Faye (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
said_scarlett) wrote2006-08-02 04:14 pm
said_scarlett) wrote2006-08-02 04:14 pm
Dance In the Shadow of Death - NC-17
Title: Dance In the Shadow of Death
Author: theladyfeylene
Fandom: FMA
Author's Notes: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fma_ot4 Everybody Wins Contest. Winner of 'Best Reason to Randomly Wander Through the Gardens at Boring Formal Functions (but was very nearly named "The Story that Made ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mjules Want to Drag Gracia Hughes off to Bed... NOW.") Award.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Maes/Gracia/Roy/Riza
Spoilers: Episode 13 - 23
Word Count: 2985
Prompts: First line - ‘Death came to the village, and the tall man followed.’
Song Lyrics - “I love the way ya dance your slow sweet tango
The way ya wanna do everything but talk
And how ya stare at me with those undress me eyes
Your breath on my body makes me warm inside” - Bryan Adams
Summary: The shadow of death was always there, looming and lingering. It haunted their footsteps from sun up to sun down. Just once, they’re all able to forget.
Death came to the village and the tall man followed after. Amongst the ruins of the ravaged civilization lay nothing but broken and charred bodies, lifeless reminders of the destruction that had come to pass. Only the wind remained, stirring the sands and tattered banners, parting before the soldiers that surveyed what had been wrought. Those were the leavings of war.
But that was far away and long ago, in another place and time. And in another city, one which still stood proud and strong, soldiers celebrated. Another war had been won, another enemy defeated, and the band played for the long life and health of the Fuhrer. Men drank and women danced under glittering lights, laughing as though death had never touched them.
Roy Mustang didn’t dance or drink. He sat, resplendent in dress uniform finery, a full glass of wine ignored beside his hand. He neither smiled nor laughed, only sat and watched with darkened eyes. The soft glow of light fell upon him, drawing the eyes of those women either alone or unhappy in their current company. They leaned forward, exposing breast-flesh and trying to catch his eye. He ignored them.
Riza Hawkeye watched him, wineglass in hand. Her blue satin dress was unfamiliar and uncomfortable, and she had no desire to join the revelers. She only sat and watched the colonel, searching his face for some hint of what he was thinking. Her eyes followed his gaze. It was a clear line across the dance floor to where a couple embraced, swaying to the lively music of the band.
Gracia Hughes wore red. A deep, sinful subdued red - red the color of blood. The backline plunged, the bodice clung, the skirt was slit to expose a length of pale calf. On the delicate housewife whose frame was so often graced by simple smocks, it was shocking. Her hesitant movements and shy flush painted a clear picture, one of innocence draped in debauchery. She was a muted swan in the plumage of a paradisial peacock’s plumage. She did not stray from her husband’s side.
Maes Hughes kept one hand on his wife throughout the dance. There was a possessiveness in his touch, a startling protectiveness far surpassing that which he commonly displayed. He held her close, moving against her in a slow and sultry dance, though neither of them were particularly rhythmically inclined. It didn’t matter. Their legs entwined and their cheeks brushed and the curve of Gracia’s bare spine was stroked in lazy time to the music.
And there were rumors. Riza was not alone in following where Roy looked. Other eyes were drawn to the striking couple that clung together like newlyweds. And there were rumors. Roy Mustang coveted his close friend’s wife. Roy Mustang had grown tired of the easy women who threw themselves at his feet and wanted a challenge. Roy Mustang had turned the good Major Hughes into a cuckold already. The older women shivered with excitement, eager for the prospect of a scandal.
But Riza knew better. One only needed eyes trained to details to follow Roy’s gaze closely. It was not the sinfully clothed Gracia whom his eyes focused on - though he looked to her at times, with a tightening of his lips - but her husband.
One could pass it away as simple men’s jealousy. A wife was so often seen as a barrier between close male friends. But that wasn’t the case. Riza knew them too well, had seen too much. Roy did not covet the wife of his close friend, he coveted the man himself.
