how small they are.

"These look like my kid brother's," she teases, flinging them over to his pile.

"Well, well, you know they stretch, ah, in the places they need to," Wirt spews out, clearly flustered.

It takes a moment for Beatrice to catch up to his meaning; she ducks her head to hide her flush and stifle her giggle. She continues to pass him his clothes as she finds them, not meeting his eyes for fear of losing her composure. And it's not like she wants to think on what he said for very long either, so she ups the focus she puts into folding her laundry and giving Wirt his.

"Oh. Wow, this is pretty."

This time Beatrice wishes the ground would simply open up and swallow her, to save the effort of her family having to bury her. Wirt holds up a scrap of blue satin and lace barely big enough to be called a nightgown. The purchase had been her mother's idea, with a wink, the day they'd gone shopping for clothes for the start of the school year. Beatrice only wore it when her roommate spent the night over at her boyfriend's; she'd never admit it, but she liked the cool softness of the material and the way the hem brushed her upper thighs. Wordlessly, Beatrice snatches the nightgown from Wirt's grasp and quickly folds it.

"I bet you look nice in it," Wirt says off-handedly.

"If you don't shut up," she growls, "I'll make you."

The next few pieces of laundry are folded with incredible force. She's just handing him a red tee shirt when, in a trembling voice, Wirt pipes up.

"Yours?"

Looped around one finger is an even smaller patch of clothing: a few strings, a triangle of black fabric, and some rhinestones in the shape of a skull. Beatrice blinks at the thing, taken aback, then slowly shakes her head.

"No, that's not mine," she says, and this time, she means it.

The g-string is sexy, the kind of sexy Beatrice, against all of her aspirations, still hasn't found the confidence to indulge in. It was the kind of thing she eyed on the shelf, but never bought, and that one in particular was far from her style.

"It's got to be," Wirt says, panic edging into his voice.

"It's not," she says, and for some reason her stomach plummets when the realization hits her, "It had to have come from your laundry."

In any other circumstance, normal Beatrice would find Wirt's reaction hilarious. Normal Beatrice might tease him about lady friends and amorous affairs. But for some reason, Beatrice suddenly wasn't feeling like normal Beatrice.

"Don't mess around with me, Beatrice," Wirt says, "It's not funny."

He holds the underwear out in front of him like it might explode at any moment; she stares at it like it might start tap dancing.

"It's not even my style, Wirt," she says. She starts digging through her clothes, pulling out piece after piece of pastel, lacy hipsters and softly-padded bras with small embellished stars. He gets redder with every pair of underwear she puts on display, and the g-string in his hand trembles.

"Maybe... Someone left it in your room?" she suggests, even as her chest starts feeling tight.

"My roommate's gay," Wirt says. The point flies right over his head and out of the laundry room.

"If it's not yours," he continues, "Then let's just get rid of it."

Before she can say no, he shoves the underwear into her hands. Beatrice wants to protest, but she also wants to be rid of the thing, so she takes it over to the trash can and lets it cover the abandoned Hulk condom.

They fold the rest of their clothes in tense silence and pile it back into their respective hampers.

"Well, I guess that's it," Wirt says, "We both got what we wanted. Good night, Beatrice."

Which would be fine and all, were it not for the fact that they still both had to walk down the hall to the stairs and climb the first flight up together.

...

It's hours later when the knock comes at her door. Roommate-free for the night, Beatrice had been lounging on her bed, studying in her freshly laundered nightgown.

"Coming!" she calls as she rolls off of the bed. It's probably Vanessa, who'd texted her earlier about borrowing her Chem notes. Satin whispers along her body as she unlocks the door and swings it wide open.

"Oh. Uh, um. Uh. Hi, Beatrice."

Wirt is not staring at her face. His eyes skitter from her feet to her knees, then jump up to her mostly-bare shoulders, then start to dip down-

"What, Wirt?"

She stands stiffly, still holding the door, with every inclination to slam it in his face, crawl under her covers, and die. Her mother was the only one who had seen Beatrice in the blue slip, and even then Beatrice had only showed it off for a second before rushing back into the dressing room. With what seems like great effort, Wirt drags his eyes to meet hers, cheeks flushed.

"Oh, sorry, yeah, I know it's late and I actually went to the wrong room first because I didn't really know which one you were in, but Trish was really nice and-"

"What, Wirt?"

His arm juts out almost mechanically. Wirt holds a plastic zip bag in his hand, and in it, a delicately folded pair of underwear.

"I found these in my laundry as I was putting my clothes up... We must have missed them. I'm pretty sure they're yours this time. Your style"

She takes the baggie and looks more closely: cotton panties with trim, sunflower yellow spotted with little bluebirds.

