may i feel, said he (20)
first | tag | ao3 | ffn
[co-written with @tsaritsa]
a/n not six months this time! but there’s so.... SO much to unpack. so lets jump in.
Warnings: Cursing, mentions of post partum depression Words: ~8.6k || Rated: M - Royai
CHAPTER 20
Before him, Greta Flores de la Vega stands in all her scarlet-accented glamour.
The sight of her catapults him into the darker corners of his mind and the whispers of the devil on his shoulder rises in volume. The years they’ve been officially separated are eradicated with the unbidden nostalgia of her features. Her almond shaped eyes are still as rich in mischief as they were the first time he came across them. The subtly complex way she carries herself: arms framing her curvaceous torso as one hand holds her elbow to allow the other to slyly touch the corner of her painted lips. She’s made it into an art. And in that curling smile, entire histories are indexed and tucked away, conjuring up memories of a different time. Different skin on skin and -
“Well? Do I at least get a proper greeting?”
He swallows down the thickness in his throat and he moves automatically. It’s the way everyone says hello - a hug and air kisses on each cheek, but she leaves a mark on one of his. Roy knows it’s a deliberate move on her part, because her smell ruins him, like a dog trained to salivate on physiological triggers, on command, and it feels like a wrench purposely thrown into a sentient machine doing its best to work efficiently. It’s been used against him many, many times before and he’d be a fool to ignore the jolt in his gut and mislabel it for fear instead of involuntary lust. What haunts him worst of all is that the subsequent emotions he wants to feel is horror and guilt. Not anticipation.
He hates that it works so stupendously; loves that Greta knows what she’s doing one hundred percent.
Clearly, old habits die hard.
Before it can do any real damage, before he steps in closer and assume the behavior of his former self… Roy calls her by her given name to break the trance. Something flashes in her chestnut eyes unexpected to her and it pauses for a moment. The literal miracle of speaking her given name.
She hums, amused, and reaches to cup his jaw to give it a little shake. “Jester that you are.”
There’s a beat before he collects himself, becomes aware of the way his jaw is slack. He should have known. He should have known.
“I heard you weren’t coming,” he blurts out inelegantly. Perhaps not the right choice of words, considering the way Greta’s expression flickers, but Roy is too shocked and too confused to care.
She covers her mouth to hide her short laugh. “From whom?”
“Maes.”
Greta doesn’t obstruct the wide smile this time. The laughter spills into her words: “For all his intel experience and information gathering, I can’t imagine how he was ever good at his job. I guess that’s why he plays househusband now.” She pushes her long dark curls behind her ears, cocking her head to the side. “What? At least he knows I’m honest where it matters.”
“And what’s that even meant to mean? He’s made his opinion on you abundantly clear.”
“Last-minute change of plans worked out in my favour. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Or you.” she says softly. “Especially not after I missed Elicita’s birthday party” She looks beyond him for a moment, smiling, and he follows her gaze to where Maes and Gracia are. “What kind of godmother would I be?”
“You’re not her godmother.”
She waves a hand in the air flippantly. “So I wasn’t there for the ceremony. The kid will have padrinos for basically anything in her lifetime.
“And Maes…” She scrunches her face, the roundness almost makes it cute. “He has always been so black-and-white about issues. The man never leaves any chance to consider any side that isn’t his own, something that doesn’t earn him many points on this side of the family.” She shrugs, looking towards Maes and Gracia with a familiar expression. “A falta de pan, buenas son las tortas… so long as Gracia remains happy.”
“And that’s important to you?”
Greta turns back to him and scoffs. “More than to you, leaving family and friends behind. Poor Chris left worrying about you.”
Roy counts to five. The retort is on the tip of his tongue, just begging to be uttered. He wills his reaction to simmer. He knows this game. She knows him well, which buttons to press - their locations, circumference, and how well it gives when pressed. How to tease and touch... All this he’s memorised from the playbook of their relationship, where he gives and she takes and takes and takes.
Except that’s not entirely true.
“Why are you here?”
“I thought it would be a nice surprise,” Greta says; the sweet tone returns to her voice. “For my dear cousin, her family-”
“No. why are you here? Don’t you have other people to say hello to?”
She doesn’t exactly frown, but she’s no longer smiling. Greta takes a calculated step closer, careful of the cobblestone. “I heard you were in Central that weekend.”
He pauses, taking a moment to scope any sign of unwarranted contact that might come about. “As the actual godparent - “
“And you didn’t tell me?” She cuts him off with another step.
This feeling, low in his gut: simmering, roiling - it’s twisting and changing, manifesting in physical ways that have him shifting his weight. On a logical level, Roy knows he shouldn’t be feeling any iota of attraction to the woman before him. But it’s viceral, entirely reactionary, no bearing on -
Roy looks down at her; the aroma now wafting towards him and he could almost see it materialize in his vision - tendrils trying to curl around him, ensnare him. The only predictable thing about her was that she was unpredictable by nature. For the longest time he was content to sit back and let her act how she liked. Now… well, it was different.
“Wouldn’t you know that I’ve been in Central more times than you’ve been told?” He can feel the defiance surge through his body like electricity.