The dance ended. Riza sipped her wine. Maes and Gracia untangled from one another, breathless and smiling. Roy remained silent. The happy couple approached the table, arm in arm, the soft lights playing over the swell of Gracia’s breasts above her gown.
“You could try dancing.” Maes finally released his wife to drop into a chair beside Roy, languid and casual like a schoolboy. His arms folded over the back, his legs spread, he sat in it backwards. Roy did not respond.
“Come on, you know you’ve got to play the part.” The words were spoken quietly. Gracia stood, looking uncomfortable. Riza continued to sip her wine.
“These affairs bore me.” Roy finally spoke, his gaze now transferred to his wine glass. He reached for it. He drank it in one long swig, his cheeks burning from the sudden onslaught of potent drink.
“They bore us, too.” Maes shrugged. “But what can you do? The Fuhrer loves‘em. And…”
“And I see no reason to celebrate another slau…”
“Victory.” Maes was quick to interject the word. It held a deadly tone of sarcasm and a hint of warning. Roy snorted.
“Why don’t we leave?” Gracia’s words were quiet. Riza was on her second glass of wine, and she nodded. Staying would only stoke tempers.
“You wanna get out of here?” Maes hopped off of his chair. “Come on, we’ll go down to the gardens. No sense in wasting the rest of the night.”
And it was settled, because there was no arguing with Maes. Riza rose, a bit unsteady on her feet from the wine, and Roy offered her his arm. It was easy enough to slip out, to trade chandelier light for moonlight, polished wood for cement, the music of the band for night noises. Riza held Roy’s arm, the cool air clearing her head some. Maes and Gracia were twined together once more, closer and more intimate away from prying eyes. His hand slid beneath the fabric of her gown, resting against her bare waist.
“Nice night.”
As they walked, Maes continued to chatter idly. And Roy listened, and Riza watched Roy and Gracia was a silent scarlet shadow at her husband’s side. Down they walked to the gardens, along moonlit paths and beside flowerbeds muted in silver and shade. It was quiet there; a sheltered place cut through with streams and bordered all around by weeping willows. In the soft and silent night, it was a lover’s place.
Roy averted his eyes as Maes sat down on a bench and pulled Gracia into his lap. This was a place and time for teenage lovers, and they were hardly young. It felt wrong.
“Roy, knock it off.”
All eyes turned to Maes. He was watching Roy, eyes unreadable behind the thin slivers of his glasses.
“Forgive me if I feel it proper to allow a couple what privacy I…”
“Don’t.”
Riza drew up beside Roy. She frowned as she watched Maes, searching his face for some hint of what he thought. But she could not read him as she could read Roy. Her eyes moved to Gracia, who still flushed and looked as though she did not want to be there.
“Did you think I didn’t notice?” Maes was still speaking. “I’m not blind, Roy.”
Silence spun out between them all like glass. Riza’s lips tightened. Roy’s eyes flashed. Gracia lowered her gaze. Maes simply watched Roy.
“I’m leaving.”
Roy broke the silence, the words sharp and hard and tense. His shoulders were stiff. His back was straight. He looked to be a man facing a firing squad.
“Don’t go.”
In the garden, everyone held their breath. The clouds drifted over the face of the moon, casting new shadows over the four who stood and sat among the fountains and statues.
“Roy, don’t go.” Maes spoke again, hushed and subdued. “I’m not mad.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation here!” The unspoken words rang out louder than those that were heard. Not in front of Hawkeye, they said. Not in front of your wife.
“And why not?” Maes pressed on. “Like either of them don’t know what’s going on?”
“Maes, you don’t have to…” It was Gracia who spoke up for the colonel first, and Riza grit her teeth.
“Look, I’m just saying that it’s about damn time we got this all out in the open.”
“Sir, you’ve been drinking.” Voice heavy as steel, Riza spoke.
“Yeah? And? So’ve you. So’ve all of us. But sure as hell not enough to get drunk, so don‘t try and tell me it‘s the drink talking.”