"Yeah, these are mine."

Wirt swallows hard and breaks eye contact.

"Anyway, um, just wanted to drop those off, do the honorable thing and-"

"Good night, Wirt," Beatrice says abruptly.

He doesn't have a chance to respond before she slams the door shut and locks it. Beatrice nearly collapses against the closed door, gripping her underwear tightly. She can hear Wirt sigh.

"Good night, Beatrice. See you next Wednesday."

Beatrice feels warm; her heart is racing. A few seconds later, she can hear the thud of footsteps as Wirt retreats from the door.

"Next Wednesday," she murmurs faintly.

Chapter Text

"So naturally, in a spectacular fit of truly poetic kismet, Lin tanks his solo."

"Yeah, uh huh."

Wirt pauses the moment before his sandwich reaches his mouth. Across from him, Sara sends a sidelong stare to some point at the opposite end of the Dining Hall. While Wirt will often indulge in the opportunity to tell some story or wax lyrical uninterrupted, his friend typically at least *pretends* to be a little more interested. He lowers his sandwich back to his plate.

"Greg called me the other day to tell me he's moving to Belize. He's getting married to a Cane Toad."

"Oh, yeah," Sara responds, voice monotone.

"Sara?"

She says nothing, but her brows knit together in what looks like concern.

"Sara!"

Wherever she is, it must be outside of the atmosphere - Wirt has never seen her so spacey. Uncertain, Wirt drums on the edge of the table for a few brief bars. The solution comes to him a moment later.

He reaches across the narrow two-person table and pinches a single tater tot between two fingers. Carefully, he begins to lift it-

"Get the fuck outta my potatoes," Sara rumbles, voice deepening comically.

Head snapping back to Wirt, Sara smacks his hand, freeing the wayward spud. It falls to the table, bounces, and plummets to the floor. Sara watches its descent mournfully, but makes no attempt to stop it.

"You owe me tots, kid," she says, her voice flat, but this time she stays focused on him.

"I know, I know, sorry," he whines, "You were just totally zoned out, and I know it wasn't because of my utterly fascinating story."

Sara smiles. The expression sweetly softens her whole face, and her brown eyes glow in the warm light of the oncoming dusk. Wirt squints a little, the sunlight from the windows stinging his eyes, but his heart does an eighth note skip and patter at the sight of her. Even after all of these years of getting to know one another, Sara maintained that mellow charm that stirred the echo of a flutter in his chest.

"Ugh, no, my bad," she says, "I was distracted, and accept my tuber torture as punishment. Speaking of which..." Sara's eyes stray back to the side, whatever had occupied her attention before.

"Yes?"

"Do you know that girl over there?"

For the first time, Wirt follows the line of Sara's stare. At seven in the evening on a Thursday, the dining hall is crowded, a rush of bodies and movement and yelling and chicken smell. There seems to be nothing out of place about where Sara directs her gaze, except that Wirt doesn't recognize any of the jocks she seems to be staring at, and he doesn't see the 'girl' Sara speaks of.

"What are you talking about?"

"The girl just to the left of the window? The one who looks like she's about to bend her fork with how she's stabbing into her salad. The redhead."

It’s all the description he needs: it’s as if the kaleidoscopic Where’s Waldo of the dining hall has suddenly gone grey, all but for one girl with bright, nearly orange, hair. And for a moment, the world seems to sputter to a stop.

“Oh,” Wirt says in an exhale, “That’s Beatrice.”

He can sense Sara looking over at him, can imagine the face she's making even though his eyes haven't strayed from Beatrice.

"That's Beatrice."

The amusement in her voice is evident. Wirt meets Sara's eyes once and then skitter away. He fights down a blush.

"She looks... Nice," Sara says.

"She's not, really."

"Okay Wirt, well... she looks feisty."

"She's-"

"Wirt-"

"Well you see, she's more like a rose-"

"Wiiirt-"

"She's like a rose in the winds of a hurricane, thorns bared against-"

"She's coming over!"

Wirt startles and turns to see that Beatrice is, indeed, stomping over to them. One of her hands is curled around a fork, while the other makes a tight fist. She glowers the whole way over.

“Wirt,” she says curtly, cutting off his own greeting. He gapes, fish-like, for a moment, so she continues, “You weren’t in the laundry room yesterday.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” Wirt says, “I went home last weekend and washed all my clothes at home. I guess I should have told you?”

“Yeah, that would have been peachy. I had to share the laundry room with some kid with bad dubstep blasting out of his dumb oversized headphones.”

“I-I don’t know what I could have done about that.”

