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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.

-

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

-

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

Chapter 2: meet me in the corner

Notes:

chapter title is derived from rhcp's song, "meet me in the corner"!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

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.

Notes:

I'm still not feeling great after getting the second dose of the vaccine, so pardon me if there are any mistakes swimming around here!!! I just wanted to get this out of my drafts because it's been stewing there for a hot minute before going to bed :") I'll come back and check / edit this again in the morning :)

please leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought! <3 I'm also on Tumblr as @firewoodfigs if you wanna come say hi or scream about royai :) i hope you're all keeping safe and well out there, and cheers to the rest of 2021 being a little kinder on our tired souls <3

Chapter 3: and the tennis court was covered up with some tent-like thing

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Riza meets Rebecca for lunch the following afternoon. They get a couple of pastrami sandwiches and two cups of iced lattes from a deli just down the street. It’s a balmy, summer day, and the area is full of kids running around and screaming like deranged banshees, but they manage to find a nearby park bench; one that’s far away enough that they can eat their lunch in peace without getting hit in the face with a poorly-aimed ball. 

“This is so good, ” Rebecca moans, biting into her sandwich with gusto. “Soccer season is coming up and I’ve been so hungry all the time.” 

“I can tell,” Riza says, savouring her own share with a bit more finesse. She wipes off a stray crumb on her chin with the back of her hand. “How’s training been so far?” 

“Good, but Izumi-sensei is a total savage, lemme tell ya,” Rebecca grumbles. “She’s got no mercy or patience for bullshit. Like, believe me, the woman is made of steel or something. She goes on for hours without breaking a single sweat, even when we’re already all wheezing our lungs out on the damn floor.” 

Riza hums sympathetically. “That sounds rough.” 

“It is,” she wails, stretching her legs out. Rebecca rolls her neck after wolfing down the last of her sandwich, and Riza hears an undeniable crack . “I can’t wait for this to be over.” 

“It’ll be over soon,” Riza reassures. She finishes her sandwich with a lot more finesse than Rebecca, then tosses both their wrappers into the bin from where she’s seated. 

Rebecca gives her a thumbs-up. “You should give the basketball team a shot, you know,” she pauses, then grins. “Pun intended.” 

“Very funny, Rebecca.” 

“No, but seriously. They could really use a shooter like you.” 

“It’s been awhile since I’ve played, though,” Riza shrugs. “I’m probably not good enough for the varsity team.” 

Rebecca snorts. “ Please . Have you seen the girls on the basketball team? Half of them can barely shoot a three-pointer. They could really do with someone like you.” 

“I’ll see how things go,” Riza says, smiling faintly. There are times where she can’t help but feel a little inadequate when she notices the tan lines on Rebecca’s shoulders and her obviously toned arms, like she’s not doing enough or making the best of her college experience — something that just about everyone (except her father) has hyped up to be the best days of her life. 

But Riza also doesn’t have the luxury of choice like her wealthier peers do. And it’s a little bit of a downer, yes, but she’ll just have to suck it up and move on — just like she has for everything else in life.

“Go for it, I’ll be your biggest fan,” Rebecca whistles, raising a fist towards the cloudless sky. She immediately groans. “My arms are so sore, damn it!” 

Riza chuckles at her friend’s plight. “Nothing a little retail therapy can’t fix, I hope.” 

At this, Rebecca pumps her fists once more and stands. 

“You bet. Let’s go!” she exclaims, and Rebecca drags Riza to the line of eclectic shops awaiting them across the street before she can even say anything else. 

They spend the entire afternoon mostly window shopping. Nothing really catches Riza’s eyes, or maybe it’s the incessant worry that she’ll break the bank this month, but she’s happy to simply browse through the pretty summer dresses and puffy-sleeved cardigans that’ve just arrived in season. 

Rebecca, on the other hand, gravitates immediately towards the strappy sandals and low-back dresses that are a little too revealing for Riza’s liking. 

But she’s not one to judge, and anyway, Rebecca pulls them off effortlessly. She gives Rebecca a stamp of approval, nodding when she waltzes out of the dressing room. 

Rebecca beams.

“I’ll get these, then!” 

Riza trails behind her as she heads to the counter after changing out. Rebecca takes out a credit card from her decidedly branded wallet with a manicured hand, and when she’s done, whirls around to face Riza with a stuffed paper bag. She beams. 

Riza smiles, and nods again. 

(Sometimes, when she looks at Rebecca and her pretty dresses and pretty face, at the girls at school with their designer bags and designer shoes and the way they live their lives as if they hadn’t the slightest care in the world, Riza can’t help but feel a little twinge of - of something. Jealousy. It’s as simple as that, and it’s not something she’s beyond feeling. She’s no paragon of virtue, not a saint. 

But Riza just tamps it down like she always has, like it’s bile from an acid reflux. It’s not Rebecca’s fault that either of them are in this predicament, and she’s at least happy that Rebecca doesn’t have to endure what she has to. 

She’s just happy that Rebecca is happy.) 

RIZA

RIZA!!! 

CRAP I forgot to ask you what I wanted to earlier 

r u free this thursday? 

Riza looks up from a novel that she’s currently perusing, about a chess prodigy who had incidentally discovered her innate talent after playing against a janitor in the orphanage’s. She quirks a brow and mentally runs over her schedule for next week. 

i think so. why? 

Frenetic buzzing, and then: 

omg 

ok so like 

you know that guy that i’ve been sort of?? seeing?? 

ok no idk we’re still in the friends but not really stage 

or at least i HOPE SO!!! bitch better not be stringing me along or i will bust his balls. with a soccer ball 

Riza closes her novel and quips back: 

of course, how could i forget when you’ve been yakking about him all the time?? 

She can almost see the grin on Rebecca’s face, giggling like a teenage, lovestruck girl behind the phone screen. Riza sighs with fond exasperation as her phone goes off again. 

hehehe 

(*≧∀≦*)

I was gonna tell u about it just now but i just… forgot… but anyways. 

he’s got a tennis friendly coming up on thursday ٩( 'ω' )و wanna come? 

YOU’LL KNOW WHO HE IS IF YOU COME

SO DON’T SAY NO JUST YET 

Riza blinks, surprised. She dimly recalls Ed and Al mentioning something about a tennis friendly, too. She’s lucky to have Rebecca remind her of it, even if unintentionally; she’s been so swamped lately that it had pretty much slipped her mind completely. 

sure 

Riza deliberates over her message, then adds a wink for good measure before hitting ‘send’. 

To say that she’s stunned is a bit of an understatement. 

Stunned doesn’t even begin to describe it. Riza had headed to the tennis court after finishing up another (redundant, and frankly useless) meeting with the student union, only to be greeted with a deluge of screaming girls who seem to be, at present, losing their minds over a very, very empty tennis court. 

Riza rubs her temples in dismay. She tries covering her ears, but just like the meeting she’d attended earlier — it’s redundant, and frankly useless. The crowd is insane. The squealing and yelling is all so horrendously loud that it’s worse than being at an off-pitch concert. And that’s saying something, considering the game hasn’t even started. 

Riza ducks and attempts to squeeze her way through the group of oblivious, blushing college girls. A pretty redhead stands up on the chair halfway and very nearly knocks over her in the process. 

Riza shoots her an affronted glare, but otherwise lets it slide. She has no intentions of fighting with fanatics. Or lunatics, for that matter. Game night has always been notorious for being wild and exceptionally loud, and it’s not like she’s impervious to this fact. (Riza has, in fact, attended a few before, and had also come to learn that this was the norm in most colleges across the city, because apparently college students had incredible lung capacity.)

But this is different. This is — this is something else altogether, Riza thinks. Because technically speaking, it’s not even an official game night. It is, in fact, just a friendly between the tennis team and a bunch of high schoolers to introduce the latter to the college tennis circuit, but there are still cheerleaders prancing across the field in their sprightly blue uniforms and massive signboards with blown-up photographs and glittering professions of undying love. The field is more than half-full and there’s a little food stand selling hotdogs and popcorn and other snacks, and is that a sign spelling out Roy Mustang in neon red —

Riza balks. 

It’s bad enough that they’ve been all but coerced into those stupid little sessions, but she doesn’t want him jumping to conclusions that she’s here because she’s smitten with him or something. She’d prefer dying an old maid, thank you very much. 

Riza continues pushing her way through, but all of a sudden the crowd parts like the Red Sea, and Roy descends down the stairs like some parody figure of Moses himself. A varsity jacket hangs off his shoulders, fluttering in the wind like a cape (she doesn’t get why he’s being so theatrical when it’s just a fucking friendly). 

Roy snaps. 

The crowd goes feral, and there’s hollering and even more pushing and animated gesticulating —

And then Roy’s eyes land on her, and the next thing she knows, he’s sauntering down the steps like he owns the place, towards her. 

Roy smirks. “Fancy seeing you here, Hawkeye.” 

“I’m not here for you,” she hisses, but Roy just laughs and waltzes off with his posse of tennis boys, tennis rackets gleaming in the sun. 

The yelling persists. 

“There you are,” Rebecca wheezes, one hand clutching dramatically at her chest. Riza snorts — she rarely snorts, but she thinks this is a situation where snorting is perfectly warranted. “These girls are wild, lemme tell ya. I only managed to get us a decent seat because I was here like, an hour ago?” 

“Tell me about it,” Riza grumbles, smoothing out the creases in her top as she settles down on the small, blue plastic seat. “Since when was the tennis team so…” 

“Popular?” 

“I guess, yeah.” 

“They’ve always been this way,” Rebecca sighs. She checks her phone and sighs at the ostensible lack of new notifications. Definitely lovesick, Riza thinks. “I guess it just got worse when Roy became captain this year.” 

“That’s ridiculous,” Riza mutters, but she’s been shoved around enough in the past fifteen minutes to deduce that Roy is not the only delusional person in this school. She’s about to ask Rebecca about the recent development in her love life when she tugs at her sleeve like an excited child. 

“There he is,” Rebecca half-squeals as she points to a sandy blonde, perched on a bench with his neck craned skywards. She quickly covers it up with a cough. “I mean, yeah.” 

Riza chuckles and shakes her head, squinting a little at the now-identified object of Rebecca’s affection. He’s close enough that she can see his boyish smile and small little stubbles. Not exactly her type, but she supposes she can see the appeal in his somewhat rugged charm. 

The blonde rises from the bench with his racket in tow. He pumps a fist and leads four other regulars towards the courts. Both teams begin to fill the courts, arranging themselves into doubles and singles.  

“What’s his name again?” Riza asks, not because she hasn't been paying attention, but because Rebecca chiefly refers to him as the dude or something that sounds very much like fab jock when she's talking about him excitedly over mouthfuls of food.  

“Jean Havoc,” Rebecca whispers, eyeing the other girls around them who aren’t even bothering to be inconspicuous about their ogling. 

Riza places a hand on her clenched fists before she can give them the finger. 

“Go easy on them,” she half-jokes. 

Rebecca puckers her lips, makes a condescending tut and turns back to the court. 

