Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“-Now, of course, things have changed in some respects, but a series of underlying principles and values inherited from Andient Greece are still central to the modern Olympic spirit. For instance, the London 2012 theme ‘truce’, as it is called, echoed the Ancient Olympic tradition of ekecheiria - sacred peace.”

It was about twenty minutes into the lecture that Caterine Vidal realised that she was definitely in the wrong class. According to her schedule, her lecture was on ‘Roman Architecture’. And while the Greeks and Romans did share some similarities - she doubted the Olympics had anything to do with Roman structures.
Oh well. She wasn’t about to get up in front of everyone. That wasn’t happening. While she did like making an entrance, she loathed making her exits - especially from such an embarrassing situation.
Instead, she just leaned further into her chair, causing her to slip down a few inches in height to anyone lucky enough to be behind her.
Caterine bit the inside of her cheeks. She tugged at the hem of her sleeve. She glanced around. Everyone seemed to be listening very closely, and she would have been the same - if this was her actual lecture (which it wasn’t).

She didn’t recognise anybody, which was understandable, it was only the beginning of term. Of course she couldn’t have expected to know the entire college in a week.

Maybe everybody felt this way. Maybe every single person in that room, was wondering, like her, at the fact that around fourty-something people were just all sitting in a room together - scribbling down greek terms and their etymologies, listening to a professor of an undetermined age (if she had to guess she’d say mid fourties) reading from a powerpoint presentation, and wearing the most horrendous jacket Caterine had ever seen. Who wears blue with brown, really?
Or maybe they were all just focusing on the lecture, and Caterine was just trying to pass the time without disturbing anyone.
Maybe.

“-In the late 19th century, inspired by German excavations in Olympia, and the introduction of Physical Education programs in schools, the French baron Pierre de Coubertin - spelled C-O-U-B-E-R-T-I-N,”

Caterine winced at the butchered enunciation of the french name.
“Yes, he campaigned for the revival of the Olympics. The Games had been banned in the 390’s C.E by Theodosius I along with all other expressions of non-Christian cults. There were, of course, a few recreations dotted throughout history - the Hippodrome of Constantinople events during the Byzantine period ; the Cotswold Games of the 17th century or the Wenlock Games of the mid 19th, but otherwise the games lay pretty much dormant.”
The professor continued, writing the examples on the board for the students who were attentively struggling with grammar.

She had the urge to pull out her phone - not that she would do much on it, but her fingers were itching to move. No, that would be disrespectful. The professor probably wouldn’t even see, though. He was very focused on his presentation slide. What time was it?
She glanced around again, arms crossed over her chest.

This restlessness lasted up until the very end of the lecture. Caterine had taken to scribbling small flowers on a blank piece of paper, all the while looking very invested in De Coubertin’s attempt at reviving the Olympic Games in 1896.
Finally, finally :

“Alright, this year, this course will highlight the similarities and differences between our modern Games ands the Ancient Olympics, and explores why today - we still look back at the classic world for meaning and inspiration. That’s all for today.”

Caterine was among the first to pour out of the classroom, sighing in relief as she was released from a class that wasn’t even part of her curriculum. She checked her phone for the time - 11:59.
She’d promised Jake and India she would eat with them - and even as she thought it, her stomach let out an embarrassingly loud growl. Maybe skipping breakfast (and dinner the night before), had not been the smartest idea.
So, boots clicking as she walked down the hall to where she hoped the lunch area might be (she’d skipped the student tour - so really that was her fault), Caterine made her way out.

--

“Kitty, over here!”
In the end, Caterine found Jake and India in the pub down the road to Brasenose, already drinking - and not alone. To her mild irritation, Harry, Annabel, and Felix Catton were there too, sipping their lukewarm beers. And how could she forget the small little crowd that seemed to perpetually flock around the Catton boy - acting like a permanent laugh track to whatever he said.
With an internal sigh, Marion put on a smile and slid into the seat next to India.

“Well?” India questioned, smiling to her friend as she reached into her purse for her cherry lip-gloss. Her raven hair shone in the afternoon sun. The warm glow highlighted her golden skin. “How was,” she paused. “what was it, Architecture?”

Her smile widened into something more genuine, revealing surprisingly well-hidden dimples as her eyes creased. “Promise not to laugh.”
The slight roll of her ‘r’s revealed a hint of something foreign - definitely not English, but polished enough to pass off as mildly European.

India began to apply the liquid gloss over her full lips. “No. Tell me.”

“I went to the wrong lecture.”

India shot her a look, eyebrows raised. She closed the gloss and dabbed at the corner of her lip with a perfectly manicured finger, wiping the excess lip-gloss off with a practiced movement. “...How is that even possible? You have your schedule, don’t you?”

“I know,” Caterine shrugged. “Mistook the room.”
Upon inspection, as she was walking to the pub, she had found out she’d mixed up the two lecture rooms. A simple mistake, she reassured herself. Anyone could have done it.

Jake came up behind both of their chairs and ruffled up Cat’s hair. “Well, if it isn’t the King herself.”

“Hi Jake.” Caterine tilted her head upward to meet the grinning boy’s gaze.

“Hi, Cat.” He leaned down, towering over the chair, his brown hair tickling Marion’s nose. His breath smelled minty. “You didn’t come to Maubell. Mum was heartbroken, you know.”

Maubell was Jake’s family estate - no, holiday estate, located in the south of France, not too far off from where Caterine’s family themselves vacated to during the summer season.

She laughed, shrinking away from him and affectionately pushing him back with a finger to his forehead. “You guys weren’t even there. I wasn’t going to squat an empty mansion.”

Jake feigned a loud groan, and shook his head, before directing his attention elsewhere - to Harry, who was pulling a girl into his lap and whispering something that could potentially have been very cheesy into her ear.
It was like no time had passed at all since the summer - the boozy, drugged-up parties and campfires on the beaches of Bordeaux.

Caterine got up to get a drink.

Felix noticed and trailed behind her, shooing away his many admirers with a careless wave of his hand, and slipped an arm around her waist as she walked. “Hi, you.”

She looked up at the impossibly tall man - what was he, 6’5? and allowed herself a smile. “Hi back.”
The brief little fling between the two that summer had been short - but unsatisfyingly and abruptly put to an end before the both of them had fully grown bored of it.
Caterine stayed in Felix’s mind - Felix stayed in the back of hers.

“What’d you want? I’ll get you something.” Felix said, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans to pull out his wallet. Caterine quickly stopped him from reaching the bar with her arm.
She took in every detail of him. The shattering beauty. The moth-eaten jumper that somehow looked more expensive than her Balmain top. The easy smile. The posture - very slightly stooped so he could look down at her.

”I can pay.”

“Love,” he all but cooed. “let me. I missed you.”

He had very pretty, pleading brown eyes, and really, who said no to Felix Catton? Caterine sighed, retracting her hand. Felix stepped forward, somewhat smugly.

“Spritz, yeah? Your favourite.” He continued, satisfied by this small victory on his part, so used to people bending backwards for him. She nodded.

Felix brought the Aperol Spritz to the table for her - as if she couldn’t hold a 75cl cup, and sat down next to her, long legs stretched under the small table. He still managed to look fine, in the crammed little space.
Inevitably though, as Felix began recounting his weekend spent in Vermont with Farleigh - his fan crowd re-assembled to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ at whatever slightly amusing thing Felix had to say. It was almost embarrassing, how everyone fawned over him. Even though, hypocritically enough, Caterine had been the exact same at some point.
This quickly bored her, so she turned back to India and began talking about upcoming classes. They exchanged schedule hours - just to make sure they could find time to see each other.

India complained about how she missed her home, her dog, even her butler. “Poor old Mister Jones,” she said. “He’ll find it so very dull without me and Jamie to wreak havoc,”

What Caterine herself didn’t miss, was how Felix’s hand snaked itself up India’s thigh as she spoke. She quickly looked away. No one talked about it, but everyone knew, Felix had hooked up with most of the girls in their friend group.
She wasn’t insecure enough to be properly jealous, but the sight still made her heart stutter briefly.
His ongoing flings with everyone and anyone he fancied, well, the carelessness of it all made him desirable, Caterine thought. The fact that he could have anyone, but no one could have Felix.