But Beatrice isn’t listening anymore; her gaze has shifted to Sara, who she levels with a solid glare. Sara stares back, a smooth smile on her lips, placid. Wirt swears he hears air-raid sirens going off, but a moment later, he’s pretty sure he’s imagining it.

“Am I interrupting something?” Beatrice asks through grit teeth.

“No, we were just finishing up dinner,” Sara says pleasantly.

“Beatrice, this is my friend Sara, Sara, this is Beatrice, the one from the laundry room.”

Beatrice’s stare loses some of its intensity, but she doesn’t look away from Sara.

“How did you guys meet?” Beatrice asks. It doesn’t sound much like she’s interested in hearing the answer.

“Wirt and I have been friends since high school, actually, and he and my girlfriend are in the same woodwinds ensemble,” Sara says.

And it’s like a switch flips: Beatrice’s face relaxes, her eyes widen a little, and she looks back over at Wirt.

“Oh,” she says, “That’s cool. Yeah. Anyway Wirt, I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you next week.”

“Uh, okay-” Wirt manages, but Beatrice has already turned and started walking away. She picks her tray up off of the table she’d been sitting at, deposits it at the dish intake window, and exits the hall.

Running a hand through his hair, Wirt lets out a slow breath. He feels like he’s been picked up by a tornado, spun around, and deposited in Oz.

“Wowza,” Sara says.

“Huh?”

“You two sure have something going on, there,” she continues, “I’m not exactly sure what you two have going on, but it is certainly something.”

He must still be in a bit of a daze, because it’s impossible to process what Sara is saying.

“I… what? Beatrice and I are friends.”

She laughs like she’s just heard the most hysterical joke. Sara’s wiping tears from her eyes when she can finally catch her breath enough to speak again.

"Wirt, it's obvious."

"Clearly it's not, as I'm about to ask: what's obvious?"

Sara slaps a palm to her forehead. Brown eyes lift to the heavens, pleading for strength.

"Wirt, she wants you."

His eyes narrow, dubious.

"Wants me to do what?"

"Oh my god!" she exclaims, unable to keep the disbelieving laugh from hiccupping into her words, "Come on, we're not in high school anymore! She wants the D. Your D."

His heart, which had previously been thudding out a marathon, comes to a sudden stop. Sandpaper is substituted for a tongue.

"What?" he croaks.

Likely, Sara would be more frustrated were she not enjoying herself with the kind of glee often reserved for sneaking a six pack into the movie theater or covering the entirety of Wirt's side of his dorm room in sticky notes. Her grin sharpens and her eyebrows waggle. With each statement she pops another tator tot between her lips.

"You know, she wants your Bluetooth Dongle in her USB port-" another tot went in, "-she wants to see your Dick Nixon in her White House-" tot, "she needs you to plug your vacuum into her outlet-" tot, "you've got to put your load in her washer and set it to spin cycle-"

"Sara!"

Covering his face in his hands does nothing to tame the fierce blush that wells up on his cheeks. He can't believe he used to think of Sara as 'sweet' and 'mature' when they were in high school. 'Lowkey Devil incarnate' would have been more accurate.

"I got it the first time," he mumbles through his fingers.

"Sorry," Sara says, and there's a note of sincerity underneath all of the snickering.

It takes Wirt a good three or four minutes before his face stops resembling an erupting volcano. Waiting in silence, Sara continues whittling down her mountain of potatoes.

"You- you think she wants to... Sleep with me?" he asks. He's pulled his hands away from his face, but his words are still low.

"Oh yeah, without a doubt."

"How can you tell? I've spent way more time around Beatrice, and you only just met her. For like, a minute."

Sara props her chin in a hand and stares Wirt down, looking amused. He knows that look, and the words that come after it as well.

"That's because you're totally clueless about everything, Wirt."

He lets out a huff of protest but lets her continue.

"You literally just told me last week that, when you two were doing laundry together, she pulled like ten condoms out of one of the pockets of her pants, right in front of you. Probably while staring at you intently."

"I just thought she must visit the student wellness center a lot..."

"You told me that the week before that she invited you up to her room-"

"She needed help carrying her laundry up!"

"And that you two sat on her bed. Next to one another. Together."

"Well there was only one desk chair, so-"

"That, and the moment she and I made eye contact, it felt like someone was trampling my grave. Like if she could have killed me with the intensity of her glare, she would have. When she got up and walked over, I was positive she was coming over to fight me for your hand."

"But we're not even dating," Wirt says.

He throws his hands up in the air, looking stricken. His heart has resumed its frantic thud, his stomach flutters and his chest tightens, and Sara had better be right because the sensation rocketing through his body was something else.