“Just this once.” 

Riza laughs again. She scans the crowd briefly as the umpire goes through the rules of the game, and realises that Alphonse is just a few rows away. He’s not playing, because he’s always preferred music to sports (which suits his calm temperament, Riza thinks), but he’s definitely an eager spectator. He’s seated with a pretty girl with pigtails and big, doe-like eyes, and when he notices Riza in the crowd he gives her a jaunty little wave and smiles. 

Riza waves back. Alphonse points at one of the court benches, and she spots a hunched figure with a messy, golden braid that is unmistakably Edward’s. 

Edward looks up after a while and catches her in the crowd. He grins, but there’s something strange about his demeanour today that throws her off slightly, like he’s suddenly a little less confident. A little less proud. 

He’s probably just nervous. Riza flashes him a little thumbs-up, hoping it’ll make him feel a little better about his upcoming match. 

Good luck, she mouths. 

Ed smiles, but it still doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“40-love!” An umpire shouts. 

Riza stares, wide-eyed. Fifteen minutes in, and she’s still struggling to understand the game. Tennis is one of those things that have always been heralded as a rich man’s sport, and so it’s not quite common in more rural parts of town that she grew up in. It’s available on television, of course, but she’s never really liked watching the sports channel. Neither does her father. (Actually, he doesn’t even watch television.) 

Riza purses her lips. She typically hates exhibiting her provincial manners like this, but she decides to ask, anyway. 

“What does that mean?” 

“It’s one more point to winning a game,” Rebecca explains, without any condescension. “You have to win six games in total to win the match, unless there’s a tiebreaker, in which case a player must win by a margin of two.”  

“I see,” Riza hums. A streak of yellow flies past the court. Havoc lobs it back, and he returns right back to the center of the court, as if pulled in by some invisible magnetic force. 

Riza watches as the duo begin a rather impressive back-and-forth that keeps a considerable number of girls, Rebecca included, on the edge of their seat, until Havoc jumps and smashes the ball decisively to a spot that’s physically impossible for his younger opponent to reach. 

“Game, Havoc!” 

Thunderous applause from the stands, like he’s just performed some sort of divine miracle. Rebecca cheers as well and almost drops her phone in the process of pumping her fists. 

Thankfully, Riza catches her phone before it meets the ground. She places it gently on Rebecca’s lap and quirks a brow. 

Rebecca smiles sheepishly. The points go back to love , and the buzz finally, finally dies down. Just a little. 

“They make zero sound oddly… affectionate,” Riza remarks, wrinkling her nose slightly.   

“I know,” Rebecca grins, and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, and that’s why tennis is known as the game of love. 

Riza rolls her eyes. Rebecca’s always been a little boy-crazy that way, and while most of her previous relationships and flings have ended on decently amicable terms, she’s also been through some incredibly devastating heartbreaks. Riza would hate to have to see that again. She’d spent nearly a month lounging on the couch with Rebecca the last time it happened, watching silly soap operas with plenty of kissing and bickering and practically no plot while gouging themselves silly with pistachio ice cream and chocolate-coated strawberries. Not that she minded all that much, but she hated seeing her best friend unhappy. It was especially disconcerting when one considered her usual upbeat demeanour and terribly, terribly uncharacteristic.  

She just hopes Havoc is nothing like his sleazy philanderer of a captain. 

—  

The game takes about forty-five minutes in total, ending in a stunning 6-2 victory on both sets, although Riza gets the feeling that Havoc was just being merciful, or at least, kind enough to not humiliate Edward’s teammate in front of an entire crowd. 

Rebecca, of course, erupts into a string of unintelligible squeals. 

The doubles players don’t take long, either. Their matches end shortly thereafter, and though the margins aren’t as wide, it’s a decisive win for Central University. The crowd loses their mind once more. An exchange of handshakes and grim thanks, and then they’re all shuttling back to their respective benches before the cheerleaders come on to perform their routine. 

The umpire announces a thirty-minute break before the next set of matches continue. There’s more movement, more shuffling, more pushing around her. Riza briefly contemplates getting a snack, but she sees the snaking queues and quickly decides against it. She doesn’t want to get caught in the stampede, and anyway, she’s not that hungry, just mildly peckish. 

Riza leans back and looks out onto the empty field as Rebecca grins at her phone screen. The scoreboard has frozen at 3-0 for now. Riza has a strong suspicion that, somewhere in the training courts, Edward’s pacing and fuming; slamming balls and denting walls. Riza tugs at her sleeves wearily, hoping that it’ll at least be a good match for him. She’s heard enough about the tennis team to know that they’re good, but she hadn’t expected them to be that good — good enough to clobber one of the best high schools in the nation. 

“What’d you think?” 

“Hm?” 

“Of the game,” Rebecca asks, twirling her phone with a hand, eyes twinkling. 

“The game, or Havoc?” Riza inquires teasingly. Rebecca shrugs, not bothering with denial. “Well, it was a good game. They’re pretty good.” 

“They are,” Rebecca nods vigorously. She leans in, and says, in a lowered voice, “Pretty good is a bit of an understatement, although I wouldn’t say that to his face, of course.” 

“Why not?” 

“Don’t wanna inflate his ego, you know. You know how men get with compliments. It gets to their heads, and then — boom, ” Rebecca whispers-shouts, opening her palms in the air as if to mimic an explosion. “They think they’ve got you in the palm of their hand.” 

“Sounds like a wise move,” Riza hums in agreement. Roy, for example, is a fine archetype of someone who should never be showered with compliments or praise. She thinks back to his insufferable smirk from earlier, to his delusional bouts of egomania, and feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to throw up.

“I’m always right,” Rebecca says, raking manicured fingers through her hair before tossing it behind her shoulders. 

Riza pretends she heard nothing and skilfully changes the topic. 

“How exactly did it start again?” 

“Well,” Rebecca begins with a grin, teeth glistening in the sun as she rubs her hands together almost maniacally. “It’s a bit of a long story —” 

“We have a thirty-minute break, or so the umpire said.” 

“Well,” Rebecca starts, again. “It started with a ball to the face.” 

Riza laughs, incredulous.

“You’re going to need to elaborate further, Rebecca.” 

“No, really. It started with a ball to the face,” and Rebecca laughs, too, at the absurdity of her own story. “I was in soccer practice, and I probably overdosed on sugar that day -” and Riza frowns, because Rebecca really does need to go easy on the Red Bulls, “- and I kicked the ball a little too hard, and it might have landed on his face, or something.” 

“Or something.” 

“Could’ve been worse. I don’t think I broke his nose… I mean, it definitely didn’t impair his kissing skills, or anything.” 

“Wonderful,” Riza says, drolly.  

“It’s true, though. Tried and tested. I can confirm that he’s a pretty good kisser -” 

Riza puts a palm up to signal her disinterest. Rebecca cackles and, thankfully, decides to put her out of what would’ve been a searingly graphic misery. 

“I’ll spare you the nitty-gritties, but anyway. We exchanged numbers, and I invited him to my birthday party, and we did not get drunk, but we did talk, and it was nice, but I didn’t wanna tell anyone and end up jinxing it when things were still up in the air and stuff, you know?” 

Riza nods in understanding, and gestures for her to continue. 

“But, like, he started asking me out, and stuff, and I guess we’re a thing, now. Or dating, at least.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Riza says, and she means it. She just hopes that Rebecca will be in good hands this time, because really, the last guy she’d dated had been nothing short of a disaster — a typical preppy jock who was perpetually stoned and who hadn’t the slightest idea how to talk to a girl without making himself out to sound like the ruler of the universe. Funny how boys treat women like glass when their ego is way more fragile.  

“Yeah, like, he’s a bit slow and dumb and helpless, but that’s like, every dude ever,” Rebecca remarks, and Riza nods. Every dude ever, indeed. “He’s chill, at least. Pretty nice guy.” 

“Feels like a bit of an understatement here, coming from you.” 

“I mean, he is pretty hot, okay? But we’re - ahem,” Rebecca coughs delicately, and Riza knows whatever’s coming next is obviously a lie. “We’re taking things slow.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Sure.” 

Rebecca puckers her lips together, as if trying to find a retort. Instead she jumps on another subject altogether: the bane of Riza’s existence. 

“How about you? How’s Roy and, you know, the tutoring sessions going?” 

“Nothing’s going on,” Riza deadpans. She knows it’s petty, to get riled up over him like that, but there’s something about him that’s just — just bleeding annoying, frustrating, headache-inducing. The list could go on forever. Just the slightest mention of his name makes her blood boil. 

“Really?” 

“Really.” 

“He’s pretty hot, though.” 

Riza makes a face. “No.”

“I mean, he has a fanbase for a reason,” Rebecca reasons. “There are probably at least ten Tumblr fan pages out there with his topless snaps, or something. Celebrating his shiny abs -” 

Riza raises a hand to stop Rebecca. “That’s disgusting.” 

Rebecca flashes a toothy grin, teeth glistening under the sunlight. 

“Is he really that bad, though?” 

“Yes.” 

“What if -” 

“And I wouldn’t date him, even if he was the last man standing on earth.” 

“Well, you should be careful what you say,” Rebecca says, in a singsong voice. Riza elbows her again. She yelps. “I mean, you never know what can happen.” 

“What I know is that he’s insufferable, and I know nothing’s going to happen between us.” 

“If you say so,” Rebecca says, remorselessly, teasingly. Riza groans. “Alright, alright. I won’t bug you further. The matches are resuming.” 

“Thank you for your mercy,” Riza mutters. 

Once the marching band and cheerleaders have finished their performance, the players come filling in the court once more. She sees Edward this time, sauntering to the field closest to them. He’s in a red and black jersey and a black visor, a red tennis racket resting on his shoulder, like he’s trying to announce to the world that red and black are his favourite colours (because the rest of his teammates are in navy and white — which, she presumes, are his school’s actual colours). 

“That’s the kid you’re tutoring, right?” Rebecca says, pointing to Edward — who really is impossible to miss with his unabashedly conspicuous jersey. 

“Yeah.” 

“Shit, man,” Rebecca half-mumbles. 

Riza frowns. “What?” 

“He’s against Roy, I think. They’re both playing Singles 1.”

Riza turns back to the field, where Roy and Edward are presently exchanging a brief handshake at the net. 

Her expression mirrors Edward’s: mortification, irritation and utter disgust. 

—  

“Game - Elric!” the umpire announces. “1-0!” 

Riza applauds, as do half the crowd — primarily the college boys. She hears someone shouting something along the lines of, give me back my girlfriend, you asshole! and knows instantly that it must have been directed at Roy, despite his proclamations otherwise that infidelity wasn’t quite his thing. 

Rebecca cackles. “Did you hear that?” 

“Yes, I did.” 

The high-pitched squealing, on the other hand, dwindles to a chorus of disheartened whispers, like little grasshoppers about to face their demise. 

Riza sighs quietly to herself as a mousy brunette in her row conjures a tissue box from nowhere and begins dabbing, dramatically, at her flushed cheeks. It gets increasingly ridiculous when the blonde beside her plucks a tissue and preses it to her nose — to contain her sniffling, or stop a nosebleed, Riza doesn’t know. 