Silence slid back between them, wrapping like a serpent around throats. No one spoke. Maes moved on the bench, one long arm flinging out in a gesture of ease and repose. Gracia still kept her eyes cast down, nervous of the Pandora’s Box her husband insisted on opening. Riza clenched her fists. Roy glared.
“Sit down.”
The words wove through the silence, so soft they may have been imagined. Roy’s eyes widened, for the words were directed at him. Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was the soft canopy of weeping willows, shielding the garden from the rest of the world. Or perhaps it was the moonlight glinting off of the wire frames of Maes’ glasses. Whatever it was, Roy obeyed the command.
He moved as though in slow motion, stepping from shadow to light and taking a place beside the couple entwined on the bench. Riza looked on, lips tight and shoulders squared, firm body straining against the confines of satin to broadcast her displeasure. And then Roy was there, on the bench, Maes’ arm draped behind his shoulders. Moonlight played over brilliant blue and sinful red, striking colors that stood stark against the muted lilies. Time slowed. Maes leaned as though moving underwater, flashes of light sparking against his glasses as he bent to kiss Roy. Their lips met. Time froze.
“Sir!” It was Riza who shot through the silence, her words as well aimed and sharp as her bullets. “This is hardly proper!” And underneath the hard, cold words there came a hysterical note. Roy pulled away, anger contorting his features. Whether it was anger at Riza for breaking the moment or at himself for allowing it or at Maes for initiating it was unclear. Because it wasn’t proper. There were few things less proper than kissing one’s male best friend while his wife sat in his lap and one’s second in command looked on.
“Fuck what’s proper. Who cares?” Maes locked eyes with Riza. It startled her, to hear such harsh language from the so commonly bright and cheerful man. Roy and Gracia were not surprised. This was the Maes beneath the mask. The Maes who was harsh and blunt and honest. “What, so you can march off to war and shoot innocent people in cold blood, but a little bit of fun between friends is a no? There’s something seriously wrong with the rules if that’s the way it goes.”
Riza gaped. Gracia flushed. Roy simply tensed. This was how Maes could be. Brutal, cold, wielding logic and truth with the same deadly precision as one of his knives. He had the uncanny ability to find the very words that would hurt the most, the cold center, the very heart of the truth.
As Riza attempted to gather her thoughts, to offer some rebuttal, Maes moved. He slid his hands beneath Gracia’s knees and around the small of her back and slid her off of his lap, depositing her in Roy’s. Gracia and Roy looked at one another, startled as they found themselves in one another arms. And then Gracia laughed softly, her apple cheeks stained pink - from both wine and embarrassment.
Maes stood. He moved quickly, crossing the distance to Riza in a few purposeful strides. He pulled her against him before she could summon a protest. In the hush, the soft strains of music from the gala could be heard. But it was faint and removed, as though it came from another world.
“Sometimes - “ Maes spoke softly, his breath strange and warm against Riza’s ear, “sometimes it’s okay to celebrate being alive. As long as we‘re here, things can get better. Come on. Just forget about the bad stuff for one night. It‘s not going anywhere. There‘s never gonna be an end to war or dying or struggle. One night isn‘t gonna hurt anything.”
Riza was still in his arms. On the bench, behind them, Gracia’s head rested on Roy’s shoulder. He held her awkwardly, for she was a strange and foreign creature he felt he had no right to touch. Riza closed her eyes as Maes moved against her, dancing to the thin strains of the far-away band. Here, in this place, they were out of time and out of the daily world. Beneath the willow trees, among the flower beds, they were in a place untouched by military strife and gunfire. And Riza heard the words that Maes didn’t speak. War and death would never see an end on this earth, but they would. They were soldiers - and a soldier’s wife - and death was always on their heels.
In this place, death was far away. Tomorrow it would return, trailing like a shadow, but for now…
Riza made no protest when Maes kissed her. His lips were soft. His hands laced together across the small of her back. Slowly, as though dancing still, he drew her back, leading her to join Gracia and Roy on the bench. He sat and pulled her down with him, the subtle scratch of his stubble brushing against her cheek. Her skirt shifted up her legs as she straddled his waist. This was wrong. They all knew it, and all had their reasons for not caring.