--

Felix, Farleigh and co - which still included her by tea time, ended up taking over the corner table in the smoky pub. She could feel everyone watching - they always did. Felix was like the local pop star : everyone knew him, wanted to befriend him, get invited to his infamous parties...
It was then that Felix spotted someone at the bar, and went up to fetch him - and introduce him.

When he introduced his newest protégé, Caterine did really try her best to be kind to him. Except the man, Oliver - Felix called him Ollie, his bike ‘saviour’, was quite dull.
Nothing interesting to say, no jokes to contribute to - or stories to regal the masses with. He was just...floating around Felix constantly - a moth drawn to the flickering flame of Catton’s charisma. Just like Eddie before him.

She vaguely remembered Oliver from O-week. He was the poor guy to arrive late to dinner on the first night, and had to sit down at the luckless table - or as India liked to call them, ‘the virgins and the hopeless’ (which was a tad harsh, even for Caterine’s standards). Without knowing, he’d sat opposite the very off-putting, and slightly haughty Michael Gavey (that everyone now knew as the condescending, math genius with a superiority complex - not to be approached). Everyone had been chatting, excited to just be there, dressed in their traditional robes and basking in the elitism of it all.

A scream of, “Fuckin’ ask me a sum, then!” had startled the whole Christ Church dinner hall into silence - then Oliver begrudgingly asked Michael a sum - putting him in the spotlight when he was very obviously wanting to pass under the radar. Everyone had seen him practically sink into his seat afterwards, as if willing the ground to swallow him whole. It was hard to not pity the whole interaction, in truth.

Farleigh, Felix’s cousin who tutored with professor Ware with Oliver, didn’t have much to say about him either. Other than the fact that he was snide and didn’t like him. Then again, Farleigh didn’t like many people. Caterine wondered if he even liked her, sometimes.

“This is my fuckin’ hero, right here! I was just telling everyone how you saved my arse yesterday.” Felix laughed, an arm around Oliver’s shoulders - who looked as stiff as a rod.

“So cute!” India offered kindly, gaze straying to Felix’s lips as she spoke.

“So cute,” Annabel echoed, glancing up from her phone momentarily before her pretty green eyes went back to her Instagram page, checking the views on her story.

“Here, Ollie, take a seat. I owe you a drink.” Felix paused. “...Or are you with friends?”

Caterine observed as Oliver turned to look at a quizzical-looking Michael Gavey dressed in a fashionably doubtful t-shirt who had just exited the bathroom, then as he shook his head and sat down in the crammed seat next to Felix.
“Nah, they just left.”

She watched still, as Michael raised a hand to wave - and when Oliver looked away.

Now she didn’t particularly like Michael Gavey, but the action alone - the fact he was willing to abandon his friends to climb up the social ladder, made her lips purse with judgement.
That was when her dislike for Oliver Quick began.

“So, what college d’you go to?” Harry asked.

Oliver avoided his gaze. He was just awkward, and not in a charming way. “...Yours.”

Caterine all but turned her back on Felix and his boring saviour, looking instead to Harry for some entertainment. And on cue, Harry grabbed at her phone, squinting at her timetable with overplayed confusion.

“You’ve got quite a few classes there,” he remarked with a small whistle as he leaned over the table, unprompted. The girl he’d been serenading was long gone - presumably scared away by his overzealous romantic tendencies. His accent screamed all- exclusively boarding school.
“You sure you’ll be able to keep it all up? We all know how well you deal with pressure...” He raised his eyebrows to accompany the statement, smiling when Marion laughed, grabbing her phone back from him.

She made a face at him. “Unlike you, Harry, I am actually interested in what I’m studying.”

This made Harry laugh in turn, who - let’s be honest, was only at Oxford because his father wanted him to continue the family law firm, was not particularly interested in his degree. “Touché, little lady. But still, you’re practically in class every day. You've got six lectures a week, for Christ’s sake. And that’s not counting the tutorials.”

“It’ll be fine,” She sighed, leaning back in her chair and pulling out her lighter, pressing her thumb down on the button to produce a small spark of life. “I’ll keep on top of things. You got a cig?”

Chapter Text

She was not keeping on top of things.

Caterine hadn’t expected her classes to be so demanding - which was very ridiculous and deluded, considering how she was at one of the most prestigious universities in the world.
Her classes of Ancient Greek and Latin were proving extremely difficult - in France, she had been particularly good at latin, but now she was just one amongst many who could read difficult texts. Her first language being french helped her greatly with pronunciation, but the translations were a whole different matter. The choice of a joint degree on her part - now did not seem like the smile-yippee choice she’d deemed it as at the beginning of term.

Caterine spent the first month of uni in a library. At least it was the Bodleian library (she didn’t love Radcliffe, too far away and no cute guys studied there - just the sleep-deprived law students), beautiful and old in that charming intellectual sense, but a quiet and dull library nonetheless.

She missed the comforts of her home in Auvergne Rhône Alpes, the lovely chalet in the french Alps - one of the many homes her family owed, in fact, but her favourite. There she could do pretty much anything, skying, hiking, shopping, even parachutism, all depending on the weather of course. But it was better than damp old England in that sense, where the only foreseable weather was rain and more rain, with occasional cloudy mornings.

The problem was not so much the workload, it was just that she had the poorest time-management skills. Procrastinating to the very end. Harry was right when he hinted at her disastrous ways of working under pressure, though she hated to admit he was right about anything.

She could tell her one-on-one sessions, or tutorials, were not a glorious hit either. So far, she had told her professor that she’d studied no prior source material during the summer - much to said teachers chagrin.

“I understand it was optional work,” her professor - Raddon, was her surname, said. “But if you’ve not come prepared, you might have a harder time integrating into the core of your module.”

It was a catastrophy - and Caterine was quite sure she’d not made a good impression on her superiors. Still, she was determined to turn that around. Somehow. At some point. But first, she needed to prepare for the first real party of the term - yes, yes, she should be working...but she could start working afterwards, she reasoned, once she’d danced her shoes off with Farleigh and India. This was Oxford for God’s sake, and she may as well enjoy its many benefits as well as its suffocating work load.

She deserved a reprieve from her disaster beginning of year, anyway. And a drink.

--

The dancing area was loud.
The drinks were flowing in abudance - they always were when Felix’s group were the alcohol suppliers. Nearly half the college - younger professors included, were delightfully soaking up the rowdy atmosphere.

Somehow, Caterine had wandered (staggered) away from the main event - Harry dancing on a table under the roaring and very drunken cheers of Annabel and Jake, and found herself searching for a small moment of quiet, away from the booming speakers and awful rap songs.

She stopped in a hallway - back to the wall. The floor was spinning. The loss of compact bodies pressing into each other made the air seem chillier than it actually was, goosebumps erupting over her arms and spine.
If she did not sit down right this instance, she was sure she might vomit. Throwing open the first door to her right, she quickly stepped inside, holding onto the wooden door for support.
Huzzah - a chair!
She sat down immediately - with the grace of a sloth, letting out a deep sigh, and letting the back of her head rest against a wall.

Michael Gavey was frozen in place as he observed the slumping girl in the chair opposite the pool table he had been using.
She either had not noticed him - or was deliberately ignoring him. He reasoned perhaps the latter.
He put the pool cue down to wipe his sweaty palms on his cargo pants, his sharp eyes never ceasing their scrutiny.

At the small noise of wood clattering down, Caterine looked up, though she might as well have been looking at the wall behind him. Her furrowed brows and altogether confused expression gave Michael the impression that she, like most people, had been invited to what had been dubbed the ‘Catton’ party.
The girl looked wasted.

It seemed to take Caterine a moment to get her bearings. She squinted at the boy, taking in his dark red wool sweater, messed up blond hair and golden glasses sitting upon a defined nose. Her eyes focused in on his hands, that were reaching for the pool cue. They were nice hands, long and thin, though his nails were chipped and the skin a little red around the cuticles.
There was something very...awkward about him. As if he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

Finally, Caterine tilted her head to one side, recognition painting her features. “You’re...that guy.”

He picked the pool cue back up. “I’m probably not.”

He had a clear voice - british, definitely. Middle-class. Sounded bitter. He didn’t seem surprised by her accent. If he was, he did a good job at hiding it beneath those glasses of his. She found she rather liked them. They looked good.