Rebecca laughs again. “He’s got quite a fanbase, huh?” 

“Baffling.” 

“Honestly, it beats me, either. I mean, he’s a good friend,” and Riza withholds another sigh. She’s not sure how the two of them even became friends, to be honest. She dimly recalls Rebecca mentioning something about Xingese classes and childhood trauma and how they had hit it off in the most brotherly and platonic of ways, but that’s about it. “But he’s probably just a living container of STDs by this point.” 

“Definitely, not probably.” 

“At least Edward’s in the lead.” 

Riza nods. She straightens in her seat a little, to get a better view over the girls who’ve all risen to commiserate in solidarity over Roy’s apparent loss. 

Edward, on the other hand, looks to be barely breaking a sweat, but she has a feeling that Roy has something up his sleeve (because, logically speaking, how did someone make tennis captain if he was going to get bested by a high school tennis player?) —

And Riza thinks he probably does.  

The match between Edward and Roy is long, terribly drawn-out. They’re both panting, drenched in sweat, and understandably so. It’s been close to an hour, and the other matches are all done, leaving all the limelight on them. 

Roy bounces the ball, and serves again. 

Edward slams it across the court. Roy somehow manages to return it, but his swings and serves are somewhat half-hearted, lacklustre — as if he couldn’t be bothered to chase after the ball.

Still, Riza can’t help but feel like this is all part of some grand, stupid scheme. It’s not that she wants to have faith in his capabilities, or anything like that - as a matter of fact, she wants nothing more for Edward to win - but she’s always prided herself on being logical. And logically speaking, the varsity committee wouldn’t have allowed some so lazy and uncaring and apathetic to become captain, especially with Central’s longstanding history of athletic achievements on the line. 

“4-1!” the umpire calls. “Game - Elric!” 

The crowd of squealing fangirls has melted into a sad, distraught puddle by this point. She hears sobbing, a lot of it, like she’s at a funeral instead of a tennis match. Riza huffs in annoyance. 

Get a grip, she thinks, but she watches worriedly as Edward toys with the wires of his racket in confusion. 

“Well, the game’s gone on long enough, shorty .” 

“Who the hell are you calling short —” 

Roy smirks. 

“Who else?” 

Edward, rightfully provoked, points his racket at Roy. 

“I’m gonna destroy you, asshole.” 

“I’d like to see you try.” Roy runs a hand through his unbelievably messy hair. He smirks and slides back into position. “It’s your serve, Elric.” 

Riza watches closely as Edward bounces the ball thrice, and then a fourth time. He throws it up in the air, back arching, racket hitting the ball forcefully, decisively, and Riza doesn’t know much about tennis, but she knows enough to know a good, powerful serve when she sees one — 

The ball whizzes right past Ed. 

“15-love!” 

The crowd explodes into a rather uneven mix of cheering, and jeering.

Riza’s part of the latter.

“You were saying?” 

“Asshole.” 

The game goes on like that. Roy returns Edward’s serves and volleys and lobs, even his smashes, with remarkable ease. It’s as if he’s suddenly become a different person altogether; whatever exhaustion he’d been feigning earlier has worn off by now, even though the match has already dragged on for more than an hour. 

It’s clearly taking a toll on Edward, however. Riza watches the game with a nagging sense of helplessness as Edward is ruthlessly dragged around the court, towards the outermost corners, towards the center, towards the net, and then all over again. 

“Game, Mustang! 4-2!” 

“Damn,” Rebecca mutters, squinting as she inches forward in her seat. “He’s not letting up at all.” 

Riza says nothing, simply nods as she folds her arms over her chest. She’s always pegged Edward as the offensive type of player, given his personality and temperament, but it’s clear that he’s forced to be on the defensive now. If his expression is any indication, he’s terribly unhappy about it (and rightfully so, Riza thinks, because who in their right mind would toy with a high school kid like that?). 

Edward huffs as he misses another ball.  

Riza purses her lips, glancing at the scoreboard, at the narrowing margin between them. As much as she hates to admit it, Roy is — well, he is objectively a pretty good player. (That doesn’t mean she no longer hates his guts, though. If anything this just makes her hate him even more.) For one, his feints are impeccable; and it’s impossible to tell where exactly he’s aiming the ball towards. Roy dashes towards the net, seals off any front play that Edward might have been planning to put up, smashes an incoming volley, and — 

“Game, Mustang! 4-4!” 

The crowd goes wild. Riza stares with helpless sympathy as Edward fumes, kicking at the green floor like it’s his opponent’s insufferable face. 

“Man, I’d hate to go up against an opponent like Roy,” Rebecca says, clucking her tongue at the scene. “Bit of a jerk move, if you ask me.” 

“Again, an understatement.” 

“Gotta give it to him, though. He’s good.” 

At this, Riza shrugs, preferring to say nothing. 

Rebecca grins, and Riza knows she’s on the verge of making another baseless and wholly unsubstantiated comment about the non-existent romance between them — at least until a girl two rows down squeals and collapses in her friend’s arms over Roy’s apparently outstanding play. 

Rebecca doubles over in laughter. 

Riza stares, bemused. What the hell, she thinks. She turns back to the game and continues rooting for Edward.  

Roy wins. 

It’s not an unpredictable result, but it’s still an undesirable one. She’d been rooting for Edward all the way to the very last minute, and she had been so sure that he’d close the margin between them, wipe the arrogant smirk off that jerk’s face. 

Still, Riza thinks Edward had put up a very impressive play, even if his expression suggests that he thinks otherwise. He’s quick to stalk off towards the vending machine once he’s dispensed with the formalities and debriefs, a grey storm swelling over his head despite the frustratingly sunny day.  

Riza mouths a quick apology to Rebecca, who doesn’t seem to mind all that much; she’s still engrossed with her phone, anyway, head stuck in the clouds. Riza nudges her lightly before leaving. 

“Hey,” she calls. He’s seated with Alphonse and the girl from earlier on the bench, huffing and cussing as he wipes the sweat off his face with a towel. Red, of course. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” Edward mutters. Alphonse pats him on the back, and Riza goes over to do the same. 

“You played well today, you know.” 

“No, I didn’t,” Edward grouses, tugging furiously at his braid. He fidgets around until his braid comes loose in a matted splay of gold, then rubs his face like he’s trying to rearrange his features. “That bastard just strung me along and took me for a fool. I wish I could’ve punched him at the end.” 

“Well, that makes two of us.” 

Edward makes a strangled noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He throws the towel over his hair and sighs. 

“Sportsmanship is overrated. I should’ve just punched him in the face.” 

“Brother,” Alphonse says, scandalised. “That’s not nice.” 

“It’s what he deserves,” chimes the petite girl beside Alphonse. 

Riza is about to second her on that (she’s not usually so petty, but she’s had a rough week, and Roy’s contributed significantly to that), when the subject of their discussion comes right round. 

Speak of the devil, Riza thinks drily. 

He looks at her, impossibly smug, before turning to address Edward. 

“You weren’t too bad today, Elric, but you’ve still got plenty to work on.” Riza can’t tell if he’s being genuine or sarcastic, but he seems to be seriously assessing Edward at present, like he’s actually a bit of a serious threat. 

“Did you come here just to rub it in my face, you bas —” 

“Your footwork,” Roy continues, after taking a sip of his soda. On second thought, Riza thinks Edward should’ve just ignored the rules of sportsmanship earlier. “Needs more work. It was fine at the start, but it quickly got shoddy when you got angry.” 

Edward rises from his seat, positively livid. 

“What did you expect when —” 

“I expected you to keep your cool. Other opponents at the collegiate level are going to play you like a fiddle if you can’t control your temper.” 

Edward mutters a string of expletives before storming off. Alphonse mouths an apology, and Riza gestures for them to go after him, even if it means she’s now stuck with the bane of her existence. Alone. 

“We’d be happy to take you in, though,” Roy calls. “Applications start next week.” 

“Are you kidding, or?” 

“I’m not,” he says, turning back to her. He’s smirking again, jacket fluttering ridiculously in the wind like it somehow has a life of its own. “He has potential.” 

She’s not sure what kind of reverse psychology bullshit this is, but Riza finally snaps. 

“There was no need for you to play him like that,” she admonishes. It’s not really any of her business, and she doesn’t really want to interact with Roy anymore than necessary, but she can’t help but feel awful. Edward had looked so upset with himself afterwards, beating himself up like a kicked puppy. He had picked himself up quickly enough, yes, but he was so demoralised that one might’ve thought he’d flubbed his college application entirely, or worse. 

“How do you even know him, anyway?” 

Riza chews on her bottom lip, hesitant. It’s not that she’s embarrassed to be Edward’s tutor, but the last thing she wants is for people - and Roy, of all people - to start making inferences or jump to conclusions about her personal life (and struggles). 

“Just… a family friend.” 

“Huh.” 

“Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, there was no need for you to be so cruel on the court -”

“There was,” Roy begins, and his tone is strangely neutral, not defensive despite her scolding. “He’s pretty famous in the high school tennis circuit, you know. And he’s good, sure, I won’t deny that.” 

“... But?” 

“But talent can only get you so far. What he really needs to work on, and I trust that you’ll convey this message to him if he doesn’t already get it -” Riza flushes slightly at this; she has no intention of sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong - “Is his temper. Tennis is at least fifty percent psychological, after all.” 

“And you’re a psychopath,” she mutters. 

Roy laughs. He actually laughs. It confirms her theory that yes, he’s walking around with more than a screw loose . Riza makes a mental note to kick him in the groin the next time he does something salacious in her seat. 

“Maybe. But I think I put up a pretty impressive play today, no?” 

Riza rolls her eyes. She shrugs, and just as he’s about to speak - no doubt ask another stupid question - Riza leaves the court before he can continue badgering her.

Later that night, Riza gets a message from an unknown number. At first she thinks it’s another one of those stupid spam texts soliciting money and personal information from broke college students, inveigling them into illegal loans and swindling the last of their exhausted allowance, but thankfully, it’s none of those things. 

Not so thankfully, however, the notification reads: 

Nice seeing you at the match today, Hawkeye. 

Riza rolls her eyes. It’s worse than spam, so she promptly deletes it before heading to bed. 

Notes:

HI EVERYONE!!! I apologise for disappearing without a word or a trace over the past six months - life has been a whirlwind and I am literally posting this in between calls LMAO. Apologies as well for the subpar writing, I have not written in forever and editing this was a nightmare because playing a sport is admittedly easier than describing it LOL

Anyways leave a comment if you're free, I'd love to hear what you thought :) I'm gonna head jump on another call now but will try to reply them once work frees up a little - take care and stay safe and warm in these trying times!!!