Maes kissed Riza’s neck. One hand held her, pressing against the small of her back. The other reached out, running across Roy’s thigh, Gracia’s hip. Riza kept her hands resting lightly on Maes’ chest. Gracia reached for her husband, her bare wrist sliding against Riza’s bare leg. Roy let his hands fall to the bench, not knowing where to place them. No one spoke. The only sounds were the far-away music, the rustling of the willows and the small, soft noises of foreplay.
Somehow, in the tangle of bodies, Riza found herself sitting on the hard bench, one strap of her dress pulled down and her skirt hem around her thighs. She was flushed, her short hair mussed, her breathing heavy. Gracia sat beside her, lipstick smudged. Riza glanced up and then back at her lap, quickly. At the end of the bench, beyond Gracia, Roy and Maes were entangled together. Roy’s dress uniform was unbuttoned. Maes’ glasses were skewed. One of them - perhaps both, it was impossible to tell - moaned softly.
Riza looked to Gracia, who folded her hands in her lap. She was unconcerned with her husband’s passionate embrace of another man. She had no reason to doubt her husband’s devotion - she was his world. This night could never change that. Riza couldn’t change it, Roy couldn’t change it. Gracia watched as Maes ran his hand beneath the un-tucked hem of Roy’s undershirt, and she smiled. Riza followed her eyes and flushed. And then a small hand was on her bare thigh and she started.
“Are you alright?” Quiet Gracia, so meek and subdued, was stroking Riza’s thigh coyly. Why let the boys have all the fun? Tomorrow life would go on as it always did, and perhaps they would never speak of this night again, but Gracia saw no reason to allow herself to be a bystander. Here and now, it was alright. Here and now, what was right and proper and socially accepted could be ignored.
Riza cleared her throat, uncertain. Gracia’s hand moved upwards, soft palm caressing the hard muscle of Riza’s leg. And then a second hand joined Gracia’s, and Riza couldn’t tell if it belonged to Roy or Maes, but it didn’t matter because it flipped up her satin skirt and brushed against the edge of her undergarments. She leaned against Gracia, eyes closed, no longer trying to put a name to lips and hands and fingers.
The moon slipped across the sky. The shadows of the willows passed over them, dappling white skin in grey and violet. Riza’s lower lip was caught between her teeth - she refused to cry out, regardless of the overwhelming sensations between her legs. Her hand was buried in Maes’ hair, holding him firmly between her thighs. Beside her, in Roy’s lap, Gracia squirmed and made no effort to remain quiet. Her dress was around her waist, her underthings long gone, she writhed on Roy and Maes’ fingers, her back arched and small breasts thrust upwards. Roy’s eyes were closed tightly, one hand between Gracia’s thighs and one fumbling at Riza’s breasts. His face was buried in Gracia’s neck, his trousers undone and his erection slid against Gracia’s wetness, Maes’ fingers, his own fingers. Maes was buried between Riza’s legs, licking her with wild abandon, his fingers twined with Roy’s and thrusting eagerly into Gracia.
In the moonlight, the quiet garden was a tableau of erotica, writhing bodies and sweat slicked skin and passionate embraces. Shielded by the willows, the three soldiers and the soldier’s wife thrashed against each other, straining and striving until all had been sated. In the distance, the band played on.
When it was over, they went their separate ways. Clothing was adjusted and hair was smoothed and under garments were collected and not a word was spoken. Maes and Gracia returned home to share a shower together and tease one another as lovers were wont to do. Roy returned to his empty house to indulge in something stronger than wine, his empty bed unappealing. Riza returned to her apartment to shower and sleep, the night already fading to dreamlike quality in her mind.
Tomorrow, nothing would be said. Tomorrow would bring paperwork and orders and cooking and cleaning, and the cold shadow of death and failure would return. But for one night, for one strange and stirring night, all four had forgotten the ever-present threat that hounded their steps and haunted their dreams.