“No, you are.” Caterine insisted, going to stand up, before thinking better of it and sitting back down as a wave of nausea washed over her. “The maths guy. From O week. Michael...Gavey.”

The haughty maths guy with a superiority complex that had a, yelled at Oliver on O week, and b, been dumped by Oliver for Felix and her group! She remembered now.
A small twinge of guilt pinched at her heart as she remembered his little wave in the pub, and how Oliver had just turned his back on him without a second look.

Michael’s expression soured. Of course she was referring to the O week incident in the dining hall, the permanent mark on his reputation that earned him so many curious looks. As if anyone could ever forget that. His cheeks heated up at the memory, anger and frustration mounting in equal amount. But he bit the inside of his cheek, and went back to his pool game.

Caterine looked at him through a hazy fog. He was taller than her. A lot shorter than Felix, but maybe a little taller than Harry, who stood at around 6 feet. She watched still, a little transfixed, as he pushed back his short sandy hair with a familiar ease, revealing his sharp features in more detail.
Like his stare, everything about Michael was pointed. With a strong nose, defined jawline and high cheekbones, leaning on the skinnier side, he was actually...sort of, cute. His lips, full and bowed at the top, were the only softness to his otherwise cutting features. His cargo pants were awful, though she’d known he couldn’t dress as recently as the King’s Arms incident.

Maybe Caterine had judged him too quickly, back in O week. Even though his little outbreak had been quite extreme. But hey, stress on the first week wasn’t uncommon. Maybe that was it.

After a small moment, she spoke again.
“I thought pool was a group game.”

It wasn’t unkind, the way she spoke, but it was careful. Probing just a little, to see if he would snap like he had done back in O week. Like a parent coming into an angry teenager’s room, and trying to make amends by skirting around topics the parent knows the kid loves. A promise of ice cream, of letting the teenager go out next Friday instead of this week-end, or a long tirade on how your father loves us in his own way ; demeaning and wrong in its effort to be kind and still right.

Michael hated that. His answer was sharp and indifferent.

“Not necessarily.”

“Can I play?”

Michael paused, hand hovering over the table. His suspicious gaze was almost enough to make her shrink back into her chair, but she willed herself to meet his gaze. She wasn’t going to mock, or gloat, or anything stupid like that. Not like Annabel or Farleigh would have done. She didn’t think of herself as intentionally mean - even though sometimes she could get bitchy. Caterine found she really did want to play with him.
Or maybe the alcohol was clouding her judgement.

Hard to tell, really.

Michael didn’t seem like someone who was easy to understand, and hell, he probably did that on purpose. As if a maths student could ever be easy to understand anyway. Still, Caterine found him a little intriguing, with all his piercing intensity, as if his thoughts were indirectly trying to pass from his brain to hers by the sheer force of his stare.

“I know I won’t be much of a challenge,” she acknowledged, hands gesturing vaguely to her overall drunkenness and lack of bodily autonomy. “but...could be fun, no?”

Still, silence.

Then, “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you?”

It took Caterine about a minute to process the words through her inebriation. However, once it had registered, she stood up, determined not to throw up - and walked over to the pool table, silently pleading with her feet to not give up on her (not yet, please) even as she wobbled in her heels.

“Come on Gavey, have some faith. Not all of us are snobby pricks.” Her answer was light-hearted, an attempt to dissolve some of the tension that she could feel lingering in the air.

“Most of you.”
His retort was quick, voice filled with vitriol, as if he’d had it ready for quite some time. She wasn’t entirely surprised ; he seemed a little bitter.
If a reaction or a fight was what he wanted, Caterine would act as the perfect pacifist.

She just shrugged, holding her hand out expectantly.

After a moment where he was probably mulling over his very limited options, Michael handed her the pool cue, deliberately handing her the very tip of it, making sure he didn’t touch her in the process.. She’d half-expected him to refuse. Small victories.

She was much too pleased with herself to say thank you, walking around the table to get a better position, Michael’s heated glare following her around. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled under his acute attention.
There were only four balls left : blue, black, purple and yellow. Marion focused in on the yellow one, willing her mind to tighten the fuck up and concentrate. She refused to make an even bigger fool of herself in front of Michael, who probably already thought she was a right tosser.
She placed the length of the tip between thumb and forefinger, hitting the white ball. It slammed into the yellow one, sending it rolling down one side of the enclosed table, but didn’t land in the hole.

Caterine bit her lip. She could actually feel the smugness radiating off of him.

“Not somethin’ they teach you in fancy boarding schools, then?” he remarked with self-satisfied huff, as if she had just proven some obscure and mysterious point of his.

She handed him the cue. “In all fairness, I’m in no condition to properly beat you.”

Her attempt at teasing was met with a surprisingly good-natured hum, as if he’d decided he wasn’t going to be a prick anymore. Maybe because she sucked at pool. Maybe it was just nice not being alone on a party night, for once.

“Love, you wouldn’t have beaten me sober, either. Don’t kid yourself.”

Love.
Self-assured, a little arrogant maybe, but nonetheless, Caterine felt a small smile make its way onto her face as she looked down at the pool table. He was something.
She liked this. He wasn’t particularly nice, but at least he wasn’t calling her a vapid cunt like he apparently did Felix a few weeks ago. Again, small victories.
There was a certain edge to his tone, like he was amused with her, and not at her, which was also nice.

“Well, we’ll have to find out some other time, then.”

She watched as he positionned himself on the opposite side of her, leaning down against the pool table, adept hands holding the cue securely, and fired.
He hit the blue ball into a hole. It disappeared with a clunk - though she was sure she could hear the anthem of victory ringing around the room - a hum of triumph from just behind her.

“Damnit.”

His only response was a small smirk, before he dropped it and handed her the cue.

Caterine took it from him, feeling a tad overexposed now that the adrenaline of drunken dancing had worn off ; and she shivered in her strapless dress.
If Michael noticed, he didn’t say anything.
She lined herself up with the purple ball and went for it, managing to get it into the hole. It fell with a dull sound.

“So what are you?” Michael asked, pushing his glasses up over his nose. It seemed like a tic of sort, a habit. “You know, where’re you from?”

She hadn’t been expecting much conversation from him. She passed the cue to him. “I’m French.”

He hummed. “’Thought so. S’the accent, you know?”

She nodded. No matter how native she tried to make herself sound, that irritating French lilt remained. No amount of language correction lessons had changed that.
When she didn’t elaborate ; he positioned himself, and fired the yellow ball into the hole.

“Bit far from home, aren’t you?”

Home, home, home. That was funny, she decided, and she laughed. Michael stared at her quizzically, a little judgmentally.
Was her home in England, where Harry, Jake and India were, or was home in Annecy, tucked away behind lush green mountains with her parents? That was a funny thought, yes. She found she didn’t really want to think about it.

“Sorry, I’m drunk.” It seemed like the best way to answer, even though it made her feel a little homesick - the question, and the alcohol.

Goose bumps raised the hairs on her arms, and she shivered again.
Maybe Michael took pity on her, because he put down the pool cue and walked around the table to her with a slight drudge to his step.

“You’re not going back, are you?”

Assuming he meant the party, she nodded. “I’ve had enough for one night, I think.”
For one week, more like. It’d be a miracle if she got away with only a passing headache the next day.

He bit the inside of his cheek, jaw clenching, as if oh god he hated himself right now, and finally shrugged with an air of clearly feigned nonchalance. “I’ll walk you back.”

Caterine blinked. “Really?”

“Don’t make me say it twice,” he warned, fighting a smile as he rolled his eyes, re-adjusting his glasses up his nose again. His forefinger twitched, and he looked at the door she had come through, where they could both still hear the sluggish rhythm of a crappy love song and boozy cheers.
“You’re not half as bad as some of the rich wankers here.”

She couldn’t help but feel like he was talking about her own friends, a fact that did hurt a little. But that night, she was just grateful for the company, albeit judgmental.

“Thank you,” she said with a small, disbelieving laugh. “at least I think.”

--

The walk across campus with him was quiet. Most people were either sleeping or partying back where they had left. Michael was like a long shadow next to her, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Caterine was freezing.
The wind was especially biting in autumn when the sun had set, the force of it swaying whole branches and providing a loud enough rustling to fill the gap where their conversation should have been. Michael seemed determined to not even look at her, which was weird because he had offered to walk her back, but oh well. That was a problem for sober Cat.