All the condescending mirth is wiped from her face as she frowns, pouts. Her expression changes as if she’s been offended to the point of exaggeration and she nudges his shoulder back. What he doesn’t anticipate is the person behind him. Roy stumbles to adjust his footing, an apology dying on his lips as he turns.
Riza. She blinks slowly, raising two glasses of sangria.
Before he can respond, Greta brushes her off and tells her in Spanish, “Girl we don’t want sangria, there’s mezcal at the bar. Be a darling and bring us two.” And then she snaps her fingers to gesture it should be done quickly.
He hates this tone, the higher lilt in her voice; the drawn-out syllables, the concentrated power she commands in them, and yet he’s grateful Riza can’t understand them.
To her credit, Riza doesn’t say anything, and merely passes him the glass. She’s waiting for him to introduce them, he realises with a start, and Roy quickly clears his throat.
“Riza, this is Greta.” His arm slips around her waist. “Greta, this is Riza. My girlfriend.”
Greta’s smile freezes momentarily before relaxing. Her eyes are wide as she offers her hand out - the diamonds on her right hand shimmer in the light. “You never told me you got yourself a girlfriend, conejito,” she teases, drawing close to kiss Riza’s cheeks affectionately, bypassing Riza’s outstretched hand entirely. The whole picture in front of him is incredibly surreal - not to mention that particular nickname being brought up.
“I thought you were told,” he says before taking a long sip from the glass.
“Nooo, no one tells me anything.” The elongated pronunciation and melody she adds to her whine gives her more of an accent than the light one she already had; it makes her sound approachable. She lightly taps Riza arms with the back of her hand to get Riza’s attention. “Can you believe the nerve? How rude of you to keep her from the family.”
Riza says something that sounds demure and meek but his attention is beyond the women before him and across the terrace and meets Maes’ eyes, which have narrowed to almost slits. He mouths something to Roy - he can’t read lips at this distance, but he doesn’t need to with the way Maes throws his hands up, all sharp angles and stiff movements. Clearly Greta had done a good job of sneaking onto the island with minimal fanfare - which when he thinks about it, is actually rather impressive for her considering her love of theatrics and the spotlight.
It doesn’t take long for Maes to make his way over to where they are, and the unpleasantness of his countenance subdues as he nears them, replaced with a smile plastered widely across his lips which never quite meets his eyes.
“I wondered where you had gotten to, Roy. Trust you to sequester away the beautiful woman you have and leave the rest of us wanting.” Maes turns to Riza, and his smile becomes marginally more honest, drawing her close to drop kisses on her cheeks. “It’s been too long Riza. Gracia and I are so glad you were able to help us celebrate.” He pulls back and his expression locks into place as he addresses the other member of their company. “And you’re here too Greta. Wonders never cease.”
“What do you expect? The last party you threw, I heard there was only chicken dancing.” She laughs at Maes’s expense. “How does it go?” Greta butchers the tune to the “Chicken Dance” and somehow manages to move her arms like wings with grace, chuckling the entire time and completely comfortable.
Riza makes a strangled noise next to him.
“Is Gracia teaching you nothing? Pobrecito…” Greta addresses Riza, “Hopefully, he’s teaching you some moves.”
“That’s great,” Maes interrupts before Riza can get a word in, voice dripping with disdain. “Gracia and I have some speeches planned for everyone and I think-” he cranes his neck back to his wife who signs the okay symbol over some guests’ heads, “we’re gonna start about now.” His hand claps onto Riza’s shoulder. “I’ll catch you two later.”
His abrupt exit leaves Roy with a sense of unease; he’s not stupid enough to recognise that that entire dismissal of Greta’s prescence wasn’t a warning in of itself but if anything it seemed to bolster the woman’s defiant attitude.
“Come, let’s get some seats - Maes will take a good hour to sob through whatever speech he has planned and I want to save my feet for dancing.” Greta takes hold of Riza’s hand before he can protest and Riza can only turn back to raise her eyebrows in alarm before the two of them disappear into a small crowd of people.
Roy finds them not too long afterwards, just as Gracia stands to speak. Greta is pointing at various people who Roy vaguely recognises as members of the Hughes and Flores clans and Riza nods along politely; though she flashes him a grateful smile when he sits in the chair next to her.
In contrast to the measured speech his wife gave, Maes gets increasingly drunk throughout his own. A shot before. A shot to their first date. And their first anniversary and now their fifth which they celebrate this day. And honestly, it’s the most entertaining thing Roy’s seen in a while - a buffer to the shitshow this entire day has consisted of. There’s the obligatory powerpoint with star wipes and Elicia cheers every time her face is superimposed on the white stone. By a large margin it’s the sweetest part of the evening.
And yet, there’s a chill that Roy can’t quite shake despite the balmy temperatures with the sun now completely gone and the light illuminating overhead. He contemplates whether another beer will solve that problem when Maes’ words drag him firmly into the present.
“... and that is why this woman, this forking angel of a human being-” Roy takes another swig instinctively at the utterance of the not-swear. It was an old game they used to play in the academy, substituting the litany of swears they usually dealt with in favour of cleaner versions. As it turned out, it was a wonderful way to practice for the three year old in their presence now.
Gracia is frowning at her husband but Roy is intimately familiar with the shit-eating grin on his friend’s face; whatever she wanted to stop had left the station long ago.
“-is being so good and following all that medical training even though we had this planned out years in advance: in honour of your brave sacrifice I will raise two shots in your name.” Maes winks at the crowd and Gracia’s palm covers her face. “Because she can’t drink for a while yet,” he hedges, a grin splitting his mouth wide open. “Because my beautiful and wonderful wife is pregnant again and Elicia gets to be a big sister and I have been literally dying to tell each and every one of you! So… por favor raise your glasses for us and Elicia and for the cutest bun in the oven that has ever been made.”
Roy processes the information slowly, feeling the smile grow on his face wider and wider. He stops staring off into the distance when he feels the touch of another hand on his own and Riza meets his eyes with an endearing smile - he imagines its the smile he had when he found her reading in the library.
There’s whooping and shouting around them - something started by Maes no doubt - but Riza grips his hands in hers, her thumbs running over his knuckles, focused entirely on his face. “Do you get first dibs again?” she teases, leaning closer. “I don’t really get how this whole ‘godparenting’ thing works but-”
He kisses her then, and maybe now wasn’t the best time to do so, but god if it didn’t feel right. She laughs against his mouth, and Roy takes the opportunity to snake his arm around her waist, coaxing her into his lap with only minimal effort. Her arms curl around his neck, fingers drifting into his hair. It is one, shining moment where all he can focus on is just how unequivocally happy he is. He knows to not look too deeply into her reaction - but it is the nature of it that bubbles over, makes him feel giddy with untempered energy. She’s happy because he’s happy. It’s in stark contrast to how he’s been made to feel before, how any celebration of fatherhood, psuedo or otherwise, was wrong and shameful.
Curiosity also takes the better of him and he catches sight of Greta’s face. She’s eerily still, fingers blanched white against the champagne flute she holds, staring at the middle distance like she’s not trying to stare towards their direction.
All of a sudden Roy realises what’s going to happen before it does. Impossibly, the grip on the flute grows even tighter. Anticipation morphs into trepidation. He sees the transformation of an eerily empty canvas of Greta’s face deepen into a frustration, a rage.
It explodes like the flute she hurls straight down to the ground.
--------
He’s used to her hysterics. The practice he’s had over the years makes him well-versed in it. Her reaction was the piece of the puzzle that he was missing each time, conveniently forgetting that for each good moment they’d share, there would be a dozen bad ones to follow. It eats at him that it took the deliberate shattering of a glass when she thought no one was looking to come to this realization. That even if he responded on the most base levels of her, it couldn’t erase the treatment that followed and would never be justified.
He’s intimately familiar with her opinions on children, childbirth - and yet she couldn’t even restrain herself in a moment that should've been nothing but joyful for his best friend and her fucking family. Riza has shifted off him, but her fingers still drift over the fabric of his shirt, along the lines of his shoulder. She had remained silent throughout the whole scene, wide brown eyes blinking owlishly as Greta apologised and clutched her hand to her heart.
Oh, I was just so shocked. I couldn’t be happier for them, you know. Roy imagines the tears she managed to conjure and mask as happiness came from the anger he saw in her face. She couldn’t argue passionately without crying. And now, there were other surrounding her, coddling her from this “genuine display of joy”. Tan dulce, la Greta. He grimaces.
He scoffs under his breath. Yes, he thinks viciously. And Riza and I started fucking under completely ethical circumstances.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Maes over by the bar. The inebriation- and continued drinking - makes a lot more sense now.
Was he really so blind?
A rhythmic tune begins to play; Roy only notices because its a distinct difference from the slower song before. People from other tables around them stand and walk to the dance floor and their bodies start to sway in beat with song. He shifts towards Riza, a request for a dance dying on his lips as Greta walks into back into his line of sight.
She swivels gracefully through abandoned chairs, taking the one on Riza’s side. In turn, Riza turns to her and away from Roy to face her. “I am so, so sorry about before. I don’t think I could have been more embarrassed unless I purposely tried .” Greta covers her face briefly then sighs, placing folded hands over her knee. He has to hand it to her - she can really put on the act when it suits her. “The last thing I’d want to make anyone feel unwelcome.”
Roy makes some kind of noise but Riza doesn’t seem to pay attention. She smiles courteously to the fabled ex. “I don’t think it merits worrying over it for more than a few minutes. I think the few you spent since then are enough.”
The dry wit takes a moment to sink in for her before Greta grins in understanding. “Thank you, and if there’s anything you need during your stay just let me know.”
“It’s a beautiful island. Honestly, the view of the ocean if a treat in itself.”
“I know right? Daddy had someone kick the reservations set just so Maes and Gracia could have it for the weekend.”
“Is it your family that owns the island?”
She grins widely at this, winking furtively in his direction. “I can see Roy has been talking, but talking about that makes this all the less magical.” She slaps her hands lightly on her knees. “Are you two not dancing?” She addresses them both but only looks at Riza.
Riza releases something in between a guffaw and a chortle. “No, I don’t think so. We didn’t quite get through the last time Roy tried to teach me a dance lesson.”
Not my fault, Roy thinks childishly. There’s guilt though, festering deep down - he hadn’t really given much thought to her unfamiliarity with dancing beyond what he had shown her. Here, it was treated like… it was just something they did, was expected of them in the same way he was expected to know that the sky was blue, and that two and three summed to five. Music would play and he would dance, whether it was with his mother and sisters, or drunkenly with his academy friends on a night out on the town, flirting with girls who fluttered their eyelashes at the mere mention of rank. He certainly liked dancing with Riza, but they had the unfortunate habit of getting distracted with other things partway through.
“Ahh, but it’s not about the steps, but about feeling the music in your body. Non-latin styles like waltzes are so frigid and tight - beautiful, of course - but they allow less...fluidity. Freedom. Passion.” She rests a hand on Riza’s shoulder. “And, if you were invited then you’re amongst family now.”
It’s these kinds of declarations that make Roy pause and recollect himself, lest his shock show openly on his face. Who is this woman, who has replaced the one from his memory? This dazzling display of charisma and warmth is a far cry from the yelling and hysterical demands that he remembers - hell, the woman from ten minutes ago, who most definitely smashed a champagne flute on purpose. And once again, as the only witness, he feels there would be no use to recounting it to anyone but Maes.
“Perhaps later,” Riza answers meekly. He slips his hand under the table, resting it over her thigh, squeezing lightly. Her head turns back a little in response, and the slight quirk of her lips tells him she’s understood his message.
Greta presses on. “I find a drink or two helps loosen up and forget what other people are thinking. There are still some days I trip over my own feet.”
On cue, Riza takes a sip from her drink.
Greta smiles prettily, and Roy distracts himself with his own glass, contemplating the best way to get away from her without attracting a scene. “In the meantime, would you mind if I borrow Roy for a song?”
His fingers grip her thigh again - tighter this time, a silent plea for her to say no, to put her foot down and stop this woman in her tracks: but again, Riza makes no verbal confirmation seemingly nodding her head out of some compelled compliance.
“And if I say no?”
Simultaneously, they both pout - one more exaggerated than the other.
“I thought you wanted to save your feet for dancing?”
Roy tenses at the use of his own words against him. In a lower voice and through grit teeth, he says, “Yes, but I’d like to dance with you.”
She whispers back, “And with that display this afternoon, I don’t think I could do more than walk briskly right now.”
Maybe it’s the tiring trip or the emotional cost of all his interaction thus far, but he leans back a little with a smug look on his face.
“Go, I’m more of a visual learner.”
The smile splits into a wide grin that pulls back over Greta’s canines. “Fabulous, I’ll bring him right back.”
Greta wastes no time. Roy is taken aback as he’s lifted from his chair with surprisingly strong fingers digging into his bicep. He’s walked into the throng of people when the situation finally settles with him. He tries to pull his arm back to no avail and Greta pivots with it, gripping tightly.
Greta faces him, waiting for the current song to end in the middle of other dancers. And out of nowhere, she smiles - chuckles with her head thrown back as the next song starts. “Are you kidding me right now? I’ve been trying to have a moment of your time this entire time and this-”
“I thought you would get the message,” he intones.
“Silence isn’t a message. How was I supposed to know you wanted to play babysitter? I’d have let you get it out of your system. Or what, do you expect me to think you’re serious about a girl like her? That’s like going back in time and dealing emotionally with an early twenties me again. If so, your sense of humour needs work.”
It stings, it really does sting. He’s not wanting any sort of blessing from her - considering the context of their relationship. Already, this conversation alone is more than he anticipated. Any conversation with her today was more than he anticipated. Is it so hard to want to keep the drama to a minimum, to please everyone, at least a little? The guilt gnaws at him as he realises his way of going about this might not go how he intends. He had tried so hard to play diplomatic, to be bland and amiable enough that Greta would lose interest in whatever machinations she had planned. He should have warned Riza. Properly. As they move across the wooden floor in perfect time, Roy thinks he might need to acknowledge his limits in this strange, three-dimensional chess game they’ve found themselves playing.
Others now are caught in the crossfire.
Greta spins out from him, dark hair spiraling out in a perfect arc. She seems smaller than what he remembers, her nails digging into his hands with more pressure than necessary. She isn’t clinging to him, not quite, but he’s certainly given no leeway. Where he pulls back, following the beat and pause of the music, she mirrors him, reacting with ease.
“Roy...” she coos at him, one slender finger sliding along the bone of his jaw. He shivers at the intimate touch, desperately trying to think of a way to extract himself from this position. “Mirala.” She cajoles, leaning closer. “Es una niña. A fetus.”
Roy clutches her hand and spins her - hard - as a warning and she needs a split second to orient her feet. “Milagros,” he says, low and dangerous. “Don’t.”
Her reaction is instantaneous: what serenity was present on her face from her spite and malice is replaced with displeasure, harsh lines forming around her eyes and lips. “Do not call me that. It’s Greta,” she hisses. “I let you get away with it once already. Today.”
“And her name is Riza, so I suggest you learn it,” Roy replies snidely.
“The night of the last dinner,” she starts, all the ferocity and bite suddenly gone. “Was she the one you were talking to?”
Roy doesn’t answer, but he figures it’s still an answer in itself.
Greta scoffs. “You’re a piece of shit.”
Roy chuckles at the accusation, of all people. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his brow and he resists the urge to loosen his collar. “I’m the piece of shit? You-” he stops himself, tempering himself. “I’m not doing this here.”
“Doing what, amorcito? If there was nothing to talk about then you wouldn’t be so riled up. Months of zero returned calls and left on read, you really do have some balls on you if you think you could come here and think I wouldn’t do this here.”
“Call it wishful thinking.”
She makes him lurch towards her, inches from his face despite the difference in height. “I’m not fucking around.”
“I’m not either.” He backs away. “I said what I said the last time we saw each other.”
“You always said that, how did you expect me to believe you this time?”
He remains as stoic as he can. It’s only when she manages to push his buttons that she gets a good grasp on him before he can realize he’s done for. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“Tell me what you call two years of fucking on and off then? Organizing all those motherfucking galas with your department and attending as the gracious benefactor. You drop off the face of the earth but then you text me the address of your hotel when either of us were in town. We might not have been engaged Roy, but we were sure as shit still in a relationship.
“And if we are done, why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you give me a clear answer, Roy Mustang? Is it because you couldn’t? Is it because, deep down you wanted someone to fall back to in case your relationship went south? Don’t think me so stupid that I can’t see right through you.”
“Don’t bullshit me; I know you were fucking other dudes when I wasn’t available.” An acidic laugh escapes him - a freeing, cathartic laugh, to say these thoughts out loud, finally. “Is this grilling meant to make me fall back in love with you? Maybe that would’ve worked a year ago, sure. But you’re deluding yourself if you think you can be comparable to Riza.” It’s a cruel barb, tailored to hurt her feelings perfectly. But it’s the truth - what lingering affection he had for her has vanished as the blatant dichotomy of these two women becomes more and more apparent.
“Si, the barely-legal boba is the girl of your dreams. I’m sure your mother is very proud of you for bringing home a girl who hasn’t even had her quinceañera!”
His silence makes her slow the pace of their dancing. “Oh, Roy, don’t tell me you’re-”
“She is,” he answers quietly, voice barely carrying over the volume of the music. “I don’t care if you don’t like it, or understand it. I honestly wouldn’t expect you to. You push and push and push, Milagros, and you never care about how many people you hurt. You wanna know why we always fought? Because it’s what we do. You never inspired me to become a better person, or to think about how I could be a better partner to you - it was just about the sex, or making you look good in front of whoever or-” Roy cuts himself off, laughing bitterly. “We used each other because it was about ourselves and never each other.”
Roy can count the times on a single hand where he’s seen this woman - once Milagros, now Greta - look truly, properly shocked, and now he can add one more to that small total. He extracts himself from her grip, rubbing at the skin indented by little red crescents.
“Whatever you planned to achieve here, it’s... “ Roy sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. The dancers sway around them while they stand there.
She pulls him back into the rhythm of the dance and he moves to it instinctively and that's just it, he’s programmed to do so. “Do you think… she will settle for you?” She’s mocking him. “That she wants to have your precious little baaabies? That the supposed girl of your dreams will want to immediately settle her life down and put down roots for you?” She whispers in his ear. “Who’s being selfish now?”
Again, he pushes her back. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Ah, so your bullshit reasoning only applies to me, is that it?[1] Que funny.”
“There’s no point. I didn’t come here to waste my time on you, and Gracia deserves better from her cousin. They invited Riza here. Please respect that.”
Greta steps once more into his space, her right hand gripping his chin. He tenses his jaw, feels her near - but mercifully her grip weakens and he manages to jerk his head to the side, her lips barely grazing the edge of his own. Even six months ago, he would’ve killed for this kind of reaction from her. Now, skin crawling under the sensation, the need to flee is overwhelming; klaxons blaring in his head.
“This was never about me, amorcito,” she tells him, almost breathlessly. “When are you going to understand that?”
---
The whole scene unfolds before her eyes. They take to each other like flower petals moving effortlessly in the wind.
If it were only that innocent.
At first, Riza doesn’t know what to make of it, of them, the way they sway - to and fro, give and take. She’s hypnotised, captivated by the way their bodies flow with the rhythm of the music instead of the lack of distance between them. It’s quick-paced, almost choreographed, something she’s sure she would not have been able to pick up on the spot.
It’s intimate. More than she would have expected - should have expected. Their eyes never tear away from each other. Their hands use each other to help any growing distance become meager again. Her brow wrinkles because… this is just dancing, and she doesn’t know if it’s instinct or insecurity that’s whispering in her ear and telling it’s more than just than meets the eye. Common sense tells her that if she looks to any other couples dancing, they’ve either made way for them to watch or to give them the floor. The clapping and whooping from the crowd makes her ears burn, heartbeat thumps in her ear as Roy twirls her and Greta smiles brightly in turn.
Riza inhales. Jealousy, she concludes, is a normal human emotion; right now, an irrational reaction won’t help in any way. She’s been dropped into foreign territory without a means to isolate herself that doesn’t insult the celebrations. Later, she can examine the intricacies of the performance in front of her.