Author: theladyfeylene
Fandom: FMA
Author's Notes: Written for the
fma_ot4 Everybody Wins Contest. Winner of 'Best Reason to Randomly Wander Through the Gardens at Boring Formal Functions (but was very nearly named "The Story that Made mjules Want to Drag Gracia Hughes off to Bed... NOW.") Award.Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Maes/Gracia/Roy/Riza
Spoilers: Episode 13 - 23
Word Count: 2985
Prompts: First line - ‘Death came to the village, and the tall man followed.’
Song Lyrics - “I love the way ya dance your slow sweet tango
The way ya wanna do everything but talk
And how ya stare at me with those undress me eyes
Your breath on my body makes me warm inside” - Bryan Adams
Summary: The shadow of death was always there, looming and lingering. It haunted their footsteps from sun up to sun down. Just once, they’re all able to forget.
Death came to the village and the tall man followed after. Amongst the ruins of the ravaged civilization lay nothing but broken and charred bodies, lifeless reminders of the destruction that had come to pass. Only the wind remained, stirring the sands and tattered banners, parting before the soldiers that surveyed what had been wrought. Those were the leavings of war.
But that was far away and long ago, in another place and time. And in another city, one which still stood proud and strong, soldiers celebrated. Another war had been won, another enemy defeated, and the band played for the long life and health of the Fuhrer. Men drank and women danced under glittering lights, laughing as though death had never touched them.
Roy Mustang didn’t dance or drink. He sat, resplendent in dress uniform finery, a full glass of wine ignored beside his hand. He neither smiled nor laughed, only sat and watched with darkened eyes. The soft glow of light fell upon him, drawing the eyes of those women either alone or unhappy in their current company. They leaned forward, exposing breast-flesh and trying to catch his eye. He ignored them.
Riza Hawkeye watched him, wineglass in hand. Her blue satin dress was unfamiliar and uncomfortable, and she had no desire to join the revelers. She only sat and watched the colonel, searching his face for some hint of what he was thinking. Her eyes followed his gaze. It was a clear line across the dance floor to where a couple embraced, swaying to the lively music of the band.
Gracia Hughes wore red. A deep, sinful subdued red - red the color of blood. The backline plunged, the bodice clung, the skirt was slit to expose a length of pale calf. On the delicate housewife whose frame was so often graced by simple smocks, it was shocking. Her hesitant movements and shy flush painted a clear picture, one of innocence draped in debauchery. She was a muted swan in the plumage of a paradisial peacock’s plumage. She did not stray from her husband’s side.
Maes Hughes kept one hand on his wife throughout the dance. There was a possessiveness in his touch, a startling protectiveness far surpassing that which he commonly displayed. He held her close, moving against her in a slow and sultry dance, though neither of them were particularly rhythmically inclined. It didn’t matter. Their legs entwined and their cheeks brushed and the curve of Gracia’s bare spine was stroked in lazy time to the music.
And there were rumors. Riza was not alone in following where Roy looked. Other eyes were drawn to the striking couple that clung together like newlyweds. And there were rumors. Roy Mustang coveted his close friend’s wife. Roy Mustang had grown tired of the easy women who threw themselves at his feet and wanted a challenge. Roy Mustang had turned the good Major Hughes into a cuckold already. The older women shivered with excitement, eager for the prospect of a scandal.
But Riza knew better. One only needed eyes trained to details to follow Roy’s gaze closely. It was not the sinfully clothed Gracia whom his eyes focused on - though he looked to her at times, with a tightening of his lips - but her husband.
One could pass it away as simple men’s jealousy. A wife was so often seen as a barrier between close male friends. But that wasn’t the case. Riza knew them too well, had seen too much. Roy did not covet the wife of his close friend, he coveted the man himself.
The dance ended. Riza sipped her wine. Maes and Gracia untangled from one another, breathless and smiling. Roy remained silent. The happy couple approached the table, arm in arm, the soft lights playing over the swell of Gracia’s breasts above her gown.