She shivered again involuntarily, and Michael ‘hm’ed, stopping in his tracks. Catherine stopped, and stared back at him questioningly.

Without a word, he took off his jumper, and handed it to her.
It was a nice thing to do ; a gesture she didn’t necessarily associate with the maths sociopath, but a nice thing nonetheless. She accepted the warm wool jumper with a small frown, meeting his gaze.

“Are you sure?”

“You’re nearly blue. Take it.” His answer was gruff.

It was dark, but she thought she could just about see his face was a little darker than before.
Marion put it on, instantly feeling better as the warm wool surrounded her ; it smelt of chocolate, and...weirdly enough, a hint of beer.

“Thank you, Michael.” She was oddly touched by the small gesture, smiling up at him. “That’s...really sweet, really.”

“S’fine. Just bring it back.” He muttered, now in just his t-shirt. He wasn’t fit, per say, but his lack of muscular massiveness seemed adequate and fitting with who he was - and he wasn’t scrawny. More like...lean.

They walked on in silence until they reached her dorm facility, one of the shitter ones - she’d lucked out in regards to that, apparently. It was one of the more modern facilities, and while there was nothing wrong with it, she would’ve preferred one of the charming old ones.

At the entrance, Caterine turned back to look at him.

“This is me.”

He hummed, and nodded, already turning away.

“Wait,” her hand reached out too quickly for her to stop herself, and she held onto his forearm. His skin was pleasantly soft under her hand.

Michael paused, turning half-way to look back at her.
“Just,” she swallowed. “take care, Michael, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “you too.”
There was a slight pause afterwards, as if he maybe wanted to say something more.

That was when a thought crossed her mind and Caterine let go of him.
“Wait, you don’t know my name.”

“I don’t.” He acknowledged. “I figured I’ll see you around sometime, and you can give the jumper back then. It’s no big deal, really.”

In a move that surprised even herself, she closed the distance between them and leaned up on her toes so her lips could reach his ear.
He froze as she murmured, “Cat. Cat Vidal, okay?”, pressed a quick and fleeting kiss to his cheek, and as she quickly steps back, fumbling with her door key in her purse so as to avoid his gaze that seemed about to force her into an early grave.

Michael stayed rooted to the spot, lips pinched, expression unreadable. “...Cat,” he muttered under his breath, committing the name to memory.

“Good night, Michael.” she said as she opened the door. “Thank you for walking me back.”

“Good night, Cat.”

Once the door closed, Caterine rested back against it, and sighed softly.

Michael lingered a few moments, before turning back in the darkness, shivering slightly from the cold. A small smile made its way onto his face, yet it quickly disappeared as he realized what had just happened.

Chapter Text

The next morning was hell, as she’d expected. Still, nursing the most horrendous headache ever seen in the history of England (very probably untrue but it felt that way), Caterine trudged along to class, head held low in slight shame.
She took Michael’s jumper with her - she wore it, in fact, but only because she thought she might have an opportunity to give it back to him that day and didn’t want to carry it around. Paired with a black pleated skirt, tights and doc Martens boots, it actually looked quite nice, even if it was definitely not the sort of outfit she’d normally put together. She was nothing if not adaptable.

No other reason.
None at all regarding the slight, pleasant smell of chocolate lingering around the collar area or the pleasant (if hazy) memories associated to it.

India had seen her in the morning and scrunched up her nose at her. “Is that yours?”

Caterine looked down at the wool jumper - wanting to pretend and agree that it was hers, but who was she kidding, she didn’t own anything even remotely similar to that, and India knew it. She'd basically stolen her whole wardrobe over the years. So she shrugged.

“Someone lent it to me last night, I was freezing.”

“Is it...” she walked behind Caterine with an investigative hum and pulled back her collar to check the tag, pulling it down a little. “Cat, this is Primark. Who the fuck gave you a Primark jumper?”

Just as she was about to argue that Primark was in fact just fine - and that India was just being snobby and privileged, India’s phone rang.

“Mhm. It’s Harry. Okay, talk later?” she shot her a questioning look, gaze drifting down to the red wool jumper again, a tiny hint of distaste in her eyes (again, judgy), before setting off and away without even waiting for an answer, confident in her gait as she crossed the quad.

“yeah,” Caterine sighed, mumbling after her. “...sure.”
She looked down at the slightly too-large jumper, and smiled.

--

Cat’s day was spent quite peacefully. She went to her morning lecture, had lunch in the dining hall (she occupied herself with an extract of Herodotus’ Histories she’d saved on her laptop files), and altogether, she appreciated how lonely it was, for once. Being left alone aided to a clearing of her mind.
Inevitably though, her mind drifted guiltily to the night before. Cat looked down at the jumper, thumbing the material of it as she thought back on the tense mood lingering in the air as he’d seen her to her dorm, and how Michael Gavey actually turned out to not be such a prick after all. In fact, Cat liked him, quite a bit, though she didn't know much yet.

She didn’t see the mathematics student for the whole day, which was probably for the best. Just meant she’d have to wear his jumper again, tomorrow. Oh well, so, so sad.
With only one lecture to re-transcript, she went to the Radcliffe library with the intention of joining the hardworking law students in their quest for financial stability, except she would simply be scribbling in her notebook.

She settled down in a quiet area, nestled between two bookshelves where no one else seemed to be sitting. Caterine switched on the green old-fashioned lamp to get herself in a studying mood, taking out her pens, notebook and laptop to maximize efficiency.c

--

Oliver Quick watched as one of Felix’s posse girls strutted into the library and sat down. He was invisible in his seat - he was good at that, blending into the background to observe with a keen eye. She was pretty, undeniably so, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair and what could only be described as a French nose with a prominent bridge. She had dark eyelashes and dark eyebrows, a full face that made her look softer and more approachable, and was decently fit but not model-thin. Tall.
Pretty indeed.

He tilted his head to the side, scrutinizing her as she hastily pulled out her things, before he raised an eyebrow. She was wearing something that obviously did not belong to her - and he knew that because it belonged to someone he had frequented a while, though not with much enjoyment. Michael Gavey.
Oliver had seen the worn red jumper more times than not when he’d spent time with Gavey ; it was one of his favourites, and less well-cared for ones. It was scruffy around the sleeves and Oliver knew for a fact Michael had spilled beer on it in the pub more than once since the beginning of term.

One of Felix’s dolls and Michael Gavey - hater of all things entitled and rich, vehemently vocal about the elitism centered around Oxford university and more particularly Christ Church college, had willingly given her his clothes?
His pensive gaze seemed to finally disturb her. Caterine glanced up, her brow furrowed at the feeling of being watched. When she realised it was Oliver, a small, polite smile and a subtle nod was sent his way.
It was all invitation Oliver needed.

--

Caterine internally groaned when stupid Oliver got out of his seat and walked towards her, and tried not to look too fed up by the new arrival. She’d hoped the small acknowledgement would’ve been enough for them to remain perfectly amicable strangers. Memories of how cruelly he’d treated Michael still lingered when she looked into his beady, hungry eyes. Plus, she had a newfound appreciation for the guy Oliver had ditched so readily.

“Cat, right?” Oliver drawled with his strong Scouse accent, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite her, back stooped so he was leaning far too close for her liking, almost taking up half the bloody table.

“Caterine.” She corrected, lips pursed. It was one thing for her friends to call her Cat, but Oliver however...

“Right, Caterine. Sorry.” He muttered, heavy accent bleeding into his voice. His blue eyes darted across her face. “You studying?”

Caterine nodded, sighing a little as she looked down at her messy notes. “Was just planning on working on my transcript, yep.” she didn’t want to, but she finally glanced up at him. “You?”

He ignored the question, gaze straying to the red collar of her jumper.
“That ain’t yours, is it?”

She paused, looking back down at the traitorous jumper. There was no reason for her to lie. It was fucking Oliver, for god's sake.
“Someone lent it to me last night, at the party.”

His confidence was annoying. “You sure ‘bout that?”

He knows. Does she care that he knows? Caterine bit the inside of her cheek, observing the little weasel. Her words were slow.
The meaning was clear as day.
So what if it was Michael’s?

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Oliver hummed in a patronising way, and Caterine immediately wanted to lunge at him over the table for his indiscretion. “Right...right, cuz I’m pretty sure that belongs to someone I know.”

