opposites attract

birth of venus

-m

her first day of actual university, monday was daunting.
although morrigan had spent the two previous nights studying and sleeping in her new dorm, she hadn't attended any classes before the friday she'd arrived on oxford's doorstep.
she half-skipped-half-sprinted towards her first class of the day (part of her course - art history) and skidded to a halt in front of room oxc-c25, where her first seminar group of roughly 70 students were all waiting to be taught about the renaissance age.
morrigan pushed the double doors open, and she made her way down the stairs until she reached aisle a, the one farthest from the front she -or anyone- could possibly manage to be. there were roughly 200 seats; since room oxc-c25 was apparently a lecture hall being used for classes, so she was sitting in the middle of her row- almost on her own with only one other student in the isle seat down from her.
the professor walked into the middle of the hall, a satchel swung over his shoulder and a stack of papers wedged below his armpit. as soon as he strode towards his desk; he slammed his satchel down and grasped his papers with both hands in an attempt to catch his students attention and to dramatise the hall.
the sound of the impact and the metal cracking down against the wood made morrigan jump, her hands skittered across the desk before gripping the sides in surprise and her sandro botticelli biography went flying to the floor with a thud. with a harsh scraping sound, she felt eyes turn to her while her own were wide open and blinking rapidly. she slowly removed her hands and reached to pick her book up.
by the time she came back up, everyone had turned back to the board and to the professor scrawling his name on the board with chalk; consequently filling the room with a screeching, scratching sound that made morrigan twist and turn in her seat.
"prof herrick : art history"
his handwriting was all in blocky capitals, unlike morrigans own- which was swirly, pretty and very much likened to that of a love letter in the late victorian era, debatably the most neat aspect of her.
the student down the row from her's hand shot up at every question asked, his book was constantly open and his hand was rapping continuously on his desk.
he looked very formal, and morrigan recognised him to be the boy from the dorm next to her. andrew? archie?
"mr caruso?" professor herrick called.
the boy kept his hand up while he answered in what could not be described as anything other than a blur, a scramble of words to recount botticelli's 1486 piece "the birth of venus" as a story not of romance, but of tragedy; regarding venus herself being pulled from the ocean and torn from her shell far too soon, and her one true love running off with the woman wrapped in blue silks and fine scarves while she is humiliated on her cockle shell altar.
morrigan scoffed as she flipped to the next page in the biography.
how pessimistic.
"ms...." professer herrick held his tone while he flipped through registration to find morrigans name;
"..cavanaugh. do you have anything to add?"
morrigan froze with once again wide eyes and mouth slightly ajar.
"n-no" she stuttered, turning to see caruso staring condescendingly at her with one brow cocked and his arms draped lazily across the table and back of his chair.
"actually-" morrigan corrected, fuelled by the desire to wipe the smug look off the kids face.
"it's just that i think it's rather defeatist of mr caruso to describe venus in such a cynic way,"
herrick cocked his head and furrowed his brow while morrigan explained.
"botticelli often depicted very morbid things, and even he romanticised a lot of his paintings, very nearly to the point of fault - for instance: in his painting 'discovering the body of holofernes' he used a warm palette and the body itself is in the glow of day while the surrounding imagery is quite melancholy, showing almost a.. a shrine to the ending of one life and the beginning of the next. in "venus" i find it to be a story of love rather than sorrow, romance rather than tragedy. i see venus finally being set free from her inhibitions, her flaws, the water; even, and seeing light from the first time. if you reference the colour palette- the title, even: it's a rebirth. it's freedom. besides, if mr caruso is correct, and 'the birth of venus' really is telling a tale of torn romance and beaten hope.. then who's to say that venus' own lost love is the man depicted in the painting, and not the woman being spirited away, or the lady fanning over her with blankets and silks?
i personally think mr caruso's over-macabre interpretation of a bright, floral painting very literally named "the birth of venus" to be quite stupid, really."