“You could try dancing.” Maes finally released his wife to drop into a chair beside Roy, languid and casual like a schoolboy. His arms folded over the back, his legs spread, he sat in it backwards. Roy did not respond.
“Come on, you know you’ve got to play the part.” The words were spoken quietly. Gracia stood, looking uncomfortable. Riza continued to sip her wine.
“These affairs bore me.” Roy finally spoke, his gaze now transferred to his wine glass. He reached for it. He drank it in one long swig, his cheeks burning from the sudden onslaught of potent drink.
“They bore us, too.” Maes shrugged. “But what can you do? The Fuhrer loves‘em. And…”
“And I see no reason to celebrate another slau…”
“Victory.” Maes was quick to interject the word. It held a deadly tone of sarcasm and a hint of warning. Roy snorted.
“Why don’t we leave?” Gracia’s words were quiet. Riza was on her second glass of wine, and she nodded. Staying would only stoke tempers.
“You wanna get out of here?” Maes hopped off of his chair. “Come on, we’ll go down to the gardens. No sense in wasting the rest of the night.”
And it was settled, because there was no arguing with Maes. Riza rose, a bit unsteady on her feet from the wine, and Roy offered her his arm. It was easy enough to slip out, to trade chandelier light for moonlight, polished wood for cement, the music of the band for night noises. Riza held Roy’s arm, the cool air clearing her head some. Maes and Gracia were twined together once more, closer and more intimate away from prying eyes. His hand slid beneath the fabric of her gown, resting against her bare waist.
“Nice night.”
As they walked, Maes continued to chatter idly. And Roy listened, and Riza watched Roy and Gracia was a silent scarlet shadow at her husband’s side. Down they walked to the gardens, along moonlit paths and beside flowerbeds muted in silver and shade. It was quiet there; a sheltered place cut through with streams and bordered all around by weeping willows. In the soft and silent night, it was a lover’s place.
Roy averted his eyes as Maes sat down on a bench and pulled Gracia into his lap. This was a place and time for teenage lovers, and they were hardly young. It felt wrong.
“Roy, knock it off.”
All eyes turned to Maes. He was watching Roy, eyes unreadable behind the thin slivers of his glasses.
“Forgive me if I feel it proper to allow a couple what privacy I…”
“Don’t.”
Riza drew up beside Roy. She frowned as she watched Maes, searching his face for some hint of what he thought. But she could not read him as she could read Roy. Her eyes moved to Gracia, who still flushed and looked as though she did not want to be there.
“Did you think I didn’t notice?” Maes was still speaking. “I’m not blind, Roy.”
Silence spun out between them all like glass. Riza’s lips tightened. Roy’s eyes flashed. Gracia lowered her gaze. Maes simply watched Roy.
“I’m leaving.”
Roy broke the silence, the words sharp and hard and tense. His shoulders were stiff. His back was straight. He looked to be a man facing a firing squad.
“Don’t go.”
In the garden, everyone held their breath. The clouds drifted over the face of the moon, casting new shadows over the four who stood and sat among the fountains and statues.
“Roy, don’t go.” Maes spoke again, hushed and subdued. “I’m not mad.”
“I don’t want to have this conversation here!” The unspoken words rang out louder than those that were heard. Not in front of Hawkeye, they said. Not in front of your wife.
“And why not?” Maes pressed on. “Like either of them don’t know what’s going on?”
“Maes, you don’t have to…” It was Gracia who spoke up for the colonel first, and Riza grit her teeth.
“Look, I’m just saying that it’s about damn time we got this all out in the open.”
“Sir, you’ve been drinking.” Voice heavy as steel, Riza spoke.
“Yeah? And? So’ve you. So’ve all of us. But sure as hell not enough to get drunk, so don‘t try and tell me it‘s the drink talking.”
Silence slid back between them, wrapping like a serpent around throats. No one spoke. Maes moved on the bench, one long arm flinging out in a gesture of ease and repose. Gracia still kept her eyes cast down, nervous of the Pandora’s Box her husband insisted on opening. Riza clenched her fists. Roy glared.
