rory is so good at insults

a close reading of sonnet 116

for outoftheredwoods, who requested paris/rory

Paris had kissed her again, on that beach–her mouth warm and her hand at Rory’s waist. It was a languid kiss, alcohol-slow and nice, unexpected, unexpecting.

You’re my best friend, you know, Paris had said when she pulled away. She had been very serious and Rory couldn’t help laughing, because it seemed funny–Paris there, with the whole ocean reflected in her eyes and saying things like you’re my best friend. 

Paris had looked hurt, until Rory fell back against the sand, still giggling, and said, I know, Paris. I know. You’re my friend too.

They didn’t talk about it, and Rory never told anyone. She was still shaking sand from her hair, a week later.


(Remember when we hated each other? they say sometimes, like those were other people, in another country. Characters from the yellowed diaries of distant relatives–Paris, brittle and belligerent, all armor and teeth; Rory, uncertain and reserved, so careful not to transgress. Strangers, wearing their faces.

Other times, Rory has to remind herself that she had a whole life before Chilton, a full cast of characters and rich plot, and absolutely no Paris-shaped hole in her story. She hadn’t been some princess asleep in a glass coffin, waiting for a short blonde knight to ride up and shout at her until she woke up, and took the reins of her own life.

Because Rory just forgets, sometimes, a little.)

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