roemoe

‘the flip side’  

fandom: still star crossed (modern!au)

pairing: rosaline capulet/benvolio montague, rosvolio, sides of past bencutio and roemo/juliet

summary: companion piece to my fic ’turn around’ ft all the scenes that couldn’t be conveyed in text form. Or, the Montague Boys crash a Capulet party, and somehow, Ben and Ros become friends. A greencard marriage proposal later, and they feel more than they originally planned for each other.

Ros is at the end of her rope; nails digging into her temples and foot tapping against the desk leg as she stares down her assigned reading, about to blow a fuse when her phone buzzes against the page.

It’s propping the page open, lighting up with the text, and she has read the same line five times with blurry eyes without taking in a word of it. The glow feels like a saviour. She’d take anything over reading another thirty pages of needlessly long academic bullshit by yet another old white guy. At least, she thinks so until she reads who the message is from: Benvolio Montague.

He only has her number from the last time he had to come and pick up the drunken idiots he calls friends from outside her house, and she half-regrets giving it to him. Ros sighs, mentally argues Ben vs Homework, and decides that one sounds slightly less torturous than the other. Slightly. She replies to him.

What’s it to you, Montague?

Read more on A03

Os vermes

“ELE FERE E CURA!” Quando, mais tarde, vim a saber que a lança de Aquiles também curou uma ferida que fez, tive tais ou quais veleidades de escrever uma dissertação a este propósito. Cheguei a pegar em livros velhos, livros mortos, livros enterrados, a abri-los, a compará-los, catando o texto e o sentido, para achar a origem comum do oráculo pagão e do pensamento israelita. Catei os próprios vermes dos livros, para que me dissessem o que havia nos textos roídos por eles. 
   - Meu senhor, respondeu-me um longo verme gordo, nós não sabemos absolutamente nada dos textos que roemos, nem escolhemos o que roemos, nem amamos ou detestamos o que roemos; nós roemos.
   Não lhe arranquei mais nada. Os outros todos, como se houvessem passado palavra, repetiam a mesma cantilena. Talvez esse discreto silêncio sobre os textos roídos fosse ainda um modo de roer o roído.

Machado de Assis in Dom Casmurro, Capítulo XVII.