“Sit down.”
The words wove through the silence, so soft they may have been imagined. Roy’s eyes widened, for the words were directed at him. Perhaps it was the wine. Perhaps it was the soft canopy of weeping willows, shielding the garden from the rest of the world. Or perhaps it was the moonlight glinting off of the wire frames of Maes’ glasses. Whatever it was, Roy obeyed the command.
He moved as though in slow motion, stepping from shadow to light and taking a place beside the couple entwined on the bench. Riza looked on, lips tight and shoulders squared, firm body straining against the confines of satin to broadcast her displeasure. And then Roy was there, on the bench, Maes’ arm draped behind his shoulders. Moonlight played over brilliant blue and sinful red, striking colors that stood stark against the muted lilies. Time slowed. Maes leaned as though moving underwater, flashes of light sparking against his glasses as he bent to kiss Roy. Their lips met. Time froze.
“Sir!” It was Riza who shot through the silence, her words as well aimed and sharp as her bullets. “This is hardly proper!” And underneath the hard, cold words there came a hysterical note. Roy pulled away, anger contorting his features. Whether it was anger at Riza for breaking the moment or at himself for allowing it or at Maes for initiating it was unclear. Because it wasn’t proper. There were few things less proper than kissing one’s male best friend while his wife sat in his lap and one’s second in command looked on.
“Fuck what’s proper. Who cares?” Maes locked eyes with Riza. It startled her, to hear such harsh language from the so commonly bright and cheerful man. Roy and Gracia were not surprised. This was the Maes beneath the mask. The Maes who was harsh and blunt and honest. “What, so you can march off to war and shoot innocent people in cold blood, but a little bit of fun between friends is a no? There’s something seriously wrong with the rules if that’s the way it goes.”
Riza gaped. Gracia flushed. Roy simply tensed. This was how Maes could be. Brutal, cold, wielding logic and truth with the same deadly precision as one of his knives. He had the uncanny ability to find the very words that would hurt the most, the cold center, the very heart of the truth.
As Riza attempted to gather her thoughts, to offer some rebuttal, Maes moved. He slid his hands beneath Gracia’s knees and around the small of her back and slid her off of his lap, depositing her in Roy’s. Gracia and Roy looked at one another, startled as they found themselves in one another arms. And then Gracia laughed softly, her apple cheeks stained pink - from both wine and embarrassment.
Maes stood. He moved quickly, crossing the distance to Riza in a few purposeful strides. He pulled her against him before she could summon a protest. In the hush, the soft strains of music from the gala could be heard. But it was faint and removed, as though it came from another world.
“Sometimes - “ Maes spoke softly, his breath strange and warm against Riza’s ear, “sometimes it’s okay to celebrate being alive. As long as we‘re here, things can get better. Come on. Just forget about the bad stuff for one night. It‘s not going anywhere. There‘s never gonna be an end to war or dying or struggle. One night isn‘t gonna hurt anything.”
Riza was still in his arms. On the bench, behind them, Gracia’s head rested on Roy’s shoulder. He held her awkwardly, for she was a strange and foreign creature he felt he had no right to touch. Riza closed her eyes as Maes moved against her, dancing to the thin strains of the far-away band. Here, in this place, they were out of time and out of the daily world. Beneath the willow trees, among the flower beds, they were in a place untouched by military strife and gunfire. And Riza heard the words that Maes didn’t speak. War and death would never see an end on this earth, but they would. They were soldiers - and a soldier’s wife - and death was always on their heels.
In this place, death was far away. Tomorrow it would return, trailing like a shadow, but for now…
Riza made no protest when Maes kissed her. His lips were soft. His hands laced together across the small of her back. Slowly, as though dancing still, he drew her back, leading her to join Gracia and Roy on the bench. He sat and pulled her down with him, the subtle scratch of his stubble brushing against her cheek. Her skirt shifted up her legs as she straddled his waist. This was wrong. They all knew it, and all had their reasons for not caring.