"She didn't know that, though. To her, I must have looked like some random floozy trying to get my claws into her man."

"We haven't even gone on a date or exchanged romantic sentiments or... Or even texted one another. There's no way I'm 'her man'."

"That's what you think, Wirt. It's clear Beatrice has made up her mind, and she doesn't seem like the type to be swayed. Stubborn," Sara says.

She's finally eaten every tator tot on her plate, and with that, Sara sets both elbows on the table and leans in conspiratorially. A few years ago, Wirt might have melted at her closeness, and even a few minutes ago, those faint stirrings still wormed their way in.

But now, with this revelation, the only thing Wirt can focus on is the memory of Beatrice, arm pressed to his as they sat on her tiny twin bed, watching some stand up comedy bit on YouTube. It's this, and not the image of her standing barefoot at her door, fair skin standing out against cornflower blue silk that barely fell much past her hips, that he has to focus on. Wirt feels dizzy, or maybe giddy.

"You're already too far gone," Sara says. Her smile is soft and small.

"I guess," he breathes.

"Alright you big nerd, here's what you're going to have to do."

...

Once again, and against Sara's explicit directions, Wirt touches the top of his head. The hair there is tacky, molded down with some vaguely tropical smelling goop Sara had insisted he needed "for that ridiculous mop of yours". In the steam-and-oven warm of the dining hall, his marigold orange cardigan is oppressively uncomfortable. He's unbuttoned the top few buttons and pushed up the sleeves, but he'd spilled ketchup all over the front of his undershirt when he'd first sat down to eat, so removing the cardigan is not an option. He taps his scuffed brown leather shoes against sticky linoleum.

The thing about sitting in the dining hall for hours on end is that it gets quite boring, quite quickly. Add to that the anxious nerves of having to wait paired with the discomforting stares of the cafeteria staff who realized, about an hour ago, that he's still there and, well, even couldn't help but admit to himself that he was having a horrid time and that this was probably an awful idea. Wirt pushes around the remnants of chocolate pudding on his plate.
By the time he spots a brilliant blast of red hair, Wirt knows he looks a mess. He's somehow pushed his hair into some weird angle that has now stuck because of the product, and one of the sleeves of his cardigan keeps falling down. Beatrice, oversized hoodie and sweatpants, glistening from the gym or soccer practice, is quite possibly the most beautiful thing Wirt has ever seen.

She doesn't notice him as she walks to one of the staff members and swipes her ID, nor does she see him as she circles around the food stations, picking out her dinner. Beatrice finds a table on the opposite side of the room from him and, still not seeing him, sits.

For a few minutes, all he can do is watch. Wirt knows the next move, knows what he is supposed to do, but her sudden appearance is a paralytic, his body demanding he watch from afar instead.

And then, like an out of body experience, he's there, standing in front of Beatrice's table, hands sweaty and at his sides.

"Hi, Beatrice."

Her brows furrow and her lips dip into a scowl even before she looks up.

"What do y-" Beatrice starts, words sour, but she cuts off the moment her eyes meet Wirt's. The transformation is immediate: she almost looks shy, an expression Wirt would have never expected to cross her face.

"Oh, hey Wirt."

"Hi."

"Hey."

"Hi."

Beatrice snorts and rolls her eyes. Wirt tugs on the bottom of his cardigan.

"What's up?" she asks.

"Oh, nothing," he squeaks. Since when had he flashed back to puberty?

"Okay..."

She stabs her fork into her spaghetti and shovels in a mouthful. Breaking eye contact, Wirt stares down at the ground.

"Well, not nothing, actually. Definitely something. I've been thinking about it a lot and I'd like to see you outside of the laundry room."

"Like right now?" she asks, and Wirt can practically hear her rolling her eyes.

He glances up and she is, indeed, rolling her eyes. For some reason that gesture spurs him on.

"Like right now. And maybe like tomorrow. And not just in the dining hall, either. Like in the library, and on the quad, and maybe down at the little lake behind Bryant Hall that no one seems to know about-" or in my room, he thinks, though he doesn't say that out loud.

Wirt swallows hard. The color has drained from Beatrice's face, and she holds her empty fork halfway between tray and mouth. Slowly, she sets her fork down.

"Wirt," she starts, voice quiet.

She frowns. His stomach sinks.

"Wirt," she says again,"Are you asking me out?"

Taking a deep breath, Wirt clenches his hands into fists. Be resolute, Sara had said as she set his hair in place, Be as stubborn as she is.

"Yes. Yes I am. Have dinner with me...tomorrow?"