Riza exhales slowly. Right now, she needs a drink.
She doesn’t draw any attention as she skirts the gathered crowd, and for that she’s grateful. Leaning against the popup bar, she flags the bartender, who appears equally interested in the dancing pair, to bring her something familiar, rattling off the first wine name to come to mind. The first sip is cool and rest of the glass, and the two more after that, follow in quick succession. Anything to distract her from what’s happening in her periphery.
She’s nervous, it’s normal. There isn’t a familiar face here, she tells herself - thinking too soon.
A loud drop sounds next to her; impressively considering the enormity of the bass. He’s even less put-together than he was for his speech: he’s slouching over the edge of the bar and his glasses appear to be missing, giving Riza clear view of his glazed green eyes.
Maes lifts a beer bottle towards her. “Welcome to the telenovela, Riza!” There’s only the slightest hint of slur in her name. It’s impressive considering the amount of shots taken during his speech alone. She imagines he hasn’t stopped since. “Are you enjoying yourself so far?”
She smiles down at her drink and takes a sip before mirroring his greeting. “The island is beautiful. Congratulations on your milestone,” she says genuinely. She can’t stop complimenting the island. She doesn’t know what else to say.
But he doesn’t hear her and he leans his ear in closer. “What?”
“It’s great! Thanks! Congrats!” and then the clapping behind them stops. She can hear somewhat normally again.
From here, she realises that Maes Hughes is a lot drunker than at first glance - the way he leans against the bar, the flushing of his face. It occurs to her as strange that he isn’t stuck to the hip of his wife, but she’s rudely roused from her woolgathering.
“So why the fuck are you here? Where’s-” he does a full turn as if he’d step out of some mist form into a physical one “-where’s Roy?”
Riza points to the dismantling wall of people. “He’s dancing.”
“What? Why aren’t you dancing with Roy?” He cranes his neck up as if he wasn’t already tall enough and he groans loudly, the bottle hitting his brow with a thunk when he smacks his own face. “Why in the ever-loving FUCK is he dancing with her? Jesus fucking Christ.” He snaps at the bartender, motioning at some used glasses in front of them. “Oi, mate - tequila por favor. Don’t judge me it's the only word I know with too many shots” He groans deeply, running a hand roughly over his face. “I should have known this spectacle was because of them. It always fucking is.”
“This happens regularly?”
The bartender goes to pour the shot of tequila, but Maes huffs, waving the man away and grabs the bottle roughly. “It used to. You would think they were preparing to launch their careers as professional dancers.” He offers Riza the other wedge of lime. “Come on, you’re gonna need this - we all fucking will if she gets her way-”
After the charming censorship in his speech, it’s jarring to hear Maes utter the original swears with such venom, but nonetheless she accepts the wedge, licking the side of her hand and offering it out to be salted.
The tequila burns deliciously on her tongue - clearly she was in the big leagues now, not restricted by college budgets and the want for quantity over quality. She watches with interest as Maes finishes a second shot in quick succession. “Do we suffer from the same gene that disables us from dancing as well as they do?” Riza asks, rubbing the remaining salt against the skin of her hand.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. My dancing is top-notch missy. But if you’re talking about salsa, then no; I can’t dance salsa. But neither can Gracia so ha!” He adds, as if it physically hurt him not to: “And she’s still a perfect wife and human being regardless.”
“Of course.” Riza nods. Her tummy feels pleasantly warm.
“You know, I really thought I come up with the perfect plan. That she wasn’t going to show up because Llamapolooza or Bonaroo or...whatever Bitchella she usually attends. Never misses.”
Riza notes the change in his tone. It’s more aggressive, angrier, but not at her. Following his gaze into the crowd, she guesses, “Do you mean Greta?”
“Shh, shh. Don’t say her name. That’s what summoned the witch here in the first place.”
Riza bites her lip to contain the laugh. “I feel like there’s a lot history to unpack there.”
Maes scoffs and it's a whole body jerking affair. “They’re both a piece of work. But she-” he chuckles sardonically, narrowing his eyes “- she’s been forgiven for more than she should have been allowed to, talking about Gracia the way she did.”
“Sorry… I don’t really understand-”
Maes’ index finger is thrust out in front of her face. “Exactly! That is what everyone at this party should be saying because we asked and asked and asked her and it was always ‘oh no, I’m too busy skiing in Drachma, I couldn’t possibly, ex-oh ex-oh-’” he shudders at the nasal tone, picking up the bottle of tequila to pour them shots again.
“Even with all my reservations about you - don’t think I’m over that little stunt he pulled, and as a dad I should be giving my girl the best role models I can, but-” he dissolves into drunken giggles that err too close to hysterical rather than hilarious.
“It’s completely fucked up that the student is a better match for him than that she-devil. Completely. And I’m complicit now!” Maes throws his hands up in the air, stumbling against the wood of the bar as the gesture moves his whole body. Riza carefully moves her filled-to-the-meniscus shot out of his way, trying to figure out the best way to not spill the majority as soon as she tries to lift it.