Caterine didn’t pretend to play dumb - she didn’t like Oliver enough to do that.
“He lent it to me. Nothing wrong with that. I was cold.”

Oliver’s light blue eyes held hers in custody a moment. “Michael Gavey...” He said in a thoughtful tone of voice. “How curious. I’m guessin’ Felix knows you been fraternising with him?”

He made it sound like it was wrong somehow - and while it was a little unexpected, she didn’t really see anything wrong with it. Right, Oliver was Felix's newest little project. Caterine had heard his family were dealing hard drugs or something from Harry who heard it from India who heard it from Felix, and while she did try and sympathize - she genuinely didn't care. Oliver was just trying to stir up trouble.

Obviously Felix did not know. She breathed in slightly, before shrugging.
“My life doesn’t revolve around Felix. I can have other friends.”

“Sure you can.” Oliver agreed with a small, dry chuckle. “but don’t you think Felix’d like to know you’ve been gettin’ friendly with the guy who’s named him a...” a pensive look crossed his face. “a vapid selfish cunt, if memory serves me right. S’just strange, I guess.”

She hadn’t thought of that.

“What is wrong with you?” she finally demanded. “This doesn’t affect you. Whatsoever.”
Oliver stared at her, unsettling. His hard blue eyes glinting. He’d found a pressure point, he’d found something. He stood up, scraping the chair against the floor unnecessarily, and the dull screech made her wince.

“see you around, Cat.”

Caterine watched as he left, his slumped and meek posture not matching the man she’d just spoken to, the urge to correct him screaming inside of her. Caterine, not Cat. He knew that. And she couldn’t help but think that Oliver was bad news. And that maybe she should find Michael Gavey.

Chapter Text

“Hey,” Jake greeted casually, as if it was completely normal for him to be squatting the hallway of her dorm, taking up the whole width of the floor. Caterine raised an eyebrow as she stepped up to her door, but opened it for him and helped him get to his feet.

“Annabel’s driving me nuts,” he continued once they were both inside as he threw himself down on the bed, taking great care to make sure his shoes stayed out of it. “needed a break from all her whining.”

“Annabel?” She asked casually, rummaging around for some drinks in her mini fridge. She finally pulled out two sorry-looking coronas, and threw him one. He caught it with a small groan of gratitude. “What’s up with her? She was fine at the party yesterday.”

“Tried to get with Felix,” Jake said snidely - ever the keeper of secrets. “he pushed her off, and now she’s going around telling everyone she was drunk out of her mind last night and doesn’t remember a thing. I swear she’s been speaking to everyone who saw her and Fe. Bit sad, really.”

“Ouch.” Caterine agreed. She too had come to learn that you could only fool around with Felix if Felix wanted to fuck around - he was not one to be seduced if he wasn’t in the mood.“I’ll have to avoid her.”

“Felix’s a bit of an arse, though,” Jake remarked idly, flicking through a magazine she had lying around - a music one, that showcased an up and coming rock band dressed in skimpy outrageous outfits. He hummed in profound interest. “flirting with her like that for so long and then just ditching her. She looked like a right mess when he pushed her off.”

Caterine ‘aah’ed sympathetically, taking a swig of her corona. “poor thing.”

“But anyway,” he went on. “she’s driving me bloody crazy, you know? Telling me over and over that she was wasted and doesn’t remember a thing, when she so clearly does. Like, yeah, I get it, you don't want me thinking that Felix made a right fool outta you. Well too late.”
He sat up on the bed, opening his corona and taking a long swig. Then his gaze travelled back to Caterine.

“Is that...” He raised an mildly confused eyebrow. “your jumper, Cat? Never seen you wear it.”

Caterine sighed. Was everyone going to ask her where the Primark jumper came from?
Lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed defensively, she shrugged.

“I was cold last night. Some guy lent it to me.”

“And are you ever planning on giving it back? Ya thief.” Jake laughed, nodding. That was what was good about Jake, he wasn’t as judgmental as some other people she knew. Ahem. “You’ve always been a clothes kidnapper. Actually...” He continued, and his suspicious eyes landed on her messy drawers. “I’m pretty sure you still have that grey sweater of mine.”

When he stood up with intent, Caterine jumped into action and pushed him back down.
“I do not have that!” She groaned. “It’s...somewhere. You probably lost it.”

“Hm.” Her guilty expression made him snort. “Sure. I will be needing it back, though.”

“I don’t have it.” She insisted.

“If you happen to come across it,” Jake shrugged, clearly not believing her, gaze drifting to the small closet. “just bring it back to my dorm, alright?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes...if it’s ever found. Which it won’t be. Connard.”

“Hey!” Jake laughed. “No French swearing. I thought we’d already established that I find it way too sexy.”

Caterine turned around, hiding her smile. “Get out of here. I have important stuff to do.”
A lie, of course. Apart from her mountain of coursework.

“Right. ‘Course you do. Such as, take a nap, snack, watch a true crime documentary, complain about your coursework?”

A pillow sailed past his head, echoing a small soft thud as it was lobbed at the wall. “Out!”

Jake laughed, dodging as another cushion came barreling his way, and stood up.
“Okay, Jesus. I was only kidding, Cat.”

He crossed over, ducking just in time to avoid the third and final ammunition, and gave her head a quick ruffle. “I’m going to the RadCam anyway. Essays and all that.”

She did smile then, a little begrudgingly, and waved him off. “Okay, bye.”

“I’m going now.”

“Good-bye Jake.”

“Bye Kitty." Still, he lingered. Like some smug leech, poking his head through the door to grin at her.

“Get out-"

Jake finally disappeared, door shutting behind him. She thought she could just about make out a faint hum of the Marseillaise as he walked down the winding corridor. An idiot, he was. But her closest friend all the same.

Caterine sighed deeply, plopping down onto the bed and idly thumbing through that rubbish magazine. Nothing new. A group of androgynous-looking people dressed in revealing leather. Oh, a new album by X artist. Controversy surrounding Y’s private life. After about fifteen seconds she threw it to one side with another huff, looking up at the ceiling.
An idea sprung. A eureka moment.

Fishing for her phone in her jean pocket (always a challenge), she unlocked it and opened Instagram. Surely, *surely*, Michael must have an account? He *must* follow the college account. There was no way he was that far removed.

And sure enough, as she scrolled through Christ Church’s following list (they followed anyone affiliated to college, at least that’s what India had told her), an account with no profile picture with the name mgavey3.14159 was an account mutual. No bio. Private account.

Could this be it? She doubted anyone else had the same surname.
She pressed the request to follow button, and her heart started making itself known in her ears. Strange, but she ignored it. Even as her lips lifted in a small smile as she received an instant notification.

mgavey3.14159 has accepted your follow request.

A pause that felt like the correct amount of time for her heart to combust, should it do so.

mgavey3.14159 has requested to follow you.

“Yes!” she whispered to herself, before pausing, and gaping at herself. Maybe now was the time to self-regulate, she reasoned, because that was embarrassing. She forced herself to put down the phone, leaving the follow request unanswered. Maybe he didn’t even remember her. Plus, did she want him to remember? Maybe she had done some embarrassing drunk-person thing. Her face paled.

Who knew what had happened? Apart from the sharing of jumper, and the walking her back, Caterine could not fort the life of her remember what they had talked about. After a moment, she glanced back at her now abandoned phone. It was only to give him his jumper back, she reasoned. Since otherwise they would never come across one another. Yes, that was why. The only reason why.
And so, picking the phone back up, scrolling over to Instagram in minus two seconds, she swiped onto his profile and clicked ‘accept follow request’.

She then had the most productive study session of her entire life, with the phone comfortably stored away on the opposite side of the room.

Chapter Text

“She didn’t.”

“She did!” Felix laughed, a hearty sound, so very full of life. “You know I don’t like to put anybody on the spot like that, But she was so wasted. Legit crawling all over me, mate. So awful, gosh.” He wiped at his eyes, shoulders still shaking with humour. “I couldn’t let her get at it, you know? Like everyone could see her getting worked up and everything!”

Jake nodded, and snickered. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, as was his habit. “She came to see me and Will after and insisted she didn’t even remember it. Apparently completely blacked out. But that’s Annabel, isn’t it?” He continued and puffed a laugh, raising a knowing eyebrow. “Drama’s half her bloodstream.”

The two were sitting in the Bodleian library, sprawled out on one of the window tables that was meant for at least four people and laughing like hyenas. No one dared complain though. Not to golden-boy Felix. A few unlucky students scrolled on their laptops, doing their best to remain politely uninterested in the Annabel-bashing.

“I felt so bad, but like, didn’t want her groping me, y’know?” Felix sighed, an almost indulgent smile on her face. As if Annabel was just a silly, running joke, and no one took her seriously. “I do feel kinda bad, she was crying after. But you know...”

“yeah, I know.” Jake agreed fondly, leaning back in his seat. “Not your fault.”

“Anyway, where’s Farleigh?” Felix checked his casio watch. “He owes me a Heineken.” He had a rolex back home, of course he did. But he didn’t want to seem stuck up, is what he’d told everyone. Something like ‘I don’t want to be the only idiot with a rolex on my wrist’ - otherwise : I want to play slumboy like the rest of you.

“Heineken? C’mon man, that’s low. Get a corona at the very least.” After a pause, Jake glances at Felix. It’s a fleeting look - gauging, carefully searching. “Harry’ll go mental, you know.”

Felix only shrugged. “Let him. Maybe he’ll finally admit he loves her.”

Jake barked a laugh, louder than he meant to. A few heads turned. “Don’t even start.”

“I’m not wrong though,” Felix said, smirking at his own remark. “They fight like it’s bloody foreplay. So exhausting.”

Nobody tried to understand Harry and Annabel’s crazy relationship. It was always the same - one or the other cheated, they fought - had a sloppy, slightly inebriated reunion, acted lovey-dovey for approximately two-to-three weeks, and thus the cycle continued, over, and over again. They were already fighting, and had been since the first day of term. The summer-love had worn off fast.

Jake leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs, staring up at the cathedral-high ceiling of the library, hands behind his neck. He sighed. “Everyone here is exhausting.”

“Present company excluded, I hope,” Felix poked fun, with a dramatic hand to his chest.

Jake snorted, waving a hand as if he was about to brush him off. “Don’t give yourself too much credit, Catton. Your charming little smile will only take you so far.”

Felix offered him said smile in response, dimples like a beacon of playful boyishness.

For a moment, they fell into rare silence. Dust floated in the late afternoon light slicing through the old glass windows. The hush of pages, the occasional cough from across the room, the distant sound of heels clicking down a hallway. All contributed to the sleepy atmosphere that had settled down.

Then Felix’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, idly. “Uh-oh. Speak of the devil.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Harry?”

Felix nodded, “mhm,” then stood, stretching like a cat, as his eyes skimmed over the text. “Apparently I’ve ‘crossed a line’.”

Jake watched him gather his coat. “Try not to die.” It was all said in good fun, of course - even though Harry did have a violent streak, on his worst days.

Felix had a graceful gait to him. He was all long legs, of course, towering over his fellow classmate - his worn adidas sneakers dragging on the floor as he pulled on his coat. As he put his arms through the coat holes, he turned on himself, watching how the light emanated from the window and cast its glow on him. The world halted a moment to bask in it, and Felix finally smiled. “Darling, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”

And just like that, he was gone - striding out of the library like it was a casual runway, leaving behind a pleasant fragrance of acqua di parma - unmistakable and warm. Very Felix. Jake stayed behind a while, suddenly less amused. The library fell back into silence. Not the type of silence he liked. He stared at the space Felix had just occupied a moment, before reluctantly reaching for his coat - vintage Carhart jacket, put it on, and left, an unmistakable tension in his shoulders. What more was he to do without Felix there, anyway?

--

She hadn’t texted him. Yet. It just didn’t feel right. Yes, Michael had accepted her follow request. He probably wanted his jumper back. And why should he have to make the effort and reach out, when he had so generously offered it to her? It was obvious, Caterine knew she had to take the next step.

Instead she spent an excruciating amount of time trying to find any hint of a love life on his social media. Or any life in general. Michael had no pictures on Instagram, no story highlights - a few followers, though none Caterine recognized at all by name. Usernames vaguely hinting towards mathematics and obscure science references. His username was his own name and a bunch of unintelligible numbers, for Christ’s sake...wait. She squinted at his profile. The first few numbers. 3,14 - unbelievable. Michael had used PI as part of his username. Caterine made a face. Talk about being a massive nerd.

Still, she was curious. How would he react if she texted him? Something casual, about the jumper maybe - a meet up, a location, an offer to have coffee together? It all felt like too much. Instead, Caterine hung around the library. Bodleian - of course. She’d heard Oliver telling Jake how Michael only ever went to Bodleian because he couldn’t stand the law and history students in the RadCam (rude, but she ignored the slight to her bachelors). She leaned against the wall outside, pretending to be on her phone as she looked through the arched glass windows. Her plan was simply to “bump” into Michael Gavey and from there, strike up a conversation.

Her attempted spying was interrupted by the sound of her phone rigging, Puccini ringing out loudly before she quickly muted it, staring down at the screen. A sigh left her, but she answered the call and stuck the phone to her ear. “Allo?”

"coucou ma belle." Her father’s deep voice echoed through her ear. And she already knew she’d have to summon all her willpower to remember any of her maternal French.

She cleared her throat, feeling a familiar ball of anxiety tying her throat into a knot. “coucou papa. Ça va?”

"Bien. T’es occupée là?"

“Non, non.” She assured him. “J’ai essayé d’appeler maman l’autre jour.”

"mhm, oui. Elle est très occupée en ce moment, ne lui en veux pas." There was a pause on the other end of the line. "Tu as reçu mon cadeau?"

Caterine ‘s brow furrowed. “Oui, je l’ai reçu. Il est super, mais...”
She had received it - a ferragamo handbag, perfect for carrying her laptop to lectures. Upon receiving it, though, her enjoyment had been short-lived as she realised its purpose.

"Niquel. Je suis content que ça te plaise."

“Oui, mais c’est juste que...ben, je pensais qu’on allait au Maroc pour mon anniversaire.” She tried to protest, tried to reason. *time over money, please dad?*

"Désolée ma puce. J’ai un truc à régler au boulot pendant les vacances. On fera ça une autre fois. J’espère que le sac t’as plu quand même."

She bit her lip, crossing her legs as she leaned against the wall.

"Bon je te laisse. Bosse bien."

“Ouais,” she mumbled. “ok. Bisous.”

Translation : hey beautiful. Hey dad. How are you? Fine. Are you busy? No, no. I tried to call mum the other day. Mhm, yes. She’s very busy at the moment. Don’t blame her for it. Did you get my gift? Yes, I got it. It’s great, but... Great. I’m happy you like it. Yes, but, well...I thought we were going to Morroco for my birthday. I’m sorry honey. I have some really important stuff to deal with at work during the holidays. We’ll do that another time. I hope you still liked the bag. I’ve got to go. Keep working hard. Sure, ok. X.

Caterine put the phone down, deflated. She began to walk away from the Bodleian, her misplaced vigour dimmed.

“Cat?”

She looked back. Felix Catton was exiting the library, waving cheerfully, almost skipping towards her. Caterine schooled her features into something less miserable and smiled back, pausing in her route so he could catch up.

“There you are,” Felix grinned and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “how are you, huh? S’been forever, since like- was it my party? Lectures and stuff have been packed...” They began to walk. “Where’you headed?” Felix continued. “I’m beefing with Harry, so if we could steer clear of the JCR - that would be great.”

“Beefing?” she frowned up at him. “What is...beefing?”

“Oh, Cat. Forgot you don’t speak fluent.” Felix chuckled. “We’re just fighting, is all. Not even fighting, really. He’s mad at me because Annabel’s been acting like a whore-”

She shot him a look. “Don’t say that. She was just drunk, apparently.” Caterine didn’t love Annabel like she did India or Jake - but there was no way she would badmouth her, like they all did. Their group was dysfunctional enough as it was. Maintaining the illusion of friendship was really all that mattered to her now.

“You’re too nice for your own good,” he commented casually in return. “Annabel’s always pulling shit like this, and just to piss him off.”

Felix chatted on, casual, as they walked further from the library. Her plans of seeing Michael were put-on hold. For now at least.

Chapter Text

Sporting the new ferragamo bag (she had to use it, come on now), Caterine walked down the dining hall, headphones in, looking like a woman on a lifetime’s mission. Because she was.

If Caterine missed this opportunity, it would be the fourth time in total where she’d chickened out. Four! A ridiculous amount considering the little effort it required.

The first time : she’d caught a glimpse of him walking from what she assumed to be a tutorial, towards the dining hall. His stride was brisk -- like he was trying to escape any potential obstacles. Quick to adapt, she’d tried to nonchalantly follow, nose buried in her phone. Her plan had been to look up as she was passing him, emitting a small “oh!”, a small smile - polite, friendly, and call out his name. A sort of spontaneous-and-natural meeting. However, her time spent ruminating could have been put to better use, maybe into following him, because when her plan was fully formed, he had disappeared through the accom door.

Second time was more ridiculous : They’d been at almost eye-contact level of closeness in the Bodleian. The perfect setting. Until she saw the irritated manner in which he crumpled his math equations, a string of curses leaving his lips in a low murmur, one sounding suspiciously like “bloody hoax of a school”. Definitely not the right time. She’d been content to stare at him fleetingly over her books from her hidden little table in the corner, and imagine a perfect encounter.

Third was, arguably, the least satisfying on her part. She’d been with India and Annabel - the latter babbling on about Harry and how controlling he was, omitting the information that she had indeed tried to hook up with one of Harry’s best mates - when Michael, shoulder bag and carabiner jingling as he walked, appeared just in front of them. Caterine tried not to freeze, really, she did. India and Annabel had no objections as she forced their walking to a halt to gawk at a little squirrel scuttling around. As her friends cooed and snapped a pic, she watched his figure disappearing down the quad.

This was becoming embarassing. She’d never considered Michael to be intimidating. Like, two weeks ago she could’ve giggled with India about his faded cargo trousers without a care in the world. If anything, she was good at public-speaking. Meeting people. Networking. Her parents were all over that stuff. But now...it was like there was a self-imposed veil of expectation over their interaction - Cat felt strangely nervous, almost self-conscious. Michael didn’t like people like her. In principle. In practice, he had been nice. He’d lent his jumper - that in itself hinted at ambiguous intent. Didn’t it?

Her phone ringing snapped her from her thoughts. One quick glance at the name displayed on her screen and she refused the call -- father again, hurrying along to the Junior Common Room where they had first met. She had a sneaking suspicion that this was the only place anyone with a penchant for solitude could find a decent pool table on a busy day.

And sure enough, there he was.

Michael Gavey didn’t seem particularly pleased to see her, all things considered. He was playing pool with a large pile of papers dangling on the table’s edge, brows furrowed like he was perpetually chewing on something bitter. There were four balls missing from his game, already swallowed into the holes in the rectangular corners. His eyes caught onto her immediately as she almost tumbled into the room.

“Michael!” Caterine had not grasped the current mood. Chipper, she removed her headphones and set her bag down on the floor. “Oh great, I was just thinking about you.”

Understatement of the century.

He only stared as she spoke quickly, determined not to lose her nerve. “I have your jumper just at my dorm- d’you want me to go get it? But it is a bit far so maybe we could go together -- or grab a drink as well? Uhm, I like coffee. If you like coffee.”

She cringed at the awkward rambling and stopped, looking up to gauge his reaction. She was so painfully out of her depths -- but seemingly, so was he.

Michael blinked, his mouth turned downwards. After a painfully awkward moment in which Cat almost resolved herself to move back to France and spare herself the self-inflicted humiliation, he shrugged. “I guess.”

It was her turn to blink. Not that she’d expected a different reaction, but he was so...uninterested. Bland. Did it sting her a little?

Nevertheless, she pushed through. “Right. Great. Uhm-- right now, or?”

“I know where your dorm is,” Michael said, turning back to his game. He pushed his glasses up his nose, positioning himself into a strike position - leaning over the table so as to avoid looking at her alltogether. “I’ll come over when I’m finished.”

Again, she stared, slightly dumbfounded. This was the guy who’d offered her his own jumper when she was shivering, had bantered with her over a game of pool and walked her home? God, maybe being drunk really had played a turn for the better on her memories.

“...Okay then.” She muttered, picking her bag back up. To say she felt deflated was an understatement. After a full-on week of daydreaming, reality had come crashing down with the force of a building. “It’s number 13. I guess I’ll see you, then.”

Her only answer was a vague hum. An acknowledgement he’d use in any random, unimportant situation. He didn’t turn back around, even when she left.

Oh god, I have completely misread the situation, Caterine thought anxiously as she hurried off the premises, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. That was so embarrassing. Actually, embarassing was a euphemism. That was catastrophic. Granted, her speech had been less than eloquent and half as charming as she’d hoped herself capable of conjuring -- but ‘I guess’? Heat pricked along her neck, the sting of his vagueness stabbing at her stubbornly as she crossed the quad.

Who the hell said ‘i guess’ to an offer of going out on a date?! Granted, it was just a coffee date, but--

Caterine blinked. Date? No one had said anything about a date. That was true. And yet, she had been thinking it. In the little corner of her mind that screamed for romance after a few fleeting glances. All the signs she’d chosen to interpret as interest, or at least mild tolerance were in fact simple reactions to her silly, drunken actions?

It was a hard pill to swallow.

By the time she reached her dorm she was practically itching with anger at herself. How could she have misread the situation so horribly? With a frustrated groan, she struggled with her key in the lock, before disappearing into her room with a bang.

Now she wouldn’t even know how to act if Michael decided to come.

--

Michael had not expected to see Cat again. Hell, he’d thought that jumper was gone forever. He certainly hadn’t expected her to come falling through the JCR and start chatting on about getting a drink together.

From the moment he had offered her that jumper, he’d never expected her to return it. He’d half expected to find it in the community bin or something. As if a girl like that would ever want to keep it -- it had holes and was worn-in from too many nights in front of equations. He’d bitten at the sleeves more times than he count count, worrying the frayed edges of the cotton.

That night had been a change of pace. A moment where the Catton girl had seemingly slipped out of character, revealing a naive idiot that couldn’t stand on her own two feet without help -- but also...she had been nice. Sort of.

He couldn’t ignore the rush that had accompanied her departure. He’d walked down the quads, freezing his socks off in the cold without a bloody jumper. This girl he’d seen since the beginning of term latched onto her rich friends, jeering and making snide comments, had kissed him on the cheek (though admittedly, she’d been disgustingly drunk at the time). His face had burned up in the darkness. He’d stopped himself from smiling -- because the very notion that she had caused him such emotion was ridiculous.

His hand curled around the pool stick as he heard the door click behind her. Deeming it safe to turn, his gaze flitted back to the window. Cat walked quickly. There was a certain panicked flurry to her steps. Good. Serves her right, thinking she could waltz in here and what- laugh at him more, like all the others?

He considered just, not going to her dorm. Sure, he liked the jumper. Enough to end up in a sober interaction with Cat? Not so sure.

He tried to look indifferent, like he was some grand intellectual above all this nonsense. In truth? He’d never interacted with a girl so much in his entire life.

He finished his pool game, ruminating so intensely he knocked over his stack of papers.

With a deep sigh, he pushed his glasses up his nose for the millionth time. Michael checked his watch. Almost an hour had passed.

He wagered now would be the time to start walking.

Chapter Text

The knock came exactly when Caterine decided he probably couldn’t be bothered.

She crossed the room hastily, taking a quick look in the mirror despite herself (neat hair, same clothes as before) then at the jumper she’d placed carefully on the bed, folded to satisfaction, before opening the door.

Michael stood there, hands buried in his coat pockets, looking like she had caught him someplace he wasn’t supposed to be. His tall frame ducked slightly, so as not to bang his head against the domed ceiling. His eyes squinted down at her, glasses catching the light reflectively.

“Hi,” she mumbled neutrally. The sting of I guess still hummed between them, particularly on her end. She just couldn’t figure this guy out. Caterine had felt some sort of tension -- he had to have felt it too. So, why was he being such a prick?

He doesn’t step in, though he peers into the somewhat tidy room with a judgmental hum. She was starting to really hate that sound. “So this is number 13.” He remarked matter-of-factly. “Thought it’d be bigger, for an en suite.”

