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a study in reformation

Summary:

She doesn’t like him, doesn’t like his hair, doesn’t like his face, doesn’t like his conceited attitude and the way he’s looking at her like she’s wasting his time (and not the other way round).

Roy doesn’t care.

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or

the college au where Roy is still a pain in the ass, a thorn in the flesh and the bane of Riza's existence

Notes:

note: mild language and occasionally mildly suggestive scenes because (i) college (ii) time is a flat circle and roy mustang is a mansl*t even in the 21st century. i don't make the rules...

title is taken from nirvana's come as you are :)

Chapter 1: come as you are

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

When she wakes, it’s in a room that is decidedly not hers. 

Riza blinks in panic. Her first instinct is to check herself (and her surroundings). She is, to her everlasting relief, still fully clothed — still in the same white sweater and ripped jeans from earlier. 

That has to be a good sign, at least. 

Riza lets out a muted sigh, rolls her neck and shoulders. They’re awfully stiff and rigid from sleeping while seated on the floor, back against a wall, curled into a ball like a porcupine.  Definitely not the best decision she’s made in a while. 

Riza checks her watch next. It’s only four in the morning, but already she’s bored and mildly buzzed and completely worn out from having to socialise (or at least be civil, nice). She groans softly, leaning back to scan her surroundings proper. She’s still at Rebecca’s party, contrary to what her dreams had been telling her; surrounded by loud music and cheap booze and cheap plastic cups littered across the floor — all typical college detritus that she’s grown accustomed to after spending a year and a half at Central University. 

That doesn’t mean she’s used to the crowd, though. She’s never been a particularly sociable person, never been a social butterfly like Rebecca — but there are a few faces she recognises. 

One of them is Roy. Roy fucking Mustang, her intolerable deskmate in Introduction to Philosophy who’s always preening and primping and rattling off about his latest romantic conquest. He’s disgusting. Riza still doesn’t get what’s so attractive about him, doesn’t get the hype over his narcissism and below-average appearance and half-baked brain, doesn’t get why he’s apparently the resident heartthrob — so much so that more than half the girls in the student body would willingly throw themselves at him in the blink of an eye, as if he’s a literal god.

There is, in fact, a girl doing exactly that right now. 

Riza grimaces at the sight before her; two obviously drunk teenagers lost to hormones. They’re kissing and groping each other and making obscene noises, and it makes Riza feel like throwing up whatever little bit of beer she has in her system. She’s here to celebrate her best friend’s birthday, for goodness’ sake — not to watch the supposedly pivotal scene of some second-rate chick flick. 

It gets positively worse when his hand slips up her thigh. 

Riza clears her throat discreetly. She has no intention of becoming an unwitting voyeur to her deskmate’s philandering, and so she promptly makes herself scarce. 

Riza shoves a very drunk blonde who’s blocking the door and exits the room, shuffling down the garish corridors towards the dance floor. She is not and has never been much of a dancer, but she heads there anyway, because people are at least dancing , not making out in her face. (They’re more likely to remain clothed, too. Riza prefers it that way.)

Nirvana comes on next. The music is loud and disruptive and makes her head throb, and everyone around her is hollering drunkenly, unintelligibly, raising their hands as if at worship, but she supposes it still beats what she’s just witnessed and heard. 

It’s still annoying, however. Especially when a sandy blonde approaches her and makes a slurred speech of wanting to get to know her better, and do you think we can exchange numbers — 

Riza groans to herself. 

She really, really can’t wait to go home.

When she wakes the next time, it’s in her room (at last). 

But she’s still a little groggy, and probably just a little hungover, too. The day is bright, balmy. The sunlight seeping through the thin linen curtains don’t help, and there’s an awful taste lingering in her mouth that reminds her of week-old gym socks that Riza can’t quite seem to get rid of.

She brushes her teeth with a lot more vigour than necessary that Saturday morning. 

Thank God for Listerine, Riza thinks. It would’ve been helpful if there was an equivalent of it for her head — something she could use to bleach her brain with. Riza still struggles to get rid of the image of her deskmate running his hands all over some random girl who had the misfortune of falling prey to his self-proclaimed irresistible charm and good looks. In hindsight, she should’ve probably had a few more drinks, but Riza doesn’t have the luxury of getting utterly smashed and wasting precious time in bed.