Seasons pass; Wirt feels the immeasurable crush of time and age, feels his skin wrinkle and his bones brittle. A cold wind blows through his ashes. A moment later, Beatrice smiles and the world erupts into warm light. He is reborn, stood flat footed in the middle of the dining hall.

"So you finally decided to stop being such a wimp?" she asks.

Wirt grimaces, but she's still smiling, now swirling spaghetti around her fork over and over and over.

"I'm not- what are you- why would you-?" he sputters.

Her grin is ecstatic, and Wirt wonders why he’s never noticed the way her eyes crinkle when she’s happy.

“Of course, you loser. I would love to have sex with you.”

Wirt’s knees nearly buckle, and while he avoids collapsing, he does have to catch himself on the edge of the table. Beatrice’s fork hits the table with a clatter, and she stares up at him, slack jawed. He might be the king of embarrassed blushes, but Beatrice is quickly contesting his throne. For a few moments her mouth moves as if she’s trying to speak, but nothing comes out.

“I-I mean,” she says, fumbling over her words, “I would love to have dinner with you. Dinner.”

The vision of Beatrice in that nightgown swims in front of his eyes, and he has to blink, rapidly and hard, to clear it. Beatrice in sweatpants, hair pulled into a messy bun, cheeks flushed a deep red, is equally as lovely.

“I meant dinner, Wirt,” Beatrice says, and she’s just as beautiful with a fierce frown and narrowed eyes.

“Freudian slip?” he asks.

“Dinner”

“Uh huh.”

“I mean it!”

“Hulk condoms?”

“I don’t care if you’re paying for dinner, Wirt, I will still kill you.”

She demonstrates her seriousness with the vicious spearing of a green bean - she wiggles it around after impaling it, metaphor obvious.

“I get it, yeesh,” he says, putting his hands up. He hadn’t noticed that they’d stopped shaking, nor that he wasn’t feeling nearly so clammy any more. The thunder of his heart, while still powerful, was not quite so deafening.

“Are you free around 6 tomorrow?” Wirt asks.

“I have a bio lab until 7,” she says, wrinkling her nose, “But I could be free after that.”

“Great. Excellent. Good. I’ll… see you then?”

Beatrice nods, and looks up at him, thoughtful.

“Yeah. You can… you can sit down though, if you want, that is. I won’t count it towards our date, though, so don’t think it’s a cheap way out.”

Laughing, Wirt rubs the back of his neck and glances over to the food service stations.

“Actually… I’ve kind of been here for three hours now. I didn’t know when you ate so I decided to wait. The dining hall staff is starting to give me strange looks.”

It’s fortunate that Beatrice had paused in eating her meal, because with as hard and forcefully as she laughs then, there’s no way food wouldn’t have come back out. He stares off to the side, expression sour, but the little knot of pleasure in his belly warms and swells.

“You’re… wow, Wirt,” Beatrice says, “Fine, I get it. I’m going to finish eating but… maybe I can stop by your room on my way back up?”

“For dinner?” Wirt asks.

He’s lucky that he’d stained his shirt already, as Beatrice then proves to have remarkable aim when it came to hurling spaghetti at him from across the table.

Chapter Text

The first time Wirt kisses Beatrice is on a Wednesday. He starts kissing her sometime between 8:24 and 8:26; she knows because she's just checked the time and was commenting on how much longer they had until their clothes would be done in the washer when there's a profound lull followed by a sudden jolt as Wirt grabs her by the hips and slams his lips into hers.

It's not the first time they've kissed. That special honor is given to Beatrice, two nights prior, on the second of their dinner dates. After their first had ended in a tense, aching hug and awkward promises of 'another time', Beatrice had been determined to make something happen. They'd gone to a dingy but delicious burrito place, surprisingly cheap for being so close to campus. Beatrice had nearly asphyxiated from laughing so hard after Wirt put too much hot sauce on his burrito, and an hour later had pressed her lips to his outside the door to his dorm room. He didn't kiss her back, but when she pulled away (cumin and refried beans on her breath), he stared at her with dark eyes and bit his bottom lip almost hard enough to make it bleed. His voice was low and shaking when he said he'd see her Wednesday.

But it's the first time he has kissed her, and the vigor with which his mouth moves against hers leaves her breathless. Half-lidded brown eyes gaze at down at her. They flutter closed when Beatrice, taking the hint, gently sucks at his bottom lip. Even with his hands on her waist Wirt is far from close enough; Beatrice rolls onto the balls of her feet, lifting her those few vital inches up to him and forcing their bodies nearer. Despite the burning, ever-present heat of the laundry room, Wirt shivers.