Maybe it’s the tequila, or the three glasses of chardonnay she sculled before; but Riza in this moment feels emboldened, defiance surging through her at the crowd cheers for some reason.
Well, she knows the reason. It burns like the tequila does when she takes the second shot under Maes’ glassy gaze.
“Why do you hate her?” Riza asks bluntly, running her tongue over her fingers, savouring the drops that spilled onto her hand. “It can’t be because they broke up, because otherwise you’d be like Chris and be trying to get them back together-”
Maes chokes on his chewed wedge of lime. “You’ve met Chris?” he asks weakly.
“This afternoon,” she answers breezily. “She’s not a fan of me being here. For all her airs about having a private talk with her son, she sure as shit can’t tell him off without half the neighbourhood hearing.”
Maes wheezes, thumping his fist down on the dark wood of the bar. It’s entertaining to see him caught off-guard - even if she’s got an edge because he’s clearly sloshed and she’s only a little tipsy. But she’s tired of all these secrets, all these looks and the confusing behaviour of the woman herself compared to the men she’s been around. In her mind it doesn’t make sense - sure, Greta had been friendly, if a little too much, but Riza could easily put that down to her own awkwardness than any machinations of a more nefarious design.
So why the venom, the animosity? Maes strikes her as the kind of man who is reasonable when presented with all the evidence, and he would have had the best of both worlds: Roy’s perspective as well as that of his wife’s - who was cousin to Greta. Truthfully, a part of her trusts his judgement more so than that of her boyfriend’s, and that wasn’t just because when she turns back to the crowd, she can see him and Greta practically glued at the hips.
If Rebecca was here, Riza would feel bold enough to go and interrupt the two of them, snake her arms around Roy’s shoulders and smile bitchily at this blatant display of… whatever this was. But she’s alone here - on the other side of the dancefloor, Riza can spot Gracia, holding a dozing Elicia and talking with one of Roy’s sisters. For all the welcomes and hugs, the only person who is actually bothering to interact with her is already halfway to smashed and requires something solid to lean against. The odds are not in her favour right now and it hurts to admit it.
She turns back to face Maes properly. “So, what’s the deal? Clearly it had to be horrible to get this kind of reaction.”
His mouth opens and then shuts, the man sighs deeply, pushing away the bottle of tequila. “I promised Gracia I wouldn’t meddle with you two,” he begins, and Riza feels her hackles start to rise, “but then Greta promised she wouldn’t be attending so I frankly don’t give a shit anymore.” Maes runs his hands over his face, roughly through his hair. He looks so tired.
“Okay. Let’s figure out what he’s told you so far. Do you know why they broke up?”
“Roy told me that it was down to her attitude about kids, and not wanting her own-”
Maes snorts loudly. “That man really knows how to play down an issue, doesn’t he? I mean, he’s not wrong - I don’t think that woman has got a single maternal bone in her body, but it wasn’t about kids in general. I…” he falters here, sighing deeply.
Riza frowns, but keeps quiet. Maes fiddles with his empty shot glass for a moment, and then sets it on the table with a little more force than necessary.
“Not many people know about this, and we want to keep it this way. We’re not ashamed - god knows I’m not, I couldn’t be prouder of her - but I know she’s always blamed herself for it, no matter how many times I tell her it’s not. Years of family pressure had a much bigger impact on her than what she understood logically as a doctor.
“After Elicia was born, Gracia really struggled. You’ve heard of postpartum depression before, yeah?”
Riza nods.
“It creeps up on you slowly. We were young, new parents -
Emboldened, tipsy Riza interjects, “It was three years ago…”
Flustered, he stammers out, “And we’re still young!” He breathes out dramatically. “Now can I finish telling this story?”
Riza chuckles to herself and nods.
“All the stresses could be explained away as us just adjusting to her, to our new routine. Gracia’s an only child as well, and there was enormous pressure she put on herself to present this front that we were fine, we were coping, the golden child had succeeded at motherhood. I was still working for the military at the time, but it got to a point where I either had to choose my career or my family. It was a no-brainer. Things got better for a time, but… it was still taking its toll on her.”
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“Honestly, that’s the only reaction from someone that means something. I’ve heard every explanation from ‘she’ll get over it soon’ to ‘oh sometimes I get sad too’. Hell, she studied it as part of her work as a locum and we still weren’t prepared. Everything came to a head about… five months, I think, after Elicia was born.”
The cogs align in her head, and very suddenly, Riza realises just how deep these wounds ran. “Roy is the godfather.”
Maes nods. “He is. We didn’t ask him to do this - the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. But it was the right choice to make. My wife needed help - beyond what I could do while simultaneously juggling a newborn. Giving Elicia to him is still the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
Riza stays quiet. Of all the explanations she had been preparing for - this was not one of them.
“Long story short, Roy gave me the best option in the worst scenario. I think maybe five people, all up, knew what was happening. Greta, naturally, had to be keyed in because they were living together at the time.
“I don’t know if you’ve seen Roy with Elicia but it’s just - I know in my heart that that man loves my girl with every fibre of his being. He was the best choice for her - essentially worked from home, negotiated his contract with the military - made easier by his accident - to ensure that he could be around Elicia as much as possible. He sent us videos of her first words, and the first time she stood up on her own. He threw himself into godfatherhood and he did it perfectly.” Maes takes a deep breath here, rubbing at his eyes roughly.