Weekends are never free, after all.

Once she’s had a cold shower and a bowl of slightly stale cereal, Riza begins her weekend ritual of cleaning out her tiny shoebox apartment. She doesn’t like that dust gathers so quickly on the floors, but she supposes it’s an inevitable part of living so close to the train tracks and main roads. It saves her money, at least, and makes for an accessible location (that’s still cheaper and preferable to living in the dorms).

Riza sweeps and vacuums every inch of her place without complaint. 

It doesn’t take her too long, thankfully. One of the many benefits to living alone, Riza thinks, is that she doesn’t have to worry about upsetting other proprietors of the household with the noises that inevitably come with vacuuming, or doing the dishes and/or the laundry. She doesn’t have to snoop around like a timid mouse here. 

It also helps that she’s never bothered decorating or filling the place with anything beyond bare necessities either: the place is still impersonal and bare, and she likes it this way. It makes it easier to clean. It’s like cleaning an empty space devoid of obstructions, which is far preferable to cleaning up broken bottles and scraps of paper. 

In many ways, living by herself is much better — even if it does come with the hassle of having to take on various odd jobs. 

Riza ends her shift at the bookstore at eight in the evening. 

She thanks her boss with a half-bow. Ms. Carney is a middle-aged lady who’s nice enough to hire a college student like her with close to zero (formal) experience in bookkeeping, but she’s not much of a talker, either. It’s obvious she prefers books to people, which is completely fine by Riza.

Riza hesitates for a moment, then thanks her aloud this time. She waits by the door. 

Ms. Carney doesn’t respond, which is probably code for yes, you may go. 

So Riza does. She exits quietly — as quietly as she can, anyway. The large, tubular wind chimes hanging at the door certainly don’t help in her quest to make an inconspicuous exit. Ms. Carney makes a small, tutting sound. 

Riza bows once more in apology before leaving, heaving in relief as soon as she’s out. 

At least the pay is decent, she thinks, even if not as decent as giving tuition. But there are only so many teenagers she can put up with, so many lesson plans she can draft and essays she can mark on top of dealing with her own schoolwork. She likes that the work here is utterly mindless. It doesn’t require her to think or plan beforehand. It just requires her hands, actually.

Riza makes her way towards a small, unassuming diner just a couple streets down to meet Rebecca for dinner. She pauses in her tracks when a few children begin to spray out of the side streets. They’re loud and rowdy and rambunctious and not at all like the little girl she had been as a child, but for the most part, she doesn’t mind, not really. It’s a tangible reminder that she’s no longer trapped in that reclusive backwater town with her father. That she’s made it here, to the city, to college. 

(It still feels surreal, sometimes. Riza’s dreamt of this, dreamt of moving out and making it on her own two feet for so long, that the reality of it is almost unbelievable. There are things she misses about the countryside, of course, but the city has its own inexplicable charm, too — even if it means the stars are practically invisible in the face of billboards and bright lights and gleaming skyscrapers.) 

What she doesn’t like about the city, though, is the interfused mass of people that greets her just about everywhere. She had expected the diner to be relatively empty, given its location; her workplace is not exactly located in the prettiest side of town. 

It is decisively not. 

Riza struggles to spot Rebecca for a moment, until there is a distinctive shout that cuts across everyone’s conversation. 

“Riza!” 

“Hi,” Riza says, a little embarrassed that they’re now the centre of attention. She sits down uneasily, slinging her bag on the edge of her seat. “Sorry for the wait.” 

“No problem,” Rebecca chirps. She slides a menu across the table. “Here, have a look.” 

“What are you getting?” Riza asks. She flips through it noncommittally; she already knows what she wants. “I’ll probably just get the usual,” which is a simple plate of bolognese, but Rebecca clearly has other ideas. 

“Let’s try something else. How does pizza and beer sound? My treat.” Rebecca beams. Riza frowns. She’s never like feeling indebted. “To make up for the party last night.” 

“Rebecca,” Riza admonishes. “It was meant to celebrate your birthday —” 

“Yeah,” she waves a hand dismissively. “But you helped a ton with the planning and prepping, and you’re not even a fan of parties.” 

She tries again. “But —” 

“I’m famished. You can fight with me over the bill later, if you insist,” Rebecca says, gesturing to a nearby waiter to take their order.

Riza frowns at her, who is still beaming as she rattles off without pause. A plate of pesto pasta, a truffle schiatta, a porchetta, an entire pizza, with extra peppers, please . Two glasses of wine. Actually, no, champagne would be better suited for the occasion. And two chocolate lava cakes, both topped with vanilla ice cream, please. 

Rebecca smiles, thanks him, and turns back to her. 

Riza stares, bemused. She usually just stops at the pasta. This sort of extravagance is a novelty to her, but Rebecca looks utterly unfazed by the bill that awaits them at the counter. 

“You’re…” she pauses for a moment, trying to recall the urban slang that perfectly encapsulates what she’s just witnessed. 

“I’m balling, that’s what,” Rebecca laughs. “It’s fine. My grandparents wired some money into my bank account, since it was my birthday.” 

“You should keep it for yourself.” 

“Yeah, but I can also use it anyway I want,” she grins. “And that means I can splurge on my best friend if I want to, too.” 

Riza sighs. She’s still not used to unrestrained generosity, even if Rebecca genuinely has no qualms about it. But she doesn’t bother fighting over the bill, anyway — she knows it’ll be an exercise in futility. 

She’ll just (have to) find another way to make up for it.

“Thanks a lot, Rebecca.” 

“No biggie,” Rebecca says, waving a hand dismissively as she launches into a somewhat morbid ramble about the highlights of last night’s party and how she’s arrived at the sudden realisation after sobering up that they’re one year closer to death, and she should probably start drafting up a will, and she’ll make sure to name Riza as one of her intended beneficiaries, because — 

Riza laughs. 

“Calm down, Rebecca,” she interjects gently. “We’re barely just twenty-one.” 

Rebecca groans. 

“Growing older sucks.” 

She pats her best friend sympathetically on the arm. 

“I know,” Riza says, patting her best friend gently on the arm. “Just take it easy, okay? One thing at a time.” 

Rebecca yawns, nodding. 

“Yeah. Let’s just focus on eating, first. I’m starving.” 

“Me, too.” 

Dinner is good. Excellent, in fact. Riza can’t remember the last time she’s had such an extravagant feast. 

Then again, things are always a little extravagant when Rebecca is involved. 

“Thanks for dinner —” 

“That’s like, the fifth time now,” she says. There’s a warning edge to her tone, but it’s all in good humour, and Rebecca gestures for dessert to be served. She grins. “It’s cool, Riza. Really. I would’ve probably dropped out of college already, if it weren’t for you.” 

Riza chuckles lightly, shakes her head. “Speaking of,” she begins. “Not to be a wet blanket, but midterms start next week.” 

Rebecca groans. “Damn it. I knew I was forgetting something.”

“I knew you would,” Riza teases. “Are you still hungover?” 

“Not really. My mom made me a weird mix of pickles and semi-burnt toast this morning and made me down a gallon of water. And what do you know, it worked like a charm.” 

Riza laughs, again. Her friend tends to have that effect on her, tends to make her forget all her troubles (if only momentarily) with her silly antics. 

“Go easy on the alcohol, alright?” 

“I will, I will. Just, you know. College, birthdays. Gotta loosen up a little,” Rebecca shrugs. “I’ll probably need you to save my ass for next week, though…” 

Riza rolls her eyes in mock exasperation. “Yes, I know.” 

Dessert arrives before she can continue. An excited noise escapes Rebecca’s throat when she slices into the centre and a thick, gooey stream of chocolate oozes out. She’s positively beaming. 

Rebecca pushes the other plate towards her. 

“For now, though, we can have our cake and eat it too.” 

Riza spends the next few weeks doing practically nothing but studying and finishing her assignments. 

She’s steadfast in ignoring her desk mate’s unsolicited advice of loosening up and living life a little (because she is living her life, thank you very much — just in a manner vastly different from his). The deadlines speak to her far more than he does: they’re piling up like dust in an unswept room. It doesn’t help that she’s had to work an extra shift over the weekend because the other part-timer had to cancel at the last minute, but Riza swallows down her complaints and trawls through each one of them, slogging through the night with a pot of coffee and the occasional guilty pleasure: instant noodles. ( It helps that it only costs two dollars at most, only takes two minutes to make.) 

You should ask for an extension, Rebecca tells her one night, when they’re staying late at the library together. It’s past midnight, and the only companions they have are a half-eaten pack of gummy bears and a few frazzled students who’ve been staring at their screens for the past two hours or so. I’m sure they’ll be more than understanding.  

And Riza contemplates it seriously, for a moment. It’s a feasible option — one that is highly tempting, in fact. Even a few days would probably make a world of a difference, allow her to get a bit more sleep and produce work that’s not mediocre. 

But she’s also not used to people making allowances for her incompetence. 

It’s not incompetence, Rebecca says, as if guessing what’s on her mind. I ask for them all the time, which is true — Rebecca does. 

And logically, Riza knows that asking for extensions is nothing unheard of, nothing extraordinary. Everyone asks for one from time to time (if not all the time). She supposes it’s just become habitual to demand nothing short of perfection from herself. It’s something that’s been ingrained in her from childhood, and Riza doesn’t foresee herself breaking out of it anytime soon. 

She doesn’t send out that email in the end. 

It’s not like doing so will help her assignment finish itself anyway, she rationalises. It will just prolong her suffering, and she’d rather get it over and done with. 

Bearing that in mind, Riza works furiously into the night without complaint, pausing only when she’s tired enough that she can no longer concentrate or come up with a coherent sentence. 

It’s all she can do to stay afloat these days. 

There are days, however, where Riza feels like drowning.

There’s always something to be done, something that’s due in the evening, something that demands her attention. When she’s not attending classes studying or rushing to meet a deadline (she’s managed to meet every one of them without an extension), she’s either helping Rebecca play catch up or sorting out administrativa and budgeting issues for the Student Union, or working the night shifts at the bookstore, or tutoring some rich kid living in a nice cul de sac to sort out her unpaid rent. 

And it’s stressful, yes, possibly even overwhelming. But she’s always thought that she would’ve been acclimatised to this by now, having had to deal with managing an entire house whilst juggling between schoolwork and her personal grief her entire life.

Clearly, she thought wrong. She’d probably overestimated herself, Riza thinks. She’s still struggling even after completing her freshman year (and she can’t help but feel a little pathetic, weak), and when she gets back home after a particularly long shift and sees the laundry that’s been steadily piling up, the dishes that were left to simmer overnight in grease, and the excessively long (and unnecessary) text from her neighbour back at home, complaining about the unsightly, unmowed lawn, and about how her father refuses to open the damn door, and how —

Riza chucks her phone aside and groans.  

God, she thinks. She could really use a break. 

Riza heads to the sink, and starts scrubbing vigorously at a particularly stubborn stain (that, in hindsight, should’ve been dealt with the night before). 

By the time she gets through the worst of it, Riza is dead beat. 

And so when she spots her desk mate canoodling in her seat (her seat, of all places) with a curvy blonde for the third time that week, Riza decides she’s just about had enough. 

Riza huffs in exasperation. She taps him lightly, civilly on the shoulder. Once, twice. He doesn't respond. She huffs again, and steps on his foot instead. 

Hard. 

Roy yelps. 

“The fuck, Hawkeye?” 

“Get out.” 

One of the worst things about being on scholarship, Riza thinks, is that the school can always make you do stupid shit against your will — like having to tutor peers who obviously have no interest in a particular module. 

Whatever joy she might have felt from acing Introduction to Philosophy is short-lived at best: it ceases as soon as Professor Pelczar calls her into his office. 

Riza knocks twice before entering his room. The sagely, elf-like man greets her with a deceptively cheery smile as he leans back into his plush leather chair. 

“Congratulations on acing your midterms, Miss Hawkeye.” Riza gets the strange, nagging feeling that there is more to this than mere congratulations. And she is right. “Unfortunately, some of your peers appear to have had some trouble catching up,” he sighs, adjusting his glasses. They’re gold-rimmed, vintage. It suits the overall vibe that he gives off — a portly but wise old man who’s probably at least half-insane after all the years in academia. “Which is a real pity. I thought I’d already gone easy on you all.” 

“Well,” Riza forces a smile. “Easiness is a relative concept, I’m afraid. I thought the paper was hard —” 

“You still aced it, anyhow,” he grins, gesticulating animatedly with his hands like he always does in lecture when he’s about to go completely off-topic. “Your desk mate, on the other hand, was a remarkable failure.” 

Straight from the horse’s mouth, Riza thinks. This she can agree with. 

“Which desk mate?” 

“Roy Mustang. I’m sure you two are well-acquainted by now?” 

“Unfortunately not, sir.” Fortunately not, she thinks, but Riza keeps her cool and maintains the role of an ingenue college girl. Anything to get out of this. “I think it might be better for someone else to help him, considering we don’t know each other all that well —” 

“This is a great opportunity to, then!” 

Riza coughs delicately into a fist. 

“I don’t think I’ll make a very good tutor.” 

“Nonsense. I’ve seen you in the library countless times with that Rebecca girl,” he chimes, as if his mind is already made up. “She’d have been dead meat without you.” 

“She’d have been fine, really.” Riza attempts a chuckle, but it’s strained at best. Mirthless. She already has enough on her plate, and the last thing she needs is being forced to spend time with a womanizing eyesore. “She’s just unaware of her own capabilities.” 

“Roy, on the other hand, thinks too highly of himself.”

“I agree, sir.” 

“And that’s why you’re the only person who I know is capable of putting him in his place.” 

Riza offers a strained smile. More than anything, she wants to scream, wants to throw a shoe at Pelczar’s delighted expression. It’s bad enough that she has to sit with Roy on a regular basis; she’s already running out of soap as it is.  

“I’m sure there’s someone else out there better suited to tutor him, Professor.” 

Professor Pelczar waves a dismissive hand, continues sipping at his lukewarm coffee like she hasn’t said anything. 

“Nonsense. You’re the best there is.” 

“I’m really not,” Riza insists, because she really isn’t. She’s not even at the top of her cohort, or anywhere near. She’s just well enough above average that she can sustain her scholarship (which isn’t even the best one out there, because she's just that — just above average, not the cream of the crop). 

“Have a little more faith in yourself, Hawkeye.” He puts his coffee down and props his chin up with a wrinkled hand. “So it’s settled, then.” 

“What?” 

Professor Pelczar bristles in his seat, adjusting his tie. He clears his throat.

“Ah, the scholarship committee must have told you about the peer tutoring programme. We do pride ourselves in that, here. It’s a longstanding tradition that started a couple decades ago…” and he goes off about success rates and resume padding, but she’s too irritated to listen. Riza crosses her arms, mulling over her options briefly before concluding that she pretty much doesn’t have any. Free will is a myth. Pelczar's proposal is practically a Hobson's choice; she doesn't have a say in the matter when her scholarship is on the line like this. 

“Of course, sir.” 

He grins. 

“Shall we start next week, then?” 

Riza forces a smile as she clenches her fists behind her back. Whatever anger that's boiling within her, that's steadily rising in her chest like steam is clearly lost on her professor. His eyes are still gleaming with an earnest, hopeful plea, and she doesn't have the heart (or rather, the guts) to say no. 

She nods. 

“Alright.” 

Notes:

welcome to my extremely self-indulgent college au LMAOOOOO honestly I was super embarrassed to post this for the longest time but it is 2021 and tswift re-released the entire fearless album and I just. I have no shame in me left anymore even if this whole fic is just a random mishmash of self-projections <3

also disclaimer I feel like this is not my best writing haha it's been awhile since I worked on a multi-chap and tbh my mental health hasn't been the best bcs lockdown 2.0 and things going south at home... but I've written the next three chapters or so and will probably upload them in the next two weeks or so (although I gotta finish up my pieces for royai week first teehee) :")

leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought!! I'm also on Tumblr as @firewoodfigs if you'd like to come say hi <3

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special thanks to chewy for brainstorming about college!royai with me all the time!!! you've been such an inspiration in so many ways and no I will not be taking requests for financial compensation at this time. pls direct all such inquiries to one roy mustang instead <3 but seriously, chewy's been making some amazing college!royai art on her tumblr and it's STUNNING and everyone should check it out :")

ok back to work goodbye... have a great week everyone and stay safe (and hydrated)!!! <3