They part with a gasp. Wirt's eyes spring open, and when his lips part he looks the part of a fish out of water, sucking at air. His ridiculous expression doesn't faze her, and she's more delighted than surprised when Wirt steers her backwards until her back hits the edge of a dryer, leans over, and kisses her again. Their teeth grate together with a loud click, but the sensation does nothing to stop them. Beatrice's tongue darts along Wirt's lips, suggestive.

His fingers dig into her sides, and if she weren't so overcome by the way her knees buckle or the way heat unfurls up her skin, she might have complained. Instead, Beatrice lets herself be pressed further into the dryer, until the only option she has left is to shakily lean back and haul herself on top of it.

Wirt pulls away. Though her hands have mapped the lines of his back and occasionally strayed to cup his face, his hair is mussed. A thin band of sweat stands out along his upper lip, and it takes what little control Beatrice has left not to tug him closer until she can lick it away. He shuffles forward until he reaches her knees, which jut out from the washer. Long, slender hands find purchase on her knees. Slowly, he slides his hands up her thighs, eyes fixed on hers as he drew nearer. Her knees part of their own accord, and Wirt tucks himself neatly between her legs.

He's bending down to kiss her once again when a realization intrudes her pleasure.

"You've done this before," she says.

Wirt, less than half and inch away and looking ready to trap her lips in his once more, rears back and straightens to his full height.

"N-no, I'm pretty sure I haven't kissed you in a laundry room before. Perhaps in another age, a kinder time, when you and I were-"

"I mean you've kissed someone like this before," Beatrice says, voice flat.

She leans back on the dryer a bit, further separating herself from him.

"Oh. Well. Then, yes. Yes I have."

To her shock, Wirt's words are unflinching, and the blush she'd expected to see on his face never rises. He stares at her, hands clenching and unclenching, looking for all the world like he'd like to use those hands to drag her to him once again. It sets a fire low in her belly, but she pushes the sensation aside with all of the stubbornness she can muster.

"You, Wirt, have kissed someone before."

She flings the words with enough force that they dent his unusually cool façade: just as she had hoped, his face goes red, and he narrows his eyes, exasperated. He takes a step back.

"Is it that hard to believe?" he snaps.

"Yes," she says, crossing her arms over her chest, "You're utterly clueless and in general, a complete pushover."

"Why do you keep insisting that I'm a pushover?"

"Because you are, Wirt. After two dates, I had to be the one who made the first move. But somehow you're the one who has done this before? What over-aggressive girl did you let have her way with you?"

His hands clench into fists and stay clenched. There's no denying that he looks upset, but Beatrice is too far gone to care, she needs to know who Wirt has been with, even more than she needs air to breathe or him to kiss her again.

"One, it was perfectly mutual. Two, Sabrina, Sara's girlfriend. Obviously they weren't dating then - it was Orientation, they'd been paired up in the same room overnight, and decided to host a game of Spin the Bottle. I spun, we had to kiss. And just... Didn't stop for a while."

There's a sour feeling that rises from.the back of her throat and seems to coat her tongue. Just minutes before, Beatrice had been enjoying herself, then Wirt had to go off and be good enough at kissing to make her question him.

"You're actually mad at me, Beatrice?" he asks, "For kissing someone else before I'd even met you?"

It does sound silly when he puts it that way. Beatrice knows it, but it doesn't change the angry shock flaring in her chest.

"Yes. I guess I am."

But then, as she's watching his face for a reaction, she notices the swell of his lips, reddened under her ministrations, and how undone Wirt looks with his hair pushed back from his forehead. His face is still red - from frustration more than exertion - but she wants it nonetheless. Wants him. The decision she'd made weeks ago, only exacerbated by time and kisses.

"I am," she continues, "But not enough to want to stop."

Stretching out her arms, she beckons him to come back. Wirt shakes his head.

"Nu-uh," he says, "You have mortally wounded my pride."

He raises a hand to his forehead and bats his lashes, though there's still an edge to his voice.

"Wirt, come on..." Beatrice whines.

Somewhere, in some small crevice of her brain, she knows this is her fault, and that she's making a figurative mountain out of a molehill. But in a bigger, more persistent part of her brain, she needs Wirt to be just spineless enough to forgive or forget for right now and kiss her.

"Not when my kissing prowess is going to be so vilely questioned."

He crosses his arms over his chest and sticks his nose in the air.

"Wiiiiiiirt..."

Their washer buzzes, the cycle finished. Unlike weeks before, there had been plenty of washers open. All the same, Beatrice had suggested they share one. To save water.

Wirt spins on his heel and stomps over to the washer. He pulls all of their clothes into a hamper and lugs it over to the dryers. Stopping in front of Beatrice, he eyes her and then the dryer she's on top of, before sighing and dragging the clothes one dryer down.

"Wirt..." she says, voice going low in warning.

He begins piling the wet laundry into the dryer. The rate at which he fills the machine is agonizingly, intentionally slow, and Beatrice finds herself squirming in some mix of annoyance and anticipation. Once the dryer is filled he slams the lid and starts the machine. He turns, deliberately, and fixes her with a hard stare.

"Can we please just pick back up where we left off?" she begs.

He shrugs, still staring.

"Wirt, you're being such a baby about this!"

"Am I?"

But despite her words, she's the one who is pouting, the one not getting what she wants.

"Wirt..."

"Beatrice."

"I'm sorry," she mumbles, glaring down at the floor. There's a physical pain from how much it hurts, having the words ripped out of her like that.

"For?"

"... For making a big deal out of nothing and making fun of you."

A moment later Beatrice has decided that the magic word is "sorry", not " please", as Wirt crosses the short distance between them in two strides, cups her chin in his hands, and kisses her, hard.

He's back between her knees in an instant, pressing up against her. She grabs him by the waist and pulls herself flush against him. Who hisses in pleasure a split second later, she's not sure (though she thinks it could be her. Maybe him.). The dryer jostles and whirls underneath her, and Wirt groans and leans in above her, and Beatrice is certain she's been struck by lightning when Wirt tentatively presses his tongue in past her lips.

The sensation goes from sexy to strange as Beatrice reconciles the slick slide of his tongue against hers - a first, though she'd never admit it. The new weight is unusual, but the longer Wirt swirls his tongue around her mouth, the warmer her face begins to feel. Experimenting, she sucks gently, and it elicits a heady moan from the boy bent over her.

"Seriously? I swear to you guys, there is actually more than one room in this whole hall where you could be doing this."

A squawk of embarrassment and Wirt spins away, looking back at the girl across the laundry room from them. Beatrice recognizes her as the blonde from before, this time decked out in a pink sorority polo and sunglasses, inexplicably, perched atop her head.

"What do you want?" Beatrice snarls, though a slight, Wirt-y voice in the back of her head reminds her that the girl is, technically, right.

"Uh, to get to my clothes, duh."

She points a manicured nail to the dryer Beatrice is sitting on. Too wrapped up in Wirt's mouth, she hadn't noticed that the dryer had stopped spinning, likely minutes ago. Of course, of all of the machines, the clothes in this one would belong to Blondie.

Beatrice has got too much pride to look ashamed as she slides off of the dryer and scoots over next to Wirt. They stand awkwardly, shoulder to shoulder (or, really, shoulder to chest, if she's being accurate) as the other girl grabs her laundry from the dryer. Clothes in arms, the girl turns towards the folding table, once again requiring the two of them to shift out of the way. As they pass, the girl raises her eyebrows and fixes a them a plastic smile, large and full of sweet vinegar.

"You two," she says slowly, "Should go upstairs. To some completely different room. Up. Stairs."

"R-right," Wirt chokes out, "Upstairs. On it. Right now."

He grabs Beatrice by the hand and hauls her away before she can drop a snide remark.

...

Given that it's closer, they head straight for Wirt's room. The one floor climb is agony. There is nothing more that Beatrice wants than to press Wirt against the wall of the stairwell landing and continue what had been interrupted, but Wirt carries himself with upright tension up the stairs, and Beatrice gets the feeling she wouldn't like his reaction if he tried.

She's been to his room before, though mostly in passing - a quick stop by to help him unload his laundry, or to meet up with him for dinner. Never at any point before did Wirt seem nervous about her presence at his door, but she notices that his hands shake as he attempts to put the key in the lock, and that he turns the handle with the dread finality of a man about to meet his end.

The room is empty, and Wirt lets out a held breath.

"Jake must be out for the night," he says.

They stand at the threshold for longer than necessary, Wirt staring into the room, Beatrice staring up at Wirt.

"May I come in?"

Wirt blinks rapidly, as if reconnecting with his body after having beamed his thoughts to space. What a dork. He nods, and steps aside to hold the door open for her. She enters.

He tries, he really does. Muttering under his breath, Wirt starts clearing off surfaces: removing clarinet parts from the desk chair, pulling stacks of paper off of his pillow, sliding abandoned socks under his bed. Beatrice gives him a minute, maybe two, to clear out whatever nerves had replaced the bold Wirt who had, not that long ago, pinned her to a dryer and kissed her dizzy.

"Sorry about the m-" he starts, but she doesn't let him finish.