"no offence!!" she added hastily, and whipped back around to gauge caruso's reaction to her flippant comment on his mental capabilities.
his brows were raised, he'd sat straight in his chair by this point, and both of his elbows were planted on the desk. his head rested on his hands, curled up so that his chin could sit on the flats of his knuckles. his facial expression looked nothing short of impressed.
"non taken." he mused after a few long seconds later.
morrigan let out a deep breath at the words.
"well" professor herrick piped in, and cleared his throat.
"that was very well thought out and put together. and i definitely agree with a lot of your points, however i do have one particular question about what i believe is your third point - what makes you believe venus is .. sapphic?"
somewhere near the front far left of the hall, a girl could be heard snickering.
morrigan's breath shortened and she froze while she panicked; she was wracking her brain in an attempt to come up with a sophisticated answer to the question- morrigan was never the confrontational type; and that particular addition to her elucidation came from personal experience within herself, she couldn't really shove that onto sandro botticelli, could she?
maybe not, but she would certainly twist herself into venus' affairs.
"well, s- sir," she started
"i don't claim to know she was a label of any sort. i simply think it's rather naive to assume that venus, a goddess known for her choices in love and pursuit of romance, would be drawn to one specific gender. and now that you mention it, actually, i think perhaps if it was just one sex that she were attracted to, it might be women. after all; they're -we're- supposed feminine, delicate, beautiful, divine.. everything venus has ever been known to want for."
a look of brief shock could be seen on every student facing her, and the professor.
"thank you, miss cavanaugh, that was a radical and if i may say so, an excellent interpretation of venus if i've ever seen one, and one that i wholeheartedly agree with. well done; i can see you'll fit in here nicely." he acknowledged with an opened mouthed smirk.
morrigans shoulders relaxed while the snickering stopped, her eyes swept over to the source of the now-silenced noise and came across a raven haired girl with a grimace on her face. the girl was obviously vexed with the professors sudden interest in morrigan after her theory about venus being anything outside heterosexual.
how 14th century.
once the bell rang for the end of the 2 hour period, rustles of pages filled the room and heels scuffed the floor with sharp squeaks as people rushed to their next subject.
morrigan took her time, her next class was a couple rooms down the hall.
"cavanaugh!"
a voice caught her ear as she was swinging her bag over her right shoulder.
it was caruso, a brown leather briefcase clutched in one hand and his overly formal blazer with tweed elbow patches dangled, folded, over his elbow. his blazer arm was raised and his palm was flat to morrigan as if willing her to stop with just the force of his fingertips.
"it.. it is cavanaugh, right?" he questioned when he caught up to her.
"yes, it is cavanaugh. morrigan." she replied with an amused, sweet smile playing on the corner of her lips, and an outstretched hand to shake.
"listen, i'm sorry about earlier. i didn't me-"
"no, no it's fine, really" he interrupted.
"i loved your explanation, honestly. we're very different; you and i. i feel like we'd make good friends, if you're up to talking to my pessimistic self for more than an art debate; that is?"
morrigan paused for a minute, unsure of his motives.
she took a deep breath before attempting to back out of an imminent date with the boy she'd smashed in an art debate earlier.
"i, uh.. i'm not into- i'm not a fan of- uh" she struggled while her hand grazed anxiously over the back of her neck.
"i guessed" another interruption came,
"from.. well.. you know, all the lesbian stuff earlier?"
morrigan hiccuped a giggle at that -
"lesbian stuff?"
"you know what i meant" caruso smiled, she was starting to think he wasn't that much of a condescending twat after all.
"i'm not a fan of girls, myself, actually. we are really just that different, i suppose." he grinned at her with pearly whites and an eyebrow cocked as it previously was.
morrigan laughed all the way to the end of their aisle with her new friends footseps trailing closely behind.
"so, do i keep calling you mr caruso or did your parents give you a first name of any sort?"
"atticus." he replied.
"ahh" she sighed, nodding and remembering the name on paper taped to his door right next to hers.
when he gave her a confused smile, she angled her head to the side and explained.
"so what about you?-" atticus contemplated.
"-can i nickname you?"
"nickname me?"
"mm, i'm thinking morri?"
"you're thinking morri?"
"precisely!" he grinned again.
they stepped out into the hall, less crowded than morrigan would've liked. she checked her phone.
"oh damn" she muttered through gritted teeth. she was almost late for english.
"see you, caruso!" she called back while she ran towards oxc-c37 further down the hallway. another lecture hall, she guessed.
"later, morri!"
she flashed him one last disapproving smile before speeding up her pace.
she was rounding a particularly coiled corner when her shoulder collided with something hard- a person? her half-zipped bag went sailing though the air, leaving trails of all her papers and a few books behind it.
"i am SO sorry!" morrigan yelped, mortified. she collected her littered papers all while blabbering apologies and 'oh my gosh i was in SUCH a rush'
'i didn't realise' 'i'm so clumsy' 'i was late and i didn't realise-'
once she'd crammed her crinkled, abused papers into her bag again she zipped it - fully - shut and stood up with her bag gripped in both hands like a puppy begging for food. ready to ask forgiveness from the stranger again; when she noticed the hair. and the eyes. and the mouth that was slightly agape, and brows furrowed and head inclined.
it was the girl from the library.
they both stood there for a moment while morrigan's heart chased its tail, while the world stopped spinning and time stopped moving. just staring at eachother.
their moment was crudely interspersed by the final bell, which meant that morrigan should have been in her seat exactly three minutes ago.
the classroom was just a way down the hall, not too far if she ran again.
she shot the girl an apologetic look before making an unwanted escape down the hall and to her lesson, one last final "sorry again!" echoing throughout the now fully clear and empty halls while she darted to her classroom and tripped to a standstill.
the rest of the day went by fairly fast, during morrigans lunch hour she met up with atticus at the school cafe, they traded social medias and phone numbers and discussed their personal lives in great detail over a bowl of noodles and a sandwich. she completed the final lesson of the day and headed back to her dorm with him, all the while thinking about the girl from the library and the hall. she even told him about her, he told her that it was probably a coincidence- which she said was typical of him and insisted it was fate. it was, wasn't it? exact same girl, exact same hall, exact same feeling.
she bid farewell to him at his door, just before hers (his was number 4B, hers was 6B).
once she got inside, morrigan unpacked her entire bag and heard a slam.
it sounded very close, like it was near her hall.
she shuffled outside apprehensively, gripping an old lamp to check no one was injured and nothing was broken. once she realised it was simply the tenant of a room down the hall slamming a door, her shoulders relaxed and she huffed a laugh and ambled back inside.
she flicked through her notifications; a million messages from her friends flashed by on an old groupchat that had apparently come back into use, and she typed out a message about the girl she'd seen twice so far:
m :) - you'll never guess what, you guys, i met a person the other day! i saw them again today :))
els :P- already?! what's his name? what's he like? is he cute? ;)
m :) - i don't actually know their name, i've only seen them around twice. they're so pretty though !
gavriel - you've never actually met him..?
m :) - well, no. but they're very attractive and next time i see them i'm definitely asking for their number.
gavriel - you always say that, and you never do.
els :P - that's true
m :) - oh shut up, i'll do it eventually.
gavriel - whatever you say, m. we love you <3
els :P - i agree. anyway! tell us about ur fancy oxford classes!
morrigan smiled down at her screen as the sun set and night drew in; and she continued her conversation with the friends she refused to grow apart from.

i-

her mind felt swollen and heavy from the day behind her, and her face seemed stuck in the position she'd left it in when she'd been nearly mowed over by that girl. who'd been swimming around in her head all day since then, since the library even.
her brain was plagued with thoughts of her smile, her voice, her frizzy hair. her stupid broken, taped up glasses.
this is not what a surgeon thinks about. they think about the way someones heart beats beneath their fingers when they're replacing a faux valve, they think about calculating the risks of maze surgery with an open chest on the table. they think about scalpels and blood and traumas.
they do not think about how they want to hold and kiss and touch a girl they've seen twice in a hallway and a library with smiles and pretty voices and frizzy hair and stupid, broken taped up glasses.
they don't.
isla knew she liked girls when she was a kid. she liked girls and she did not like boys. it was just how it had always been, there was no realisation or sudden sense behind it; she just liked girls. she told her parents as much, and they were fine with it, mostly. there were a few times she'd caught her mother crying, slumped over the kitchen table about how she'd never marry, never have a husband, never have kids, and her father would be assuring her that it was "just a phase".
ten years later, the phase hadn't gone away.
it didn't matter either way to isla, though. she wasn't concerned with relationships, or marriage. she was going to marry her career, she was going to marry cardiothoracics.
well, she wasn't concerned about marriage or relationships then.
now her mind was spinning with thoughts of the girl, and how she would look in a tulle white wedding gown with flowers in her hair and both hands in isla's, giving her that same smile that she'd given her in the library.
that dizzying, focus stealing smile.
isla made her way up the stairs to her dorm. she spotted a loose wall tile that was tipping out of place, and pressed it back into its slot.
on her way down to her room -5B- the first thing she saw was a fuzz of frizzy blonde hair skipping down to room 4B. a black haired kid in an overly formal blazer with a briefcase by her side.
they turned around, and isla made the blondie out to be the girl that'd been floating around her brain for the best part of two days. her face was more beautiful that she'd remembered her to be, more beautiful than she'd imagined her to be in the wedding gown, even.
but the shaggy haired boy beside her obviously meant that she was straight.
isla kicked herself for even considering it, she had work to do. she had a career to perfect and studying to complete.
while she was focusing on her mind whirling around at warp speed, she glimpsed blondie walking -hopping- away towards the next room. maybe there was hope after all, she clearly wasn't sleeping with him, at least.
blondie didn't turn and see isla, but she did open the door to room 6B and go inside; obviously she lived next door to her.
isla couldn't tell if this was a curse or a blessing.
she resumed walking from a standing position she hadn't realised she'd obtained, and stepped into her room feverishly. as soon as she slammed the door behind her she all but threw her bag across the floor and her own body against the wood, she pressed her back and palms of her hands up against it and sank slowly to the floor with her eyes closed.
breathing laboured, heart racing, she rose up and went to sit on her bed.
normally she would study until late, but she was humming with the desire to knock on the girls door and introduce herself.
it was such a bad idea, she would seem so creepy and it was extremely unprofessional. what if this girl didn't even like girls? what would she do then? she didn't even know her name.
an idea surfaced in her head, as soon as it came up she tried to push it back down. it stayed floating though. if she wrote a note... stuck it to her door, maybe she could leave her room number? have blondie come to her?
it was a terrible idea. how stalkerish.
or.. was it smart? the girl did seem almost drawn to isla, when she whacked her in the hallways and they stood in front of eachother..
it was probably nothing, and she was probably massively over thinking. but what if it were something?
isla settled for scrawling the note on a scrap piece of paper. she kept pausing and considering, her writing had hesitation marks and was (as usual) very blocky and messy. it would have to do, though.
it was 1:30am by the time isla had finally stopped going back and forth on her resolve to tape the note to blondie's doorstep.
she'd been contemplating what to do for hours now, she was going to do it. she was committed and ready to do it.
she heaved herself off the bed and walked over to her door, the creak when it opened felt all too real and she hesitated momentarily.
making her way across that hall was like walking through treacle and sliding down a dropslide all at the same time. her hands, supposedly steady hands, shook as she taped her message to blondie's door.
maybe she'd leave one back, maybe she'd knock on her door, maybe she'd ignore it. a small part of isla hoped for the latter, she did not need distractions.
distractions like a pretty, bouncy, smiley girl.