Maes kissed Riza’s neck. One hand held her, pressing against the small of her back. The other reached out, running across Roy’s thigh, Gracia’s hip. Riza kept her hands resting lightly on Maes’ chest. Gracia reached for her husband, her bare wrist sliding against Riza’s bare leg. Roy let his hands fall to the bench, not knowing where to place them. No one spoke. The only sounds were the far-away music, the rustling of the willows and the small, soft noises of foreplay.
Somehow, in the tangle of bodies, Riza found herself sitting on the hard bench, one strap of her dress pulled down and her skirt hem around her thighs. She was flushed, her short hair mussed, her breathing heavy. Gracia sat beside her, lipstick smudged. Riza glanced up and then back at her lap, quickly. At the end of the bench, beyond Gracia, Roy and Maes were entangled together. Roy’s dress uniform was unbuttoned. Maes’ glasses were skewed. One of them - perhaps both, it was impossible to tell - moaned softly.
Riza looked to Gracia, who folded her hands in her lap. She was unconcerned with her husband’s passionate embrace of another man. She had no reason to doubt her husband’s devotion - she was his world. This night could never change that. Riza couldn’t change it, Roy couldn’t change it. Gracia watched as Maes ran his hand beneath the un-tucked hem of Roy’s undershirt, and she smiled. Riza followed her eyes and flushed. And then a small hand was on her bare thigh and she started.
“Are you alright?” Quiet Gracia, so meek and subdued, was stroking Riza’s thigh coyly. Why let the boys have all the fun? Tomorrow life would go on as it always did, and perhaps they would never speak of this night again, but Gracia saw no reason to allow herself to be a bystander. Here and now, it was alright. Here and now, what was right and proper and socially accepted could be ignored.
Riza cleared her throat, uncertain. Gracia’s hand moved upwards, soft palm caressing the hard muscle of Riza’s leg. And then a second hand joined Gracia’s, and Riza couldn’t tell if it belonged to Roy or Maes, but it didn’t matter because it flipped up her satin skirt and brushed against the edge of her undergarments. She leaned against Gracia, eyes closed, no longer trying to put a name to lips and hands and fingers.
The moon slipped across the sky. The shadows of the willows passed over them, dappling white skin in grey and violet. Riza’s lower lip was caught between her teeth - she refused to cry out, regardless of the overwhelming sensations between her legs. Her hand was buried in Maes’ hair, holding him firmly between her thighs. Beside her, in Roy’s lap, Gracia squirmed and made no effort to remain quiet. Her dress was around her waist, her underthings long gone, she writhed on Roy and Maes’ fingers, her back arched and small breasts thrust upwards. Roy’s eyes were closed tightly, one hand between Gracia’s thighs and one fumbling at Riza’s breasts. His face was buried in Gracia’s neck, his trousers undone and his erection slid against Gracia’s wetness, Maes’ fingers, his own fingers. Maes was buried between Riza’s legs, licking her with wild abandon, his fingers twined with Roy’s and thrusting eagerly into Gracia.
In the moonlight, the quiet garden was a tableau of erotica, writhing bodies and sweat slicked skin and passionate embraces. Shielded by the willows, the three soldiers and the soldier’s wife thrashed against each other, straining and striving until all had been sated. In the distance, the band played on.
When it was over, they went their separate ways. Clothing was adjusted and hair was smoothed and under garments were collected and not a word was spoken. Maes and Gracia returned home to share a shower together and tease one another as lovers were wont to do. Roy returned to his empty house to indulge in something stronger than wine, his empty bed unappealing. Riza returned to her apartment to shower and sleep, the night already fading to dreamlike quality in her mind.
Tomorrow, nothing would be said. Tomorrow would bring paperwork and orders and cooking and cleaning, and the cold shadow of death and failure would return. But for one night, for one strange and stirring night, all four had forgotten the ever-present threat that hounded their steps and haunted their dreams.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject