Chapter Text
The week after doesn’t get any better.
Riza receives an email on Monday morning, notifying her of her ‘C’ grade for her Organic Chemistry: Basics and Fundamentals assignment. (It’s mandatory for all students to take at least one contrasting module from another major every semester - something about an interdisciplinary education, designed to nurture students into holistic beings and prepare them for a brave new world - but Riza really doesn’t see the point. It just drags her GPA down and puts her scholarship on the line.)
Riza rubs at her temples, torn between disappointment and surprise. Even her statistics exam hadn’t gone that badly. She’d barely managed to scrape a ‘B plus’ for that one, but at least it wasn’t a glaring ‘C’.
She sighs. Riza logs out of her email and has her second cup of coffee for the day. She can hear Rebecca in her head, saying something about how she shouldn’t be too hard on herself, how it wouldn’t affect her GPA all that much anyway. And really, she’s not wrong. Riza still has a chance of making first-class — assuming she even manages to survive the rest of college.
But years of living with a perfectionist who demands nothing short of perfection - from himself and from his only child - has made Riza one, too. (She knows his expectations have always been unrealistic and unattainable, but she's always tried, in vain, to meet them, only to fall short every single time like a failure.) And even if it were otherwise, she doesn’t really have a choice or a say in the matter, anyway — at least not when the Dean has specifically requested to see her.
“I must say, this is a bit of an anomaly, Miss Hawkeye,” the Dean says, smiling in a way that makes her shudder. It reminds Riza of those deranged dictators she’s seen in the movies, in old documentaries. A dictator who can terminate her scholarship in the blink of an eye. “Your other results are all decent. Stellar, even.”
“I apologise, Mr Bradley,” Riza says. The tension in the room is almost tangible, like she’s shrouded in a dark cloud. She shifts her weight on her feet uneasily. “Chemistry is... not exactly my strongest suit.”
“I can tell,” he says, and his tone, while light-hearted, conveys his message clearly enough. Riza smiles again, balling her hands into fists to refrain from fidgeting. “It’s fine. There’s still plenty of time to improve before your finals come round.”
(Technically, he’s not wrong. There are a few months until finals, but between all that’s going on in her life, between work and school, Riza will have to specially, and specifically, carve out time for rectifying her mistakes.)
Riza nods stiffly.
“I’ll make sure I do that, Mr Bradley.”
“I’m sure you will,” he says. Mr Bradley seems to relax a bit, although it’s hard to tell whether it’s meant to be an encouragement, or a command. The man’s constant eye smile makes it hard to decipher what’s on his mind.
Either way, the underlying implication is not lost on her.
You will, or you will risk losing your scholarship.
Riza manages a strained smile as she nods, even though her throat is uncomfortably tight. She feels the familiar feeling of her stomach tying itself in knots, of her palms getting all clammy and damp. The last time she’d been in a position like this was when she’d been arguing with her father about her college options. These talks still leave her feeling nauseous and squeamish, however, even after all this time — a bit like she’s a helpless prey left in the open to anticipate their end. Riza hates it. (She hates that she’s still not fully immune to it, even after all these years.) She can’t wait to get out.
“And if you need any help, just let a faculty member know,” he continues, leaning back in his chair to regard her with what he must’ve thought was a benevolent smile. “We could put you on the peer tutoring programme too, if you need. You’re not excluded from it just because you’re a tutor.”
“I’m good as it is, Mr Bradley,” Riza says, still on edge. She doesn’t want to be a part of the school’s ridiculous peer tutoring programme anymore than she already is. “But thank you for the offer. I’ll let the school know if I need any help.”
“I’m sure you will,” he echoes, and Riza bows before making her exit. She lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she’s holding as soon as she’s out, rolling her shoulders a little to ease some of the rigidity in her muscles. Riza breathes again, deeply this time.
The hallways outside have never felt so liberating.
—
“Hawkeye!”
Riza turns around to find her desk mate sauntering towards her, smirking in a way that instantly aggravates her already sour mood. She’s about to ignore him as usual (the best way of dealing with an egomaniac, Riza thinks, is to simply pretend they don’t exist), until she realises that she’s supposed to make arrangements for their upcoming peer tutoring session.
Riza sighs. Might as well, then. Now’s as good a time as any.
“What?”
“Fancy seeing you here. What kind of trouble did you get yourself into?”
“None. I’m not you,” Riza bites back, without missing a beat.
Roy raises a brow, but otherwise lets it slide. She counts herself lucky for having an excellent poker face.
“Well, if you say so. Anyway, Professor Pelczar sent me an email,” he begins. Riza watches, a little mortified as his smirk turns into a full-blown, almost sadistic grin. “Peer tutoring begins next week, I was told?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Next week’s a little packed for me though, I’m afraid,” Roy murmurs, with mock sadness. He musses his hair as he speaks, in a way she can only describe as infuriating. (Riza doesn’t get the craze over his unruly hair. His bangs remind her of an abandoned mutt left out in the rain for too long — so much so that she often wonders if he’s ever made acquaintance with a hairbrush. She doubts he’s ever even heard of one.) “Does Friday afternoon work for you?”
“I have something on then.”
“Tough. How about Friday night, then? I suppose I could postpone my date to the weekend for this.”
Riza folds her arms, annoyed. She hates that he makes it sound like he’s catering to her schedule, when it’s really the other way round. She has better things to do with her time. And besides, her world doesn’t revolve around him — contrary to what he’s deluded himself into thinking.
Still, as much as she hates it, she is obliged to make time for him. Riza runs through her to-do list in her head briefly. She has a Politics essay due Friday morning, and a meeting with the Student Union later in the afternoon. She has nothing in the evening — she’s agreed to work the following Saturday instead, so Friday evening is her only real respite (but it’s all going up in flames now, thanks to some self-absorbed narcissist. Fantastic. Just what she needs.)
“That would work,” Riza says, tersely. “I can start at six. Sharp .”
Roy sighs. The tousling stops. He reaches into his pocket to fish out his phone.
“Looks like I’ll have to rearrange that date, then,” he says, typing as he speaks. “Where shall we do it? My place?”
“No,” Riza says emphatically. She must’ve overestimated her self-control, because Roy looks up and regards her with mild surprise. “No. Let’s do it elsewhere.”
“Huh,” he says, smirking again. “How about yours, then?”
Absolutely not, she wants to say, but Riza shakes her head and picks a place before he can come up with another one of his stupid ideas.
“One of the study rooms at the library will work just fine. They’re usually open till late.”
“I just might get ideas, now,” he says. The insinuation flies over her head at first, but it dawns upon her soon enough. Riza balks. “Thanks, Hawkeye. I’ll leave the booking to you,” and he’s out before she can even protest, leaving Riza alone by the exit.
Riza blinks. For a moment she’s too stunned to react, much less go after him.
And then the absurdity of everything descends on her like a sinking cloud.
What the hell , Riza thinks. She’s already stressed enough as it is, and the last thing she needs is an irresponsible jerk like him adding on to her burdens. She wonders, briefly, if the universe is conspiring against her to make her life a living hell. Riza has the sudden urge to scream, maybe run after her desk mate and give him a piece of her mind. Possibly commit homicide.
But she doesn’t bother chasing after him. He’s simply not worth the trouble, and besides, he probably doesn’t even know how the booking system works. She’s never ever seen him in the library before.
Riza just tolerates it, like she always has. She drags herself to the library once her frustration has ebbed a little, thinking that free will is nothing more than a myth constructed by the privileged. (Maybe she’ll include that in her essay next time.)
Riza settles down at her usual sunlit spot as soon as she’s there. The library is undoubtedly grand, with vault ceilings and ivory arches and endlessly tall, ornately carved shelves filled with the smell of worn leather bindings. It’s almost unnerving, really, how big it is. She’s still not used to it even after a year of college. It's a bit like the libraries in the fairy tales she’d read as a child: extravagant, and mildly unnecessary.
Still, it is a sight to behold. The campus is at least a work of art, if nothing else.
Riza props her chin up with a hand and turns to look out at the lush field, speckled with the telltale pinks and lilacs of spring; at the students sprawled on the grass to soak in the pleasant weather and enjoy the sprightly breeze.
Inwardly, Riza scoffs at herself; she’s practically describing every college poster ever. She can’t deny, however, the smidgen of jealousy that springs up her throat as she admires the view. It’s not like she wants to work all the time. There are days like these where she wouldn’t have minded joining them, to sunbathe or indulge in the company of her favourite prose or do whatever it was college students did if she weren’t so busy all the time.
Riza spares one last wistful glance outside, and turns back to the desk. She starts by planning out her schedule for the next few days in the brown, leather-bound planner that Rebecca got for her last Christmas (because you’re a planner yourself, Rebecca had said). She scribbles down the things she has to do in her monthly calendar until each tiny little box can no longer contain anymore of her schedule.
Inadvertently, she thinks back to Mr Bradley’s words. He must’ve thought that was a magnanimous offer of help, or something.
It is decidedly not . Riza reviews her timetable and reading lists, on top of her already packed personal schedule, and very nearly groans aloud in the pin drop silence.
Some help the school is.
—
“Thanks for class today, Miss Riza.”
Riza smiles fondly. It’s Wednesday evening and she’s just finished a session with the Elric brothers. She’s tired out of her wits and already on her third cup of coffee, but she doesn’t mind; they’ve always been quite the delight to teach. (Riza doesn’t normally like playing favourites, but if she’s being honest, they’re definitely her favourite students amongst all the other spoiled, privileged brats that — well, that she doesn’t have the privilege of not teaching.)
“You’re welcome, Alphonse.”
Ed hums noncommittally.
Riza just smiles. Between the two of them Alphonse has always been the more even-tempered and well-mannered one, but it’s not like Edward is rude or anything. He’s a genuinely good kid, Riza thinks. A good kid with a good heart.
“Thank you, Miss Riza,” he murmurs after a while, still fixated on his essay. Riza thinks he’s definitely the more obsessive of the two, too. She’s seen the dark rings under his eyes, the fire and determination in them that so often reminds her of molten gold. It’s obvious that grades matter to him a lot — more so than it does to the average high school student, even though they’re both already at the top of their cohort.
“You should take a break, Edward.”
“Right,” he mutters, looking up from his essay at last. Ed yawns, rolling his neck in the chair. He pulls his hair out of its frazzled braid. “Thanks for your feedback, Miss Riza. They’re really helpful.”
“I’m glad they are,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll do fine for the upcoming test.”
“Hopefully. Tennis season is round the corner, too, so...” Ed grumbles, leaning back into the chair to run a hand over sungold tresses.
“Speaking of,” Al interjects. “I think there’s a pretty good chance we might head to your college campus next week, Miss Riza.”
“Really?” she asks, genuinely intrigued. “What for?”
Ed leans forward at this, bringing his fists together like he’s about to make an important announcement. Riza laughs softly. She gestures for him to continue.
“We’ve got a tennis friendly next week with the college team,” Ed explains. “It’s supposed to help us prepare for college admissions and all that stuff, or so they said.”
“Well, that’s not entirely false,” Riza says, nodding. She doesn’t know much about the college’s varsity teams, but she knows enough from the student union to know that the school spends a ridiculous amount of money funding them. (The horde of screaming fangirls don’t help much, either.) “The college does pride itself quite a bit on the different varsity teams, so I’m sure it’ll be quite helpful.”
“Do you play any sports, Miss Riza?”
“I used to, but not anymore,” she smiles wryly. “College can be a little hectic, sometimes.”
“Not more stupid deadlines and stuff,” Ed says, wrinkling his nose like he’s just smelt something bad.
Riza laughs again. College really is a bunch of stupid deadlines and stuff, she thinks. Redundant stuff, like having to deal with other sleazy students who would really rather be an incorrigible flirt than an actual - well, an actual student.
“It’s not that bad. At least you get to pick classes that genuinely interest you.”
At this, the brothers seem to brighten a little, but the mood instantly changes when a man - who looks too much like them to not be their father, with his golden hair and golden eyes - enters through the door.
Ed turns away and pretends he’s a ghost.
“Hi, dad,” Al calls. It’s different from the way he usually addresses her or Ed, Riza thinks. His voice is a little too polite to be truly friendly or affectionate. “You’re back.”
Riza stands to offer him a half-bow.
“Riza Hawkeye,” she introduces, with forced politeness. It’s the first time she’s ever seen him around, despite the fact that she’s tutored the Elrics for months now. It doesn’t take a genius to piece two and two together. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“It’s very nice to meet you.” The man smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Riza can’t help but feel like he’s just stepped out of another era, with his vintage glasses and leather suitcase and thick, brown coat that just about swallows him whole. “Thanks for helping them with their work -” and she’s very sure she hears a scoff, this time “- ah.”
He pauses, scratches his head and fumbles with his suitcase. Riza gets the peculiar feeling that he’s itching to be anywhere but here. There’s a narrow stretch of silence, for just half a minute, and then he confirms her suspicions. The man lets out a laugh that is as painful as it is awkward.
“I should get going. Will you boys be alright by yourselves?”
The question is purely rhetoric, it seems, as Ed mutters a string of profanities under his breath.
Al smiles. “Sure, dad,” he says, and then he’s gone without another word.
Riza stares at the closed door. She wonders if she should perhaps go after him, but there’s also a part of her that tells her doing so is pointless, futile. (It’s not an unfamiliar scene, after all.)
“I hate him,” Ed mutters, at last. “That useless bozo.”
Riza offers him a sympathetic smile. She doesn’t bother with meaningless apologies or useless platitudes, because she knows they are exactly that.
“We could get pizza or something for dinner, if you’d like. My treat.”
“Oh, no, Miss Riza,” Al rushes to say. Ed frowns. “We couldn’t possibly trouble you like that -”
“It’s fine, really,” and it’s really not, because her finances are tight and her rent is almost due, but she’ll just have to scrimp a little and maybe work a little more at the bookstore. Riza smiles. “Consider it a congratulations in advance, for when you get into college.”
“We should be treating you as thanks instead,” Ed argues.
“It doesn’t work that way, Ed,” she laughs. “It’s fine, really. You deserve a break.”
Riza keys in an order on her phone for two large pepperonis and a classified chicken and pays upfront, and that’s that. She turns their attention back to college before they can argue further or insist on paying, and they melt into conversation easily enough, like old friends.
Thirty-five minutes later, the pizza arrives with a small voucher for their next order.
Riza stays with them all throughout dinner. Al introduces her to a brand new board game that he’s recently acquired. She’s careful not to damage his pristine pieces with their grease-stained fingers, but Ed exercises a lot less caution and receives a stern warning from his brother.
Eventually, though, Al lets it slide (Riza can’t imagine him ever holding a grudge; it simply doesn’t suit his sweet disposition). They end up playing a few rounds together after they’ve all washed their hands, and it’s all small talk and small bouts of laughter, and never about their fathers. Riza prefers it that way.
But sometimes, when Riza looks at the Elrics, at their estranged father and at the turned-down photo frames on top of the antique piano, she can’t help but find everything strangely relatable.
—
She sees Roy when Friday rolls around.
He’s surprisingly punctual, yes, but he also looks utterly disinterested. Roy greets her with a languid wave and plops down gracelessly. He’s already checking the time on the old clock hanging on the peeling white walls, even though it’s been barely a minute.
Riza purses her lips. 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. He yawns and, turning to her, he comments, “Huh. Not bad.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your glasses. You look pretty good in them.”
“I don’t care,” Riza says, flatly.
“Your dressing is rather mundane, though.”
Riza frowns, a little self-conscious. She’s dressed in a simple lilac sweater and a knee-length skirt, and she doesn’t see anything wrong with it. In fact, she’s better-dressed than he. Roy’s wearing a grey pullover with sweats and kicks (and still looks like he’s never heard of a hairbrush, ever).
“You -“
“For one,” he interjects. “I’d prefer if you wore a shorter skirt.”
Riza very nearly sputters, but she quickly gathers herself before her embarrassment can make itself known.
“I don’t think this is quite relevant to our session.”
“Just saying,” he whistles, and Roy waggles his eyebrows suggestively, eyeing her in a way that makes Riza want to throw him to the ground and rid the world of his existence altogether.
Riza inhales deeply. Think of the scholarship, she tells herself. At times like this, Riza can’t help but feel a little like a sellout. (She’s certainly selling out her dignity now, for one.)
“Please focus,” she mutters, refusing to meet his eyes. Riza pushes a stack of papers towards him, consisting of a reading list and a set of notes that she’d painstakingly prepared the night before.
Roy riffles through the pages. And suddenly, without warning, he breaks into a wide, manic grin, like he’s just been stricken with some revolutionary epiphany. Like a lunatic, Riza thinks, as he eyes her with renewed interest.
“What?”
“I get it now.”
“Get what?”
“You were jealous that day, weren’t you?”
“Jealous of what ?”
“Of Brooke and I.”
“Brooke?”
“You know,” Roy smirks. “The blonde who was on my lap the other day.”
It dawns on her, then, that Brooke is the girl who had been all over him the other day. On her seat, no less.
Anger swells in her chest. Riza can feel her blood boiling, and she has the sudden urge to throw a book in his face. And he might do just that, Riza thinks, if he keeps this up. Throw Kant’s text in his face, even if it potentially costs her a scholarship, because he is being exactly that: a very unpleasant and stupid person.
“I don’t know what kind of drugs you’re on, Mister Mustang,” she says, “But you’re clearly delusional.”
She shoves Kant’s text across the table, nearly knocking down his iced latte in the process, and Roy stops smirking.
—
Riza starts the session by going through the excerpts on free will.
The irony is not lost on either of them, of course. Roy is the first to grumble about how he’s essentially kept here against his will. (Riza has never identified as being immature, but bemoaning her rather unfortunate predicament is not entirely beyond her, either. She’s no saint. It doesn’t help, either, that Roy has a gift for pushing all her buttons without even trying.)
“We’re only stuck here because of you ,” Riza says, visibly irritated. She turns to the next page. “Please focus.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Roy yawns, for what must have been the umpteenth time in ten minutes. He slumps forward and props his face up with a hand. “I’m listening.”
“So, Kant’s theory is that a free will is an autonomous will, and —”
“Wait, hold up.”
“What now?” Riza groans.
“I still slept with Brooke in the end,” Roy announces, proudly.
“How is this relevant in any way?”
“It’s not,” he whistles, twirling his pen around like it’s some kind of toy, like one of those stupid fidget spinners she often sees occupying the hands of her younger tutees. “I just forgot to brag about it before.”
This time, she sighs aloud.
“Very impressive, Mister Mustang,” Riza says drily. “I’m sure one of the other girls in school will be deeply intrigued to know what’s going on in your sex life, but I’m really not.”
“Real-”
Slam.
A hardback lands on the table, and Roy at least has the decency to look stunned.
“Really. Now, focus. I don’t have time to waste.”
“Right.”
Riza glares at him once more, huffing quietly to herself as he pretends to peruse the notes she’s prepared.
If there’s one word to describe Roy Mustang, it’s that he is completely and absolutely insufferable.
—
Riza spends the night going through the different theories behind free will, without much interference. He nearly dozes off when she launches into an (admittedly heavy, and somewhat boring) explanation about free will under the moral law and determinism, but the latte works its magic, and Roy somehow manages to stay awake. Which is a miracle, Riza thinks, for someone who seems to have his face permanently stuck to the desk in Pelczar’s classes.
She checks the time again on her phone, as Roy digests - or at least, pretends to - the material that she’s just scribbled down. It’s seven forty-five, and there are two missed messages from Rebecca, which reads:
Wanna grab a bite tmr or smthg? x
Let me know!!!!!!
Riza raises an inquiring brow at the sudden influx of exclamation marks. Rebecca’s always been a bit of an expressive person, both in real life and over text, but even that level of excitement is rare for her. It’s probably a new guy, or an upcoming event of noteworthy importance, or something.
Sure, she replies, and turns back to Roy. He’s clearly only half-awake by this point, eyelids drooping, hood up like he’s prepared to take a nap any time.
Riza taps on his shoulder lightly.
“Just fifteen more minutes,” she says, the statement just as much of a comfort to her. He nods, bleary. “I’ll finish up with Descartes, and we’ll be done for the day.”
Roy perks up a little at this. “I always thought Descartes was a mathematician.”
“He’s a philosopher, too. And a metaphysician.”
“Huh,” Roy nods, stroking his chin in a way that he must’ve thought was sagely. He finishes the last of his coffee. “A man of many talents, I suppose -” and before Riza can nod in assent, Roy adds, “Just like myself.”
Riza rolls her eyes and ignores his comments with remarkable ease.
—
The session eventually ends, without any further mishaps or incidents of utter insanity and delusion — much to Riza’s everlasting relief.
Riza yawns. She picks up her phone again, and the notifications read:
Yay!! Let me know where’s convenient x
WE CAN GO SHOPPING TOO IF YOU WANNA
I GOTTA SPICE MY CLOSET UP A LITTLE
Riza bites back a laugh, and types:
Sure, whatever you say. See you!
Her phone buzzes again, almost instantaneously.
SEE YA BITCH!!!!!!
“What’s got you smiling?”
Riza blinks.
“You’re still here?”
“Why? You got a date, or something?”
“No.” And then, for good measure, Riza adds, “And even if I did, it wouldn’t be any of your business.”
“Well, it would,” Roy begins, folding his arms and smiling cryptically, as if he’s just deduced some great mystery. Riza stares at him, thoroughly unimpressed. “I do have my own set of morals, too, you know -”
“I find that hard to believe -”
“For starters, I would hate to be the one instigating an adulterous affair. But seeing as you’re single... ”
“Again, irrelevant,” Riza says, flatly.
“And since you deprived me of what was supposed to be a Friday night with a gorgeous lady, what do you say to taking her place?”
“No.”
Roy sighs, as if the rejection has hurt him somehow. Riza calls his bluff in her head. His ego is practically impossible to deflate, and she has no intention of just becoming another name on his list of conquests, either.
“It’s an honor, you know -”
“No,” Riza repeats, with a little more bite this time. Before he can say anything else, she packs her things, shuffles out of the library and out of the tall, iron school gates that suddenly remind her of the county prison back in her hometown more than anything else.
Riza rides the bus back home, warms up some leftover pasta and spends the rest of her Friday evening, alone.