I'm also on Tumblr @firewoodfigs if you'd like to pop by and say hi <3

Chapter 4: we got bills to pay, we got rules to break

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

She hits the gym with Rebecca on Monday morning. It’s been a while since she’s exercised, but she’s lucky that her stamina hasn’t depleted too badly. Riza starts with the treadmill and warms up soon enough, Rebecca holding a steady pace beside her. It’s six-thirty in the morning and they’re the only ones in the gym at this hour, and so Rebecca takes the liberty of playing her music aloud: an arbitrary mix of The Beatles, Maroon 5 and The 1975

Riza stifles a laugh at Rebecca’s attempt to sing along while sprinting. 

“One thing at a time,” Riza advises gently. 

Rebecca laughs and continues anyway, never mind her inability to stay in tune. 

They hit the ellipticals and free weights next, and it’s nice to be able to do bicep curls without the unnecessary hindrance of frat boys checking themselves out in the mirror — at least briefly. There are boys streaming in soon enough, frat boys with muscle tanks and too much cologne and too much hair gel, and then there are the tennis boys. 

There is Roy, in a too-tight shirt and a face that says it’s-too-early-for-this

Riza suppresses a groan and places their weights back on the shelves. Rebecca mouths a quick thanks, and then she’s gone somewhere with Havoc before she can even blink.

“What are you doing here?” 

“I should be asking you that, don’t you think?”

“Well, nationals are around the corner, and champions can’t afford to skive off during a time like this,” he grins. “I didn’t peg you for the athletic sort, Hawkeye.” 

“Me neither.” 

Roy snorts. “Please. I worked hard for this,” he gloats, even flexing his arms a little to prove his point. Riza just stares at him blankly. “If you’d like to stay and help me spot, I’ll even let you admire me for a bit.” 

“I’m not interested.” 

“Suit yourself,” he shrugs. “It’s your loss.” 

Riza huffs and heads to the girl’s shower. It’s pretty much a sanctuary at this point; it’s the only place she knows that’s free of any similar disturbances — at least until she hears something obscene from a neighbouring cubicle. 

Forget that glorified bullshit about having the time of your life in college, Riza thinks. She can’t even take a shower in peace these days. 

— 

Riza doesn’t see much of Rebecca after that, in the subsequent weeks. She’s busy with soccer practice and her newfound love interest, and Riza is busy with tutoring others, with working and studying. And while there are occasional bouts of loneliness during her all-nighters in the library, she doesn’t mind all that much (she focuses better alone, anyway). She has other friends, of course, and she does hang out with them in between classes, but they’re not really friends which Riza would categorise under what she’s come to label as people I want to socialise with outside of school hours. 

That being said, she still has to deal with Roy outside of school hours (even though he’s probably the last person on that list). Which makes her Friday afternoons increasingly unbearable. She’s not sure what his major is, but he’s a certifiable nitwit when it comes down to ethics and morality (which shouldn’t be unsurprising, Riza thinks, considering his unscrupulous and amorous ways). 

Still, she had expected, or at least hoped for, some semblance of him trying. She had no such luck, however. Riza saw herself as a rather diligent teacher; it was just him who was unwilling. Actually, no. He wasn’t just disinclined or reluctant to learn, but vehemently opposed to it for some strange, philosophical reason. It was a case of leading a stubborn horse to water but being unable to make it drink, and if she pressed too much he’d simply fall asleep in his chair or talk about something completely unrelated to work. 

In short, she was having a brilliant week. For the first time in her life, Riza finds herself actually looking forward to working the Friday night shift at the bookstore. Which is brilliant, she thinks. Just what she needs in her life right now. 

What she really needs, Riza thinks, is another coffee. And a fucking break.

— 

As much as she wants to sleep in for the weekend, Riza ends up having to work the entire weekend at the bookstore, because the other part-timer had called in sick. Riza thinks it’s kind of suspicious how she’s been getting sick more frequently ever since she’s gotten a new boyfriend, or a summer fling, whatever, but she’s at least kind enough to not call her out on it. She could use the extra money anyway.

The Anthology is a quaint little space with pine wood shelves and flattened bean bags that have definitely seen better days. For some reason, the place always attracted dust and an assortment of strange characters, but it was still preferable to the Starbucks just down the street, which had a constant, frenetic buzz of gossip and sorority girls and cranky college students in desperate need of copious, probably unhealthy, amounts of caffeine. This, by comparison, was a much slower-paced environment, which meant more time for her own leisurely reading when she wasn’t busy tending to customers. (As long as she did this away from Mrs. Carney’s deteriorating vision, it was fine.)  And while the pay was slightly lower than what she would’ve earned as a barista, it wasn’t bad or below minimum wage, either. As her mother used to say, beggars can’t be choosers; while Riza isn’t a beggar, she isn’t a lot of levels above that either. 

This particular weekend is however unexpectedly hectic. Riza’s barely been able to catch a breather since returning from lunch; there’s a steady influx of teenagers today looking to stock up their shelves – presumably in preparation for their term break, or maybe because of some random Tiktoker’s spiel. The book about a reclusive pin-up and her seven husbands was especially popular today, and they were quickly running low on stock for that one. 

Can we place a pre-order, then? Is there anything else similar in genre? Any other books that you’d recommend? are the most common inquiries of the day. Riza entertains their questions with as much patience as she can muster, but she finds it mildly frustrating how Mrs. Carney always makes it a habit to bury her nose in a book during a time like this; it’s not as if Riza herself is particularly fond of human interaction. 

Still, she has the sense to understand that she has to refrain from giving her boss a piece of her mind if she wants to keep her job. And so Riza does exactly that — or, well, she does, until she spots a familiar face; a face that she really, really doesn’t want to see, especially on the weekend. 

“What are you doing here?” Roy asks, echoing his question from when they’d bumped into each other at the gym. “Are you following me or something?” 

“I should be asking you that,” Riza huffs, affronted. 

Roy sighs, eyeing her with mock sympathy. “I understand if you harbour a crush for me secretly, Hawkeye —” 

“I do not —” 

“But the queue is rather long, I’m afraid. You’ll have to get in line.” 

“For the last time, I’m not interested,” Riza deadpans. “Also, you’re the one who keeps popping up everywhere unannounced, who texted me out of the blue —” 

“So you did receive my text, after all,” he smirks. “I was starting to wonder if you ever got it.” 

“I did. Then I deleted it.” 

His smirk vanishes. Riza lets out a small, triumphant smile, the tiniest upturn of balmed lips. It’s nice to render him speechless for once; nothing good ever comes out of his rotten mouth.

“Riza!” She stiffens at Ms. Carney’s squawk. “Are you arguing with a customer?” 

Riza flushes. His infuriating smirk is back, like the tables have turned. 

“Huh. I didn’t know you worked here.” 

She ignores him. Riza turns to Ms. Carney, and says, with forced deference, “No, of course not.” 

Roy looks like he’s about to make a silly retort. She steps on his foot. He bites back a yelp. 

“That’s no way to treat a customer now, is there?” he hisses, rubbing at his toes with his good foot. 

“We’re entitled to do so, if they’re behaving like idiots,” she mutters darkly. Riza turns back, hoping to placate Ms. Carney with a carefully planted garden smile. It’s bad enough that he’s burnt her Fridays, but if he gets her fired she just might get expelled from college for racking up a stellar criminal record. “Nothing’s wrong, Ms. Carney. Sorry for the slight fuss.” 

“Well, hurry up, young man,” Ms Carney tuts, flipping another page of her book. She’s been preoccupying herself with a collection of Fitzgerald’s short stories the entire evening instead of working. “If there’s nothing you want to get, then get out. Store’s closing.”

“Of course,” he says, smoothly. “I apologise if we caused a bit of a ruckus earlier, miss. We didn’t mean to.” 

Riza has to give it to him; Ms. Carney already looks enamoured by his genteel behaviour, seeming to relax in her seat a little as she crosses her legs. 

“Well, that’s okay,” Ms. Carney says, her voice sugary-sweet. Riza stifles a groan as Roy shoots her a triumphant grin. “Just don’t let it happen again.” 

“Of course.” 

“Like she said, if there’s nothing you want to get, then get out,” Riza whispers threateningly. 

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Riza gives him an inquiring look, surprised that he even reads. “Hey, I do read, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just not for philosophy.” 

Riza presses a hand to her temple and, not for the first time, wonders if the universe is somehow conspiring to make her college life more miserable than it already is. 

“This way,” she says begrudgingly, leading him towards the counter. Roy grins and hands the book over. The Disappearing Spoon: And Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and the History of the World from the Periodic Table of the Elements. Riza wrinkles her nose. It sounds like something that’d be collecting dust on her father’s shelves like a forgotten relic. (It’s something that wouldn’t pique her interest in the slightest.) But it’s also none of her business, and she doesn’t bother probing. “That’ll be twenty dollars, please.” 

He hands her two ten-dollar bills with an unnecessary flourish. Riza takes the money and puts it in the cash register, then packs his book into a brown paper bag, along with his receipt. 

“Here you go.” 

“Thank you, Miss Hawkeye.” 

She sighs for what must have been the umpteenth time that evening (dealing with Roy Mustang is, Riza decides, even worse than dealing with inquisitive children with their repetitive, parrot-like questions). She’s about to say something like, have a nice day, or maybe not, when Ms. Carney cuts in. 

“Oh, Riza. Is he a friend of yours?” 

“Oh, no -” 

“Yes, I am.” Riza glares at him. Friends implied they were on talking terms, and they were not. They were closer to enemies in her dictionary, thank you very much. Riza has no interest in sustaining a conversation with him outside of what she’d come to dub the ‘prison cell’ in her head (because yes, being his tutor was like being a prisoner; it stripped her of choice and free will and her dwindling sanity). 

Roy just grins, toothy and devious. 

“Oh, you should’ve said so earlier,” Ms. Carney says, tutting as she snaps her book shut. She adjusts her glasses a little, squinting at Roy — presumably to get a better look at his hideous face (Riza thinks he’s never looked uglier than he has at this moment). “Well, go on, Riza.” 

“Sorry?” 

“On, darling, come on —I’m not that bad of a boss,” she frowns, even clicking her tongue as if to say that the mere thought of that being true was simply outrageous. (It’s at least half-true, Riza thinks.) “Go on. Have dinner with your friend, or whatever it is you college students do. I’ll close the store myself.” 

“Oh no, Ms. Carney, you’ve got -” 

“You’re a wonderful boss, Ms. Carney,” Roy interjects. “Have a great weekend!” 

Riza stays still, rooted to the ground. She’s not sure whether to physically kick him out of the store or maim him on the spot. 

“See you, Riza,” Ms. Carney rises from her seats and yawns luxuriously, before shooing both of them out of the store. And then they’re out on the sidewalk, and Roy is still grinning, like he’s just won a tennis match or something. 

Riza folds her arms and whirls to face him. 

“What was that for?” 

“Aw, shouldn’t you be thanking me, Hawkeye? I did get you out of work early, you know.” 

“I didn’t ask you to,” Riza growls. She’s pissed enough that he’d waltzed into her workplace on a weekend, and now he’s making it sound like she’s indebted to him for a favour she hadn’t even asked for? The nerve of this man! 

“All the same, at least you’re out.” 

“Closing isn't that bad.” 

“Aw, come on,” Roy says, somewhat chidingly. “I bet you haven’t even had dinner.” 

“I was about to go get something to eat,” Riza retorts, ignoring the slight rumbling in her stomach. She had plans to get something from the convenience store — those stale bento boxes were pretty easy on both her wallet and stomach. 

“Let’s not break our word to Ms. Carney, hm?” 

“What word?” 

“Let’s go get dinner, Hawkeye.” 

She looks at him like he’s just sprouted wings. 

“Together?” 

“Yeah. It’s not everyday a girl gets to eat dinner with me, you know. But I’ll let you have a chance to fulfil your dreams -”

“Nightmares, you mean.” 

“Just the good dreams, I mean.” 

“Anything with you is a bad dream.” 

“So you do dream of me,” he smirks. Riza glares at him and flags down an incoming cab. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. I really do have something to ask you, though.” 

“Shoot.” 

The taxi drives by. Busy. Riza folds her arms crossly and continues to scan the streets; a cab right now would be akin to a getaway car. 

“I’d prefer somewhere more private.” 

“It’s private enough here.” 

“It’s work-related,” he says. She looks at him in disbelief. “I promise.” 

“It can wait till our next session.” 

“It actually can’t,” and Riza is so exhausted, so worn out from the week by this point that she just caves. What could possibly be so urgent, anyway? It’s not like he’s ever expressed an interest in Philosophy before, that immoral scum. “Trust me.” 

“Well, make it quick,” Riza grumbles, and then Roy grins. He leads her to a dive bar across, one that’s surprisingly empty on a Saturday night, and the next thing she knows, they’re seated in a quiet corner, the furthest spot away from the indie band that’s presently crooning along to a familiar, but very, very overplayed Aerosmith hit.  

“No drinks for you?” Roy asks, after she’s placed her order. 

“No, thanks.” 

“You sure? My treat.” 

No ,” Riza reiterates. “I’m paying for my own dinner, by the way.” The last thing she wants is for him to get some ludicrous idea about how she owes him a favour or something. She’s had enough of that for a day. It’s bad enough that she’s stuck here with him, of all people, in a shady dive bar full of unsavoury company. 

“That’s hardly acceptable behaviour for a first date.” 

She actually coughs. “This is not a date, Mustang. And if you go around telling people that we went on one, I’ll —” 

“I’m kidding,” he laughs. “Relax, Hawkeye. You’re so easy to rile up.” 

Riza inhales deeply, curling her lips inward so she doesn’t buttress his point. She’s not usually so irritable, but Roy has a way of effortlessly getting on her nerves. (Riza hates that he even has this effect on her. She’s usually very good at ignoring people; something she’d picked up from a father who treated her more like a ghost than a daughter.) 

She’s saved from having to think of a tenable retort when their food arrives. Roy had gotten himself a burger, and she’d gotten a simple grilled cheese; her appetite’s mostly gone by now. 

Riza digs in. She nibbles absently at her sandwich. It’s dry, cardboard-like. She wonders if she should’ve at least gotten a mocktail earlier. She coughs again, swallowing. 

“Is it bad?” 

“No, it’s fine.” 

Roy raises a brow disbelievingly. He raises a hand, gesturing for a server to come over, and she’s about to insist once more that she really, really doesn’t want a drink —

“Could we get a glass of water, please?” 

The server stares at him funny, but he returns soon enough with a glass of water, as requested. 

“Thanks,” Roy says. He pushes the glass towards her. “Here you go.” 

“... Thanks, I guess.” 

He laughs. Roy takes a sip of his draft beer as he continues making his way through his burger. He leans back in his seat in between bites, staring at her with an indescribable expression. 

“What?” 

“You’re a funny character, Hawkeye.” 

“Very funny.” 

He laughs again, eyeing her with newfound interest. “No, I’m serious. Have you even been on a date before?” 

“That’s none of your business.” 

“Aw, you’re no fun. Tell me more about yourself, Hawkeye. I’m dying to know. Like, have you ever had a boy-” 

“No.” 

“You’ve never had a boyfriend?” 

“I have - I mean, no,” Riza rushes to correct herself, blaming it on the music that’s impossibly loud. Roy grins wickedly like he’s trying to egg her on. “Like I said, it’s none of your business.” 

Roy smirks. “Fine, I’ll tell you more about myself first then, since you’re obviously dying to know.” Riza snorts quietly, but doesn’t cut him off. It’s preferable to him continuing his irrelevant line of questioning, and anyway, whatever happened to talking about work? “I’m Roy Mustang. Tennis captain, college senior, resident heartthrob, chemistry major…” and Roy drones on about his interests and star sign and something about being mixed and bilingual and therefore all the more attractive. 

Riza just tunes him out. She turns her attention instead to the live band. They’ve switched the song to something more upbeat — she recognises it as a tune from Sixpence None the Richer. 

Hey now, hey now, don’t dream it’s over… 

It fits the maudlin atmosphere of the dive bar they’re in, Riza thinks. It’s a nice song, and she does like the band’s acoustics. She might’ve hummed along if she wasn’t presently accompanied by an idiot who doesn’t know how to take a hint. 

Hey now, hey now… 

“Hey,” he calls, still grinning remorselessly, as if he hadn’t just gone off on a monologue that his intended audience was completely disinterested in. Maybe a cold beer would’ve been nice. “Now, what about you?” 

“I’m Riza. Riza Hawkeye.” 

“Oh, come on,” he groans. “That’s nothing I don’t already know.” 

“There’s not much you need to know. I’m a pretty boring person.” Riza thinks she sees the beginning of an impish twinkle in his eyes, like he’s about to ask another stupid question. She quickly cuts him off before he can do so. “Anyway, back to work. What was it you wanted to ask me about?” 

He sighs. “You really are all business, aren’t you?” 

“That’s the only sensible thing you’ve said today, but yes.” 

“Fine, fine.” Roy downs the rest of his beer. He props his chin up with a hand. “You see, I have a proposition that could be mutually beneficial -” 

“If this involves a date or anything like that -” 

“We could turn it into one, if you’d like,” he offers. Riza stares at him, unamused. He laughs like she’s just cracked a joke. “But no, it’s nothing like that.”

Riza shifts uneasily in her seat as she picks at her grilled cheese. “Well, what is it, then?”

“Would you like to wager a guess, Hawkeye?” 

“No. I’d like you ,” Riza says, testily. “To stop beating around the bush and get to the point.”

“You’re no fun.” 

“We’ve established that by now, don’t you think?” 

“Yeah,” he shrugs, then offers a small smile. His eyes are bright even in the dark, like sinking ships on water. Riza thinks it’s a bad sign. “I was just thinking we could save us both the trouble of tutoring sessions.” 

“How?” Riza asks, genuinely curious. She’s so desperate and worn out by this point that she’d just about do anything to forgo their silly tutoring sessions. She’s not even sure if it’s helping him, to be honest. (Riza hopes it is, because she’s screwed if he screws up the next test; the school will probably think she’s just using the whole unmotivated student excuse as a ruse for slacking off on teaching.)

“You could just do my assignment for me, you know.” 

Her heart leaps in her throat. Riza has to swallow to keep herself from stuttering. It feels like she’s gone from the frying pan into the fire, and now she really, really wishes she’d asked for a cocktail.

“That’s -” 

“Not exactly ethical, and so on,” he interjects. Roy leans back in his seat, casual, unfazed. “But I’ll pay you a decent sum for it, and I’ll even put in a good word for you — say that it was a result of your excellent teaching. I won’t throw you under the bus, of course.” 

Riza purses her lips as she mulls over his proposition. It is unethical, possibly even immoral. Riza doesn’t like compromising on her integrity on top of breaking the rules, but there are occasions where she can’t help but wonder if scruples are a luxury. A luxury she can’t seem to afford. Not when she’s on such a tight budget. Not when her rent is just around the corner and the required readings for class are so exorbitantly priced. 

The fact is, she is desperate for money, and will probably remain that way for quite some time. 

(That doesn’t make it any less unconscionable, though. She thinks back to Pelczar’s lecture on absolutism and deontology and categorical imperatives, back to the moral conundrums in Les Miserables and to its world-renown, bread-stealing protagonist. He’d probably make an entire exam question out of their predicament, if he knew. Ironic.)

“What do you think?” he nudges, though not unkindly. Riza offers a casual shrug — or at least, what she hopes is a casual shrug. “No pressure, of course. It was just a random thought that occurred to me last night.” 

“I’ll -” she inhales deeply. Riza fiddles with a loose thread on the cuff of sweater, twisting it around her index finger until it snaps. “I’ll think about it.” 

Roy blinks. He regards her with mild surprise, as if he hadn’t expected her to even consider his offer — even though he’d been the one to raise it. 

Riza flushes. Heat crawls up her neck, curls around her throat like a snake. She has the strange urge to rebuke herself for even thinking about it, but Riza convinces herself that really, it’s not that bad. It’s not like — like he’d asked her to sell her body for money, or something. It’s something that’s not altogether infrequent, too. She’s heard rumours about there being a decent market for academic ghostwriting, heard of students buying their assignments and college admission essays like it’s just another article of clothing. (The rich ones, of course.)

Riza sips at her iced water carefully. The bar feels awfully stuffy and balmy now, like she’s just had too much to drink — even though she’s had nothing but water all night. She keeps her eyes averted from his.  

Roy just shrugs. 

“Sure. Take your time.”

— 

Riza watches Rebecca’s friendly from the bleachers the following Wednesday. She sits by herself with an iced Americano in hand; she’s been getting pretty bad headaches lately because of the late nights (and Roy’s request). 

She doesn’t get to be alone for long, however. Havoc joins her shortly after, extending a hand out for what she assumes is a handshake. 

Riza accepts it. He grins boyishly and introduces himself, without any of the usual conceit she’d been expecting from a member of the revered tennis club. 

“Jean Havoc. You’re Riza, right? Rebecca’s told me all about you.” 

Riza smiles. “Only good things, I hope.” 

“Lots of good things, in fact,” he quips, and she bites back a laugh. “Mind if I take a seat here?” 

“Go ahead,” Riza says. She shifts slightly to make space for him. Rebecca scores one for the team just as he’s about to settle down, and Havoc whistles loudly, while Riza herself claps with a bit more subtlety. 

“She’s a great shot,” Havoc half-yells. 

He’s still clapping even after he’s seated down, beaming proudly like she’s just made the Olympic team, and Riza makes a mental note to tell Rebecca about it later. She’s sure her best friend will appreciate the ego boost.

“She is,” Riza says, smiling a little at his uncontainable enthusiasm. It’s a bit like watching a child at a carnival for the first time — at least until he fishes out a cigarette from a little green and silver box. She’s glad he doesn’t light it, though. Havoc simply alternates between chewing idly on the stick and snacking, and she almost marvels at how he manages to keep the cigarette firmly lodged in between the corner of his lips every time he yells and cheers for Rebecca.

“Popcorn?”

“I’m good, thanks.” 

They continue watching the match in relative silence until it’s half-time. Then Havoc turns back to her, presumably to make small talk. He removes a half-chewed cigarette from his mouth, tilting his neck a little.

“So,” he begins, conversationally. Riza smiles and nods for him to continue. She’s never been a chatterbox the way Rebecca is, and she ordinarily struggles to talk to new people without feeling awkward, but she makes an exception on Rebecca’s behalf. “How are things with Roy?” 

Riza blinks, a little taken aback. She gets a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that Roy has gone around disseminating falsehoods of them dating, or something along those lines, even though she’d made him promise not to. 

“What do you mean?” 

Havoc laughs and reassures her that it’s not a big deal. “Rebecca mentioned that you were tutoring him for Philosophy, and I happened to pass by the both of you that day.” 

“Really?” Riza asks. Havoc nods, still with that same easy, reassuring smile on his face. He resumes the cigarette-nibbling. (Riza thinks he looks a little like a gerbil when he does that, but not in a bad way. She keeps that little observation to herself.) “Where?” 

“Near the bookstore down at Ferg’s? I happened to be in the area with my sister,” he shrugs. “I was about to say hi before the both of you went into one of the bars.” 

“It wasn’t a date,” she explains, keeping her face straight as she scrambles internally for an excuse or some other plausible explanation. “It was just…” 

Havoc waves dismissively. “No worries, I get it. He’s always out with a different girl every weekend. It’s hard to keep up sometimes, even for us.” 

“It’s nothing like that,” Riza insists, because it really isn’t. She’s not another one of his summer flings, and he’s not her type. At all. 

“Yeah, I know,” Havoc reassures. “I trust that you have better taste than that.” 

Riza nods, almost eagerly, and they both laugh. 

“That’s nice to hear, thank you.” 

Relief washes over her. Her shoulders sag a little, freed from the burden of worrying that she’s next in line in the rumour mill. (Roy’s dating life is open to quite a bit of attention and speculation, apparently, and she really doesn’t want any part in it.) 

“You’re welcome,” Havoc grins. “But really, I know he seems like a bit of an asshole.” Riza lets out a quiet snort at this. Havoc laughs again, in a way that suggests it’s not the first time he’s hearing this. “But he’s not all that bad. Like, he’s a really good tennis captain, narcissism and womanising aside. We think he just hasn’t found the one yet.” 

Riza shrugs, still a little unconvinced. She thinks it’s probably just the confirmation bias talking. 

Still, it’s easy to see why Rebecca likes him and why they get along. Already she likes him; he seems like a decent (enough) guy whose easygoing disposition fits well with Rebecca’s general liveliness. She’s about to ask Havoc about him and Rebecca until a familiar voice greets them. 

“Gossiping about your Captain behind his back?” 

Riza tenses as Roy approaches. Havoc remains unaware and instead turns to teasing Roy, pretending like he wasn’t just putting in a good word for him. Riza simply pretends he’s not there. 

Roy, however, doesn’t play along. He’s quick to acknowledge her existence as he settles down on the empty seat next to Havoc, nodding her way. 

“Hey, Hawkeye.” 

“Hi,” she greets, and quickly searches her bag for her phone. Any distraction, really. She’s not much of a texter, but having a phone comes in handy during times like these. 

Riza gets to replying to some of the overdue messages and emails she’s promised herself to respond to since two nights ago. A text from Vanessa, one of her roommates during freshman year . Wanna study at the library together sometime next week? x An email from Olivier, the President of the Student Union. It says there’s a meeting scheduled for next Friday with the school committee. Budgeting and welfare are on the agenda, but Riza already knows to expect digressions and delays, anyway; they’re practically a norm in every Student Union meeting by now. 

Riza takes her own sweet time to craft a reply, like she’s writing a complex poem instead of simple acknowledgment. She vaguely overhears some of their discussions about the upcoming tennis season and Roy’s supposedly flourishing love life (and nothing about their discussions in the bar). She continues pretending like she’s too preoccupied for small talk. 

When the game resumes, Riza lets out a breath she hadn’t even realised she was holding. She feels Roy’s eyes on her, and a tingle runs up her spine, but she ignores it, turning instead to watch the match with renewed intensity. She’ll give his proposal further thought later.

Notes:

an earlier update for @thatisadamnfinecupofcoffee <3 hope this lifts up your mood a little!!!

also please excuse me if there are any glaring mistakes or omissions, I actually finished the first draft of this a few months ago and only got around to editing over the weekend LOL. next two chapters should be relatively quick since I'm pretty much done with those! I'm also halfway through replying comments and omg. thank you sooo much for all the love you've shown this story so far :') I am cringing hard at myself as usual but yall are so nice and each comment literally motivates me to keep writing. I appreciate each and every one of you so much <3

please leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought! :) I am also on Tumblr as @firewoodfigs if you wanna come say hi :)

time for me to go cosplay as a functioning human being and make myself a cup of coffee and jump on this call... have a good one mates x

Chapter 5: honey, life is just a classroom

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

There are many reasons, Riza thinks, why she should say yes to Roy’s proposal. 

The first being that she’s had to pay an extra fifty on top of her usual rent for breaking her landlord’s shower head just last week. 

Technically, she hadn’t really broken it; it had been damaged to begin with, but her landlord had adamantly denied it every time Riza had so much as hinted at its faultiness, even giving her a somewhat - well, or very - unnecessary lecture on respecting her elders. Riza had tried, of course, to wriggle her way out of paying for something that wasn’t entirely her fault, but negotiating with her landlord was like arguing with a provoked animal. 

So Riza had let it slide. She wasn’t a pushover, by any means. Of course not. She’d simply developed an uncanny ability of knowing how and when not to push people past their limits after her rather… complicated upbringing. (Besides, simple cost-benefit analysis told her that she’d save more from paying for some shitty, malfunctioning water-sprayer than searching for a new apartment elsewhere.)

Then came the whole debacle between her and Mrs. Evans. She had apparently raised her discontentment with Riza’s teaching and kicked up a fuss, claiming that she was simply too incompetent and unskilled a tutor to bring about any marked improvement in her daughter’s results and was therefore not worth the hefty sum she was being paid. Riza had attempted to explain her side of the story as politely and tactfully as she could, but Mrs. Evans had fired her before she’d even gotten half of it out. 

Part of her was relieved to have been fired, because it wasn’t her fault that Mrs. Evans had such unrealistic expectations of turning ‘F’s into ‘A’s overnight, and anyway, it wasn’t like her daughter was any easier to deal with. (Olivia was simply disinterested in learning anything remotely related to school, and had made a peculiar habit of exploring the insides of her nose with her untrimmed nails whenever Riza was talking, probably just to wear her out.)  

But a big part of her had also freaked out, big time, because the Evans were practically a goldmine. Mrs. Evans was rather unpleasant and unreasonable overall, yes, but she was also stupidly generous, to the point of tipping Riza for inane things like teaching her how to work her coffee machine. And now that she’d lost a stable - and sizable - source of income, she was heavily desperate for an alternative. 

That doesn’t mean it’s easy, though.  Families like the Evans didn’t come by everyday, and most of them were rich enough to hire elite, dedicated tutors instead of giving broke college students like her a shot. Riza had only gotten the job because Olivia was known to be a handful, and Mrs. Evans had confided in her one evening that there was no reputable tutor willing to risk their reputation to help her daughter out. 

And now that she’s lost the job, Riza is at a bit of a loss. Not the kind of loss she’d experienced when she had lost her mother at ten, but the kind of loss that made her question whether she was, in fact, cut out for college and adulthood and all of the unnecessary mishaps that came with it. (Riza convinced herself while walking back home that she was , even if she didn’t always feel so. She had made it through almost two years of college alone without any familial support after all. She’ll make it through another. And another, somehow. She’d rather die trying than give up after coming so far.) 

The cherry on top of the cake was when the Student Union had requested all its members to pay an additional membership fee of fifty dollars, on top of the usual hundred that students had to pay annually. Riza had visibly grimaced at this; she’d thought that she already paid enough in terms of time and effort. And really, wasn’t the school already injecting enough funds for the Student Union to go about its business? 

It only dawned upon her after she’d left - with a hole in her pocket - that it was probably for the upcoming sports meet, or something frivolous along those lines. Olivier had been nice enough to grant her an exception, if need be, but Riza didn’t want others complaining about unfairness or favouritism, or anything like that. She’s had enough drama to last her a lifetime from the past week.

And now that she’s pretty much broke, Roy’s proposal is quickly becoming a very, very tempting offer. It’ll be a quick fix, essentially. She’ll be able to earn a decent sum from his proposal, unethical as it may be. 

Riza mentally corrects herself as she scoops up a spoonful of soggy cereal. Suggestion is a better word, she thinks. Proposal and saying yes makes it sound like he’d asked for her hand in marriage or something, and she wouldn’t agree to that. Not even for a million bucks. 

Riza shudders at the thought. She sips at her coffee absently, a little more than overwhelmed by everything that’s been going on. 

When she’s done with breakfast, she cleans everything up and gets right to work. She tries to, at least. Riza had intended to spend her weekend working on the exact same Philosophy essay that Roy had asked her to ghostwrite, but she’s so tired that the words before her are hardly more than a frenzied mess, eliding her eyes like rabbits on the run. It doesn’t help, either, that Roy’s suggestion keeps conjuring itself in her mind as she mulls over the list of possible essay topics. (It’s also oddly difficult to focus on theoretical questions about ethics when she has an actual moral conundrum before her.) 

Deciding that she’s better off doing something else, Riza switches her tabs to the reading list for the Politics lecture next week instead. They’re going through the rise and fall of communism next week, and ordinarily, she would’ve been interested, but she finds herself terribly distracted still. Riza spends her time alternating between the plain, slipshod slides and online threads about ghostwriting and the prevailing market rate. 

Riza groans to herself when she realises that it’s almost time for her session with the Elrics. She feels awful for not accomplishing much today, but she thinks that she’s at least made up her mind. 

Riza picks up her phone, thumbs hovering over the screen, then quickly decides against it. She’ll tell Roy when she sees him in school. 

—  

“Hawkeye!” 

Riza turns around to find her deskmate walking towards her, again. 

She narrows her eyes a little as he waves in her direction. Riza nods acknowledgment, but she’s starting to wonder how and why their encounters are always so impeccably timed. It’s almost uncanny — to the point she’s starting to suspect that it’s not entirely a coincidence. 

Then again, Riza thinks he has his fair share of girls to keep him entertained and occupied (even if he does seem to take some sort of strange, twisted delight in making her life a living hell). Besides, she does actually need to speak to him, and now's as good a time as any. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Riza says drily, echoing his words from the time they’d coincidentally met near the Dean’s Office. “Since when do you come to the library, anyway?” 

Roy chuckles. “I do study, you know.” 

“I’ve never seen you in the library before,” Riza says, and it’s true. She doubts he has any legitimate business here, anyway. Knowing him, he’s probably not here for simple academic revision; she knows him enough by now to know that girls interest him more than books do, although their encounter at the bookstore did give her some cause to think otherwise. Just a little. 

“I never knew you were keeping a lookout for me,” he teases. Riza rolls her eyes and turns around, silently threatening to leave. “Hey, I’m just kidding. I do study every now and then. Just not Philosophy.”

Riza turns back, arching a brow. “Well, you’d better start on that, then.” 

“Yeah, about that…” he trails off. 

Riza presses her lips together. She knows exactly what he’s leading up to. It’s exactly the thing that’s been gnawing at her mind all weekend, and it’s exactly what she needs to speak to him about. (It’s also one of those things where she’d rather just get it over with, so that she doesn’t have to think about it anymore — even if the prospect of doing it rattles her and makes her palms clam up with sweat.) 

“About that,” she echoes, her voice little more than a hushed whisper. Riza gestures towards a vending machine that’s been strategically placed in a somewhat inaccessible, shielded corner, presumably so that it doesn’t run out of snacks too quickly. 

Roy follows suit wordlessly. She finds herself almost surprised by the conspicuous lack of lewd remarks, but of course, it’s too good to be true, and Riza finds herself huffing exasperatedly. 

“I see you wanted somewhere more… private .”

Riza rolls her eyes. Inwardly, she wonders how they must look to any unwitting onlookers; it must look like they’re in the middle of some shady drug deal or something. 

“Yes, but it’s nothing like that.”   

“Tough luck,” he shrugs. Roy yawns and leans against the vending machine. “Well, a guy can hope.” 

“Don’t do that,” she chides. “You’ll spoil it.” 

“Nah, I won’t,” he says, waving dismissively. “This vending machine has endured much worse.” 

Riza groans quietly. Roy just laughs. 

“I really didn’t need to know that.” 

Roy shrugs, toying with the drawstring of his hoodie. 

“You never know. Could come in handy someday.” 

“I can assure you it won’t,” Riza mutters, shaking her head in disbelief. “And anyway, about that ,” she continues, watching as Roy regards her renewed interest and anticipation. 

Riza presses her lips and folds her arms across her chest somewhat defensively. She tries to tell herself that his reaction shouldn’t matter, that she doesn’t even care , but it’s a bit of a shoddy lie. (Riza has always been a bit of a people-pleaser at heart, and like it or not - hell, whether she even likes the person or not - she’s always been afraid of disappointing people.) 

“I don’t think I’ll be able to do it,” Riza says. The words come out as little more of a hurried whisper, and she blinks, a little mortified that she’d been this close to stuttering. It really shouldn’t faze her that much, and anyway, shouldn’t he have already seen this coming? “Your assignment, I mean.” 

“Oh.” 

And she can’t help it, Riza blurts out an apology before she can even think about it. 

“I’m sorry -” 

“No, no, don’t be,” he interrupts, but she’s not entirely sure if he means it. Riza notes the dreaded emotion - disappointment - in his eyes, and feels her palms starting to dampen. Right on cue, she thinks. Clearing her throat silently, Riza thumbs the hem of her coral sweater, dusting off a piece of a lint. She hopes her expression is as neutral as she thinks it is. “I mean, I’m a little bummed about having to do it myself, sure, but in hindsight, it’s a pretty bad idea. I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble.” 

It’s her turn to say oh, because she’s honestly, genuinely taken aback. She’d been expecting — well, she doesn’t know what exactly she’d been expecting, but Riza hadn’t expected him to be so cool about it, either. 

Realising the aberrance of her own response, Riza quickly adds, “Could’ve had me fooled.” 

“Aw, come on,” he laughs. Roy quirks a brow at her. “Give me some credit. Besides, it’s bad enough that I get to torture you during those tutoring sessions, no?” 

“That’s a fair point, and also a level of self-awareness I didn’t know you had.” 

“That’s one of my many strengths,” he teases. “But really, it’s no big deal. I’ll just bother you during our next session.” 

“Of course,” she sighs. Riza knows that it’ll be just as exasperating as their previous sessions have been, but there’s a part of her that’s also stupidly relieved at how he’s taking this. The stuffiness she’d been feeling earlier - no doubt from wearing a sweater in the middle of summer - seems to melt away a little. “Should’ve known better.” 

Roy grins, and gestures towards the direction of the library. He walks back with her, offering one last reassuring smile before they part ways, and Riza walks towards the desk where Vanessa is presently sitting at. Riza groans inwardly. She hopes Vanessa hadn’t gotten the wrong idea, but of course she has — the predatory smile plastered on her pretty, dollish face tells her that she has, as a matter of fact, gotten the completely wrong idea about her and Roy. 

“Spill.”

Riza shushes her, pointing to a poster with a picture of a manicured finger over a pair of red lips, with the words keep your volume down. 

“We’re here to study, not talk.” 

Vanessa huffs, crosses her arms.  

“Fine, fine . But don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.” 

—   

True to her word, Vanessa doesn’t let her off the hook. She commences her interrogation as soon as they’re out of the library. As per their usual routine, they’re headed towards the nearby bagel house for — well, for bagels, but in Vanessa’s case, for tea as well. 

Not in the literal sense, of course.

“Spill the tea, Hawkeye.” 

“There’s nothing going on,” Riza sighs. “I would never date someone like that.” 

“What do you mean, someone like that ?” 

Riza raises an eyebrow. She has a peculiar feeling that they have two very diametrical impressions of Roy and the kind of person he is. 

“Well, a jerk like that, is what I mean.” 

“Oh, come on, he’s not that bad.” 

“I’ve heard that one before,” Riza says drily, thinking back to her conversation with Havoc and Rebecca. What exactly was it about him, Riza wonders, that was able to garner legions of fans who were so eager to defend his name? “Trust me, he’s insufferable.” 

“No, he isn’t,” Vanessa sighs, brushing off some lint from her lilac sundress. Her voice takes on a dreamy edge, and she’s looking off in the distance like her mind is elsewhere – 

Riza nearly sputters when she pieces two and two together. 

“Do you,” she coughs lightly. “Do you, by any chance, like him that way?” 

Vanessa smiles sheepishly. 

“Well… maybe.” 

“You should be the one spilling instead, Vanessa.” 

“Okay, fine,” she huffs. Riza bites back a laugh when she notices how red-faced she is. “So maybe I did have a bit of a crush on him, back in our freshman year.” 

“Your taste in men is, as always, worryingly questionable.” 

Vanessa snorts. “Aw, come on. I’m pretty sure every girl has had a crush on him at some point in time.” 

“Not me.” 

“You say that now, but he has his ways,” Vanessa sighs again. 

Riza clears her throat so that she doesn’t gag and, being the only sane one left, places an order for two cream cheese bagels and two iced lemonades. 

“I beg to differ. The only thing he’s been giving me lately is a headache.” 

Vanessa lets out a girlish giggle.  “How are the tutoring sessions coming along, anyway?” 

“Awful. Wait, how did you know about that?” 

“Rebecca told me, duh,” Vanessa says, and Riza rubs at her temples exasperatedly. She doesn’t mind, not really. Neither of them are blabbermouths - or at least, when it comes to her personal affairs - but the thought of them discussing her and Roy in the same breath makes her shudder. “Don’t worry, it’ll be our dirty little secret.” 

“Please don’t say stuff like that,” Riza half-begs. 

Vanessa just laughs it off and collects their order. “Alright, alright. But honestly, though. He can be quite the charmer when he wants to be,” she says, still with her head in the clouds.  

Riza accepts the bagel and sips at her lemonade, sighing contentedly at its coolness. She offers a shake of her head as they amble back towards the general direction of the library. 

“I’m thoroughly unimpressed, thank you.” 

“No,” Vanessa whines. “Don’t be like that. I think you two will make a pretty cute match, to be honest.” 

Riza chokes a little. “Again, please don’t say stuff like that. And how on earth did you even jump to that conclusion?”  

“Well, you two seemed pretty chummy to me,” Vanessa whistles. Riza silences her - or tries to - with one of her death glares, but clearly, their budding friendship has made Vanessa immune to it. Riza gives her a look that says, I think we need to reevaluate our friendship. Vanessa waves daintily. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that look.” 

“I’m serious.” 

Vanessa grins. “I know you, Hawkeye. You’re not as cold as you look.” 

Riza sighs wearily. Her shoulders slump a little in defeat, and she takes to chewing on her bagel slowly so that she doesn’t have to talk. Arguing with Vanessa is a lost cause, and she knows just how insistent she can get — especially when it comes to romance and love and all that jazz. Things that Riza really, really doesn’t have the emotional capacity for right now. Probably not for a long while.

“Speaking of, why don’t you ask him to help you with Chemistry?” Riza raises an inquiring brow. “Not that you need any help, of course, but I saw you doing that thing with your brows earlier when you were looking through your Chemistry notes, and besides, it’d be nice,” Vanessa adds. 

Her eyes are twinkling as they walk, and the setting sun brings out the deep blue in her eyes in a way that reminds Riza of a glittering ocean. It’s like she’s just walked out of a runway, Riza thinks, with her blown out hair and glossy lips. 

She wonders how someone as pretty as Vanessa could ever take a liking to someone like Roy.

“Why would I ask him for help?” 

“Because he’s a Chemistry major,” Vanessa states plainly, as simply as if she’s saying that the sky is blue. 

Riza blinks, a little surprised by the fact that Vanessa is even privy to such information in the first place. Then again, Vanessa was infamous for what she’d come to dub as reconnaissance ; she had an uncanny penchant for knowing things about people and making them spill their deepest secrets with a line of irrelevant questions. She’s practically the living incarnate of Gossip Girl. 

“I was going to ask how you knew that, but knowing you…” she trails off, nonplussed. At this rate Vanessa should really consider applying for a role with the FBI. 

Vanessa flashes her a toothy grin; perfect, pearly whites glistening in the sunlight. 

“Like I said, I had a bit of a crush on him in freshman year.” 

“Talk about a massive crush, Vanessa.” 

“Anyway, I think it’d be cute,” she swoons, starry-eyed and delusional. 

“No.”

Come to think of it, though, she did faintly recall Roy mentioning that he was a Chemistry major at some point in time. Riza probably wasn’t paying attention, but it makes sense as to why he’d flunked philosophy; it’s the exact same reason why she had (nearly) flunked chemistry as well. 

But Riza thinks she’d rather kill herself than ask him for help. She can already picture his imperious smirk in her mind, and the effect that it’ll have on his ego makes her shudder in disgust. His ego is big enough as it is, Riza thinks. It’s practically the size of an entire house - no, a country, even. Possibly a continent. No need to inflate it further; he’s unbearable enough as he is. 

“Aw, pretty please?” Vanessa asks. She even pouts a little, but Riza just stares back unaffectedly as she swallows another bite of her bagel. 

“No.” 

—     

The room is buzzing with pre-lecture gossip and needless prattling. Books are laid out on the table, and laptops are half-open and lattes half-drunk. She should be relaxed and ready for class, just like her fellow classmates, but Riza is in a fluster today. 