“I don’t know what he’s told you about his aspirations for fatherhood or, at least, how he looks forward to it but it’s… I know it’s something he wants. Greta on the other hand…They couldn't be more different on the matter.
“They were already rocky when all this shit happened - his accident hadn’t been too long before that - and… I don’t know, maybe he came on too strong about this whole thing, but Greta just outright rejected this situation. It wasn’t even in like an uncomfortable kind of way - which I’d get, because you know, not her kid - but she was just so fucking dismissive and shitty about Roy doing the right fucking thing and-” he catches himself here, jaw tensed and jutting out slightly.
“Greta treated Elicia like she was the dirt on her shoe. Always complaining about how Roy never had time for her anymore, how my girl was loud. How my daughter was annoying and then she had the fucking audacity to say that it was Gracia’s fault that she was having relationship issues with Roy. If it wasn’t for Elicia fucking everything up, they’d be happy. But my wife was selfish, a bad mother, and it was her fault that Roy broke up with her.”
The chardonnay and tequila turns over uncomfortably in Riza’s gut.
“I don’t wanna know what she said to him that night: Roy’s never told me and I’ll never ask. But just before Elicia’s first birthday, he came by with her at like four in the morning. Said Greta was becoming impossible to deal with and he wasn’t going to let Elicia be in the middle of that. I just assumed they’d had a spat - not a new development for them - and it was getting calm enough at home that we were almost ready to have her back full time anyway. A few hours later his family was blowing up my phone because according to Greta, he had tendered his resignation from the military, abandoned the lease on his apartment and left her to cancel all the wedding plans. It was three weeks before he answered any of my calls.”
Maes blinks at her. He seems to be waiting for a response, but there’s nothing she can say that would be even remotely appropriate to respond with. This is what brought him out East? This was why she was called Axe?
Perhaps for the first time in a long while, Riza feels her immaturity in this situation. It’s no wonder Roy edited the story so cleanly for her when she pressed him for details - this is beyond messy, or the boundaries of any normal breakup.
“And yet,” Maes continues, picking at his chewed piece of lime, unaware of the maelstrom of emotions he’s conjured within her, “my beautiful, wonderful, unfailingly kind wife forgave her cousin, and gave her a shoulder to cry on when Roy didn’t come back.
“That’s the one thing I’ll never be able to wrap my head around. Forgiving others when they’re toxic or abusive or just plain unpleasant, just because they’re family. I know it’s common in other parts of the world but here, it’s like it’s amplified - expected to be accepted with the simple passage of time. And then they had to go and make everything ten times worse.” He nudges her arm with his shot glass as if her attention wasn’t already his. “I bet you he invited her here himself. He thinks his the sneakiest little fucker, thinking I wouldn’t know when he’d come specifically see her in Central or vice versa... he’s like some kind of junkie. Pah.”
She hears the words but the context doesn’t make sense. “Sorry, who?”
“Roy.”
Riza feels her expression freeze. For all intents and purposes, she never imagined it would round the conversation back to him. Riza looks back up to Maes who is glaring in the general direction of the dancefloor. She thinks herself, does she dare ask? Something inside her hardens and plummets with the weight of a metric tonne. “What do you mean?”
The shot glass slams back on the counter and he stands up properly, easily towering over her. Still, he needs the bar to stand without swaying. “Oh did he- did he not tell you?” He rubs his chin pensively. “Like, I thought fucking his ex-fiancée was bad enough to keep secret but then, our boy, decides to raise the stakes by fucking his student?” He turns to her, his face somber. “No offense, Riza. You’re great but you’re smart enough to understand how stupid it’s all been. I can’t forget that nor can I forgive him for it right now.
“And you wanna know how I know?” He taps his temple. “Because I know things.”
Riza stares at the ground as the gravity of his words hit her all at once, then around, then to the dancing couple. Her automatic denial manifests in an unchecked sentence: “That was before my time.”
Maes snorts. “Are you sure about that?”
Riza opens her mouth to refute him because the insinuation of any infideilty and how it doesnt make sense; the trip, the everything - why would he even be stupid enough to have both of them on the same island? All this she wants to argue back to the drunk Maes.
And then, the picture sharpens; hazy fog in her mind gives way to clarity for the crisp lines and captured images from her memory.
She’s seen Greta before. Not in the picture. Not in magazines. It was in his office at Eastern, in the days leading up to spring break - the well-dressed woman from all those months ago.
That was her.
my soul takes flight (miklós radnóti, rain shower)
You were right to run! The stream is swollen with grief. The wind shudders. The clouds have torn their moorings. The rain pounds the surface of the lake with its fist, The raindrops turn to dust. I watch as you go.
The raindrops turn to dust. My body longs for yours, my muscles, my sinews, that guard the memory of our wild couplings, the crush of our unruly love! Flesh remembering flesh, tortured by sorrow.
I long for you, torn and tormented by grief, my soul takes flight, fluttering after you, and before you; and then nothing matters anymore! for not even rain can wash away this fierce and raging desire.