She tried not to let her earlier irritability get the best of her. But Michael was making it particularly difficult. “You didn’t seem very keen earlier.”

He shrugged, keeping his sharp gaze on something behind her. He freed his hand from his warm pocket to push his glasses up his nose. “Was in the middle of a game.”

Catching his line of sight, she turned to look at the bed. The red jumper waited there like a suspended breath. “Right,” Cat muttered, striding over quickly and carefully picking it up, so it was still folded perfectly even as her hand traced its pleats and creases. She handed it over to him. “Here. Still in one piece.”

He took it from her, running a thumb along its frayed cuffs. His words were stated in that same low, almost soft cadence that belied a hint of frustration. “Didn’t think I’d see it again. Thought you might’ve binned it, honestly. Not exactly your style.”

What kind of first-class douchebag did he take her for, exactly?

Caterine folded her arms over her chest defensively. “You’re very sure you know my style.”

Silence. Michael reached down into his saddlebag and tucked the jumper away with a fumbling, awkward hand. Once it had disappeared, and he had nothing else to stare at, the two found themselves in a stare-down. Michael’s gaze was sharp and vaguely dispassionate, as though he were looking at a statue in a museum rather than a person. By the looks of it, he was determined to come out victorious in this little staring contest.

She was tempted to just kick him out.

But despite it all, Caterine hadn’t forgotten his kindness, even if it had been misplaced. He’d seen her home safely when she was under the influence, and had made sure she hadn’t frozen to death in the November air. She owed him a drink, at the very least. If only for her own piece of mind.

She forced the words out. “So. Coffee?”

Michael blinked. “What, now?”

“Or sometime.”

He frowned faintly, like he didn’t quite understand the angle she was coming from. Or her. At all. “I don’t...do coffee. Out. With people.” The other part went unsaid. People like you.

Caterine tilted her head to one side, increasingly flabbergasted. Was she Michael-gavey repellent, at this point? Had their walk after the party truly been so abhorrent? This exchange was proving more eye-opening by the minute. “But you drink it.”

“In the library,” He countered. Then, after an awkward beat, nodded. “...Suppose I could try.”

He waited outside as she gathered her coat without a word.

Their walk was reminiscent of their previous one, except the silence was now heavy and awkward, and Cat could no longer rely on the sanctity of alcohol to feel better about it. Upon leaving Christ Church, they walked along the main road a small while, until Caterine spotted a coffee shop.

It wasn’t the one she usually went to, with her friends. That one was a staple of the town, renowned and expensive. Cat realised he probably didn’t want to go where the entirety of her antagonistic friend group might be.

Instead, she picked a quirky, cozy café tucked between two stationery shops. The lights were warm, the cups mismatched. They ordered -- a moccachino with whipped cream for her, a long espresso for Michael. He said nothing when she payed for both, eyeing the credit card she whipped out like it had personally insulted his mother.

They found a nice corner table, tucked away by the steamy window.

Michael sat stiffly across from her, sleeves rolled up, a faint line between his brows like he was trying to work out why he had agreed to this in the first place. The table between them was just wide enough that Michael could lean his elbows on it without invading her space. Not that he seemed to care, anyway.

Cat stirred her whipped cream, deciding to be a little blunt. That seemed to be his language. “You don’t look particularly happy to be here.”

“Didn’t want to be,” He muttered back flatly, avoiding her gaze. “You insisted.”

“I suggested,” Caterine raised an eyebrow. Really?

“You suggested in a way that didn’t feel optional.”

“You still came. Willingly.” She countered smoothly, taking a slow sip of her too-hot drink.

Michael tipped his cup back, downing the espresso in one go.

She couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of him. “You’re not one for small talk?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Why not?”

“Waste of time. Filler for people who don’t have anything worth saying.” He paused, glancing at her. Then muttered softly, “You’re better than that.”

Caterine blinked, caught thoroughly off guard. He seemed to have a way of spinning half-compliments on her that had her second-guessing his intentions. It was curious, his switch-up. She could hardly piece together a coherent feeling when it came to his approach towards her. Was it just defensive, inexperienced? Or was he genuinely a self-righteous prat that didn’t want to give her the time of day? “...Thanks. I think.”

The silence stretched over their little booth. Caterine pressed her hands to her cup, feeling the warmth through the ceramic. “Why maths, then?”

He exhaled through his nose, and for the first time, something almost pleased appeared in his expression. “Because it works. It’s exact. You can spend hours chasing a solution, but when it’s right, it’s...it’s indusputable.” He said simply, “It’s maths.”

“That’s what you like? Being right?”

Shocker.

Michael smiled, almost snidely. “It’s the only thing worth being.”

Cat shook her head. “You’d be terrible in politics.”

“I’d be terrible anywhere people lie for sport.”

Something in his tone makes her pause. Accusatory, pointed. “What, you think I do that?”

He changed the subject. Asked about her degree. He listened without cutting in, even though his expression made it clear what he thought of Humanities students. Caterine tells him about the books she read, how she liked stories that didn’t tie up neatly because they felt more real -- how it had led her to History and Ancient Literature.

“You’d hate that in maths,” She said with a smile. “It’s all very flawed, and there’s no right answer. Not really.”

She asked about his family. Michael stirred her coffee for her, to keep the milk from solidifying. It was a mindless gesture, but Caterine notices. He made a vague noise in the back of his throat. “Not much to say, really. Boring. Ordinary.”

Try as she might, she didn’t believe that for one moment. There was no way the Gavey family weren’t of the more original sort. “You’re not boring.”

“You don’t even know me.” Of course, he replied defensively. She’d started to understand by then. It was his instinct ; be cold. And he was right -- she didn’t. Not yet.

Yes, he seemed judgmental and a bit of a purist. She caught the looks he sent her way when she expressed an opinion he didn’t necessarily share, but she also saw that he stirred her cup for her and listened without interruptions -- despite his opinionated eyebrow raising at every contrary remark. And there was the night of the party.

Caterine sighed, looking at him through her lashes seriously. “I’d like to.”

Michael stared down at his empty cup.

Realising she wouldn’t get an answer, Caterine finished her mocca, swallowing the remnants of the chocolate-y delight, and gathered her coat in her arms. “Let’s go?”

With a grunt of agreement on Michael’s end, they left the quaint little café behind. They stood by the entrance of it, under a streetlight. It was getting rather chilly.

Caterine had butterflies crowding her stomach.

She looked at him briefly. He met her stare with a pinning intensity. Then Michael cleared his throat. “Uhm- about earlier. Err...I thought, maybe--” He paused with a self-irritated sigh, rubbing at eyes under his glasses. “Shit. Uh.”

Perhaps this was the closest she’d get to an apology. She wouldn’t push. “You don’t need to say it.”

He inhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s just-I’m not. Used to this.”

“This?” She parroted, more so for her own amusement than anything else.

She stepped a foot closer. Michael looked like his feet were glued to the pavement under him. She could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He was breathing heavily, gaze fixed on her like he was afraid she might take flight.

“So,” He swallows, wiping his hands on his cargo trousers on instinct. The sight of him nervous was, arguably, worth the entire insult of the Junior Common Room, in her opinion. Michael’s hand twitched at his side, half to reach out, half to shove it back into his pocket again. It was a strange interior back-and-forth that had his movements stuttering. He leaned in, then hesitated. “Not that I’m--good at this, or anything.”

Caterine blinked. This had to be his first. She was equal parts flattered and mildly concerned by his disclaimer. “No one’s good the first time.”

His eyes darted to her lips, to her eyes, and back again. Then, abruptly, he pressed his mouth to hers. Not carefully, not angled properly. His mouth was hot against hers, unsure and yet eager. She jolted a moment as she felt him press closer, his nose bumping against her. He was clumsy, but she couldn’t help but find it infinitely charming. Cat’s lips met his in a gentle kiss.

It’s only when her fingers card through his hair, that Michael parts to breathe, slightly panicked by the event he hadn’t anticipated. He takes a step back, his glasses fogging up slightly. His hands return to his pockets, almost shielding himself. “Uh-”

Caterine stared back at him, slightly breathless. In that moment, she decided. She wanted to see more of Michael, snobbery be damned.

He was interesting, sweet even if his emotions ran slightly hot, and definitely interested in her, in his own fucked up way.