Pouncing, Beatrice pushes Wirt onto his bed and scrambles on after. He hits the mattress with a thud and stares up at her with wide eyes. It's a refreshing change, being the one who gets to look down for once.

"She told us to get a room," Beatrice says, "And we did. I don't see why we can't continue where we left off."

Wirt nods wordlessly, and cranes his head up to deposit two sharp pecks, one on her cheek, the other on her lips. Beatrice lowers herself to her elbows and Wirt reaches out and drags her closer, and they lay, side by side, making out with the sort of force that slows down time and begins to question the limits of human anatomy.

Sometime later, after they've both shifted to their sides, Beatrice feels the arm holding her up start to tingle, circulation cut off. As she wiggles to move her arm to some more awkward but less practical angle (stretched out somewhat over her head), two things happen in rapid succession: Beatrice begins to slide off the narrow twin bed, and Wirt, grabbing her at the waist to save her, pulls her tightly against him and rolls back, counterbalancing gravity. It's like a circuit suddenly completed, and Beatrice feels a spark as they connect at chest, groin, and thigh.

A gasp rushes from Wirt, and then he's moving, taking her with him until she's on top of him. Her body responds of its own volition, legs parting and bringing their hips to a tight fit. The pressure she finds there is mind numbing.

"That is-" he starts, but he swallows his words in a whine.

She nods, though she has no clue what he was about to say, and peels off her shirt. Were Beatrice in a more articulate state, she'd perhaps describe the way Wirt's face lights up as jubilant or, akin to a child on their birthday, but all she can concern herself with is the need to be closer.

Clothing disappears between kisses. Beatrice rolls off of Wirt long enough to slide her jeans off, and relishes in his eager flush when he spots the bluebirds dotting her underpants.

"These. I like these," he mutters.

A moment later, he hooks two fingers around the waistband. The glance he shoots her is uncertain, and even after she nods, Wirt takes his time in tentatively tugging her underwear over her hips and to her knees. With something like reverence he pulls them the rest of the way off and folds them neatly. Wirt reaches over to set them on his bedside table, and when he settles back on the bed to face her, it's with a square of green foil in his hand. Maybe it's Beatrice's imagination, but she's sure the condom is shaking in Wirt's thin hands.

"Would you-" he starts, but is cut off by Beatrice's enthusiastic, "Yes."

She plucks the condom from his fingers as he fumbles with his own boxers. The condom is the same as the ones she'd snatched from the student center, wrapper emblazoned with Consent Hulk. She opens it.

"What?!?" she exclaims, "This is ridiculous!"

Startled, Wirt scrambles to pull his boxers back up. The frantic motion forces Beatrice to look up at Wirt's bright red face. She rolls her eyes.

"No, Wirt," she says, "Not you. This."

Beatrice holds up the opened condom with a frown.

"I was expecting it to be green. What a let down," she grumbles.

Wirt's hands are still on his boxers, ready to pull them up at any moment. His impression of a deer in the headlights that's been genetically spliced with a lobster is almost enough to distract her from the point he is presenting.

"If- if you don't want to- we can just-"

Almost. From what she's seeing, it is a good point, after all.

"No way, mister, there's no chance you're getting out of this one that easily."

"G-good," he says. Wirt takes a deep breath and looks her straight in the eye. "I'd rather get it in, instead."

Beatrice decides to be the bigger person, and smothers the quip on the tip of her tongue by smashing her mouth against his.

...

"Wiiiiiirt," Beatrice groans.

His eyes flutter open. Wirt has to stare down his nose to look at her, her head settled on his chest as it is, and she can't help but giggle as he goes cross-eyed.

"I don't think it's a requirement to moan my name after the fact," he says, an all-too-smug smile gracing his lips.

There's nothing for it: she smacks him on the shoulder.

"Don't start getting all high and mighty now that you're in my pants, Wirt. Which, coincidentally, is what I was about to say. My pants. Our laundry. It's still in the laundry room."

In a decidedly un-Wirtlike gesture, he shrugs and rolls his eyes.

"Whatever, they'll still be there later."

She starts to protest, but he throws his arms around her and yanks her up until their faces are level.

"I'm not in any rush for this to be over," he says slowly, and he proves it with his next kiss.

...

Their clothes are still there, in the laundry room, an hour later. They're there, and have been pulled out of the dryer, folded, and put back in their hampers. On the top of Wirt's basket, in purple pen and looping letters, is a note that makes Beatrice laugh until tears begin to streak her face:

Dear nerds, thank you for finally getting a room, and congrats on your sex. It's about freaking time. I'll let it slide this time, but next time don't leave your clothes in the dryer forever. -P