It’s not often that she forgets her books. (Actually, it’s not often that she forgets anything, at all; her fridge door is practically a cornucopia of yellow post-its, and she always makes it a point to pack everything she needs the night before.) But Riza hasn’t slept for over twenty-four hours, having stayed up last night to prepare for her Organic Chemistry tutorial earlier that morning, and the events of last week have left her utterly frazzled and spent. So much so that she’s been struggling to keep on top of everything as of late. 

Still, forgetting something as important as a textbook - especially for Pelczar’s class - feels a bit like a rookie mistake beyond her. Or at least, it should be. She’s in her second year of college, after all, and she hadn’t thought that she’d make mistakes like these past high school.

Riza briefly recalls her high school teachers’ standard lectures. It typically went like this: How are you ever going to make it in the working world if you can’t even remember something as small as this? We expected more from you, Hawkeye. And sure, she could count the number of times she’d been admonished like that on one hand, and it was typically for something that, in hindsight, was terribly inane, but it stung all the same. The lesson had remained firmly etched in her head (alongside everything else she’d picked up from her only living parent). 

Riza inhales deeply. She rubs her temples and forces herself to focus on the present, rifling through her bag once more in hopes that it her textbook would somehow magically resurface. No luck. Her table is still glaringly empty. 

A little more than distressed at her recent discovery, Riza pinches the bridge of her nose and sips at her coffee nervously. She can only hope that Pelczar is in a good mood today. 

“What’s gotten your panties in a bunch, Hawkeye?” 

“Language,” she retorts weakly. 

It doesn’t help, either, that Roy, Roy Mustang, of all people, actually has his textbook out; obnoxiously thick beside her own conspicuously empty desk. 

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding the least bit apologetic. Riza doesn’t even have to look at him to know that he’s smirking. She presses a thumb into her temple and, belatedly, realises that the stress is making her glisten with sweat, in spite of the lecture hall’s freezing temperatures. 

“No, but seriously,” he tries again, “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” she says, trying for equanimity. Riza has a sudden impulse to rest her head on her desk, but immediately shoves that thought away when she spots more than one coffee stain on it. 

“You sure?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, where’s your textbook? It’s not like you to not get ready for class before Pelczar struts in with a stick up his ass.” 

“And it’s not like you to be punctual, either.” 

“Well, what can I say — I’ve had a change of heart,” Roy teases, and Riza offers a faint smile. She’s not really in the mood to joke right now, but she at least appreciates his attempt at humour (even if she doesn’t find him particularly funny). “But okay, seriously, you look… troubled.” 

“I’m fine,” Riza repeats, a little unnerved by the way he’s regarding her with — concern? 

She clears her throat and turns to the board. It’s not like him to be concerned over her affairs, and it’s such an uncharacteristic deviation from their mutual dislike of - or at least, aversion to - each other that it almost makes her shudder. 

“Please,” he scoffs. “I’m not an idiot, Hawkeye.” Roy raises a hand before she can beg to differ, as if he’d known that she would. “And before you challenge that statement, did you forget your textbook?” 

Riza rubs her temples again and nods stiffly. Heat crawls up her neck at the admission. It’s terribly humiliating, Riza thinks, that Roy - of all people, really - is calling her out right now. Riza tries to convince herself that he has no business doing so, considering that it’s a norm for him, but she’s never really pegged herself to the moral standards of others. Besides, he has a right to. She’s under no obligation to do so, of course, but Riza can’t help but feel like she’s setting a bad example (and making a complete fool of herself) as his designated peer tutor. 

“Oh. You could’ve just said so.” 

Riza shrugs, suddenly unable to think of a comeback. She’s about to leave class altogether, too ashamed to face Pelczar’s inevitable disappointment, when he waltzes in at that exact moment, arms jutted out in a weird way like he’s a bird just learning how to fly. 

Riza stiffens in her seat. She rearranges her laptop discreetly, hoping it’ll block the conspicuous lack of a textbook somehow, but the next thing she knows, there’s a textbook - hardback, tangible, definitely not a mirage - in front of her. Riza presses her lips to stifle a curse, a gasp, she doesn’t know. 

All she knows is that she’s about to turn to Roy to decline his unsolicited offer, when he abruptly stands up and yawns without any shame. 

“What are you doing?” Riza mutters under her breath, nudging his foot with hers.

“Professor,” he announces, ignoring her existence altogether, and immediately Riza hears a few girls in the hall swooning and squealing. Riza nudges his foot again, annoyed at the sudden turn of events, but he doesn’t budge. “It seems like I’ve forgotten to bring my textbook yet again.” 

Pelczar sighs, but there’s virtually no hint of surprise on his face – just pure resignation. 

“Again, Mister Mustang? This must be the hundredth time, now.” 

“So it seems.” Roy nods in agreement, with false sadness.

“Well, you know the drill by now. Out you go,” Pelczar declares, thrusting a thumb at the door.  

Roy nods, raising a hand to offer a mock salute. Riza almost marvels at his flagrant disregard of authority; she can only dream of ever having such temerity.  

“There’s no need for this,” Riza whispers, but he simply shrugs like she hadn’t said anything. Riza watches, mortified as Roy strides towards the door, duffel bag hanging carelessly over his shoulder like a curtain on its last legs, and then he’s out, leaving her alone in her seat. 

With his textbook, of all things. 

Riza blinks, rubbing her knee as she attempts to marshal her thoughts, but Pelczar’s shrill voice pierces through the lecture hall before she even has a chance to really properly digest what’s just happened. 

Page 485. We’ll be going through the different branches of moral philosophy today – I expect you all did your required readings. Riza quickly opens her - Roy’s - textbook and flips to the required page, scanning it briefly. It’s woefully pristine: there’s hardly a single highlight on the prolix meanders of words, or even a slight crease on the spine – clearly, a book that Roy had barely gotten acquainted with. 

Riza bites back a sigh. She was not an unstoppable force, but he was most certainly an immovable object.  

Previously, we talked about special claims and duties arising out of special relations, which though seemingly diametrical to Utilitarianism is really sustained by a thoughtful application of that same doctrine. Riza props a chin up with a hand, glancing up at the slides. Today we’ll be talking about the common duty to strangers. 

At this, Riza visibly grimaces. The irony isn’t lost on her; she sometimes wonders if Pelczar specifically tailors his classes to be practical jokes on his students, to guilt-trip them into a pitfall of moral dilemmas and obligations and the whole shebang. 

That said, she believes a measure of gratitude is in order, and so Riza fishes out her phone to send Roy a quick, curt thanks before getting back to work. She’s still reeling in shock a little, but she snaps out of it and starts taking down notes diligently, even taking extra care to make them neater than usual, with an abundance of bullet points to break the otherwise complex lecture into hopefully digestible pieces.

Notes:

Thanks to everyone who's been journeying with me on this extremely self-indulgent AU thus far - I appreciate it so much! Please leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought :) I'm also on Tumblr @firewoodfigs - come say hi! <3

-

I am once again updating / editing fic during office hours LMAO so sorry but I gotta drop off before replying to comments :( I just started a new rotation at work and things haven't been too busy, thankfully, but I felt exceptionally blue last week for some inexplicable reason haha. I was stuck in a rut, and the reservoir of words inside me was all dried up. I couldn’t conjure anything from within me; I was struggling to even write a single email or draft a simple reply lol... I'm a bit better now, but I'm still trying to figure out a way to reset and regain my bearings. I'll probably go wander around in the park or something later in the evening once I'm done with work, hopefully get stricken with inspiration, and return to reply to comments <3

On that note, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who's been kind enough to leave a comment so far - they literally lifted my spirits last week when I was feeling particularly down, and they mean more to me than I can ever possibly express. I have a vaguely decent outline of how I want the rest of the story to go (this is a belated warning, but the rating might go up soon haha) and I can't wait to share them with you!

Have a great week everyone, and stay safe :)

Chapter 6: young, dumb & broke

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Of course, playing the good Samaritan once didn’t mean that Roy had miraculously converted into someone studious and responsible and considerate overnight: he’s still late. Riza glances at the clock idly. He should be here by now, and she’d even taken the extra step of reminding him to be on time (mainly because she has to work the night shift later at The Anthology, and Ms. Carney really didn’t appreciate tardiness). 

Riza scrolls through Twitter absently and drums her fingers against the table, a little annoyed at being held up.  She isn’t sure she should have had any expectations of punctuality in the first place, but she had hoped that he would at least be on time after the little… incident, between them. She’s just about to send him a text when he bursts through the door in response, huffing like he’s just ran all the way here. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Roy says, raking a hand through his matted hair. The expression on his face is uncharacteristically contrite, Riza notes, and she decides that he must have had a legitimate reason for his tardiness. Riza shrugs and gestures towards the other empty chair in the room.  “There was a little hiccup at practice today.” 

“That’s alright.” 

Roy makes himself comfortable and sets down his things, including two cups of what she presumes is coffee. He nudges one of them her way and smiles. 

“For you.”

Riza raises a brow, a little taken aback by the sudden show of generosity.  

“For me ?” 

“Yes, Hawkeye, for you,” he repeats. “I’m not about to have two lattes in a sitting by myself, and besides, you look like you could use it.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean, now?” Riza remarks drily, although she accepts it with a small thanks . She can, in fact, use another cup of coffee; she hasn’t slept well at all the entire week, and the only way she can soldier through another one of these sessions is with caffeine.

“You look a little tired, is all I’m saying.”

Riza rolls her eyes and waves dismissively. She’s been in college long enough by now to know that you look tired is basically code for you look awful. 

“I’m fine,” she insists. Riza tucks a strand of hair behind her ears, a little self-conscious as she feels Roy’s eyes on her. She can’t help but wonder if the sudden change in attitude and kindness is just another ploy to get into her good books, or possibly another scheme to curry favour in exchange for some — well, some other morbid favour. 

Still, the lack of commentary on her sartorial choices is a welcome change. (Riza’s wearing her favourite peach sweater today, and a trustworthy pair of jeans that really needs to be dumped into the laundry soon.) She clears her throat and sips at her drink gratefully, though her nose wrinkles at the unexpected sweetness. 

“You don’t like caramel?” Roy asks, and the note of disappointment doesn’t go undetected. She shakes her head and sips at it again, keep her expression carefully neutral this time. 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Riza reassures, because she still appreciates the gesture – even if she doesn’t particularly like him and his guts. Besides, wasn’t it poor manners, telling someone you disliked their gift? 

“Are you sure?” 

Riza nods, but his expression tells her that he’s not having it. 

“I’m serious. Thank you.” Heat crawls up her neck. She’s suddenly awash with a shyness she’s never felt around him. “And for the last time, too.” 

He grins, but shrugs it off like it’s no big deal.

“Well, how do you normally take your coffee?” 

“Black, but it’s —” 

“Black?” he says, disbelievingly. “Are you a serial killer in disguise, or what?” 

Riza chuckles. “That’s not nice.” 

“That’s literally how it goes in the movies. Only serial killers and psychopaths take their coffee black, Hawkeye.” 

“There are Americanos on the menu for a reason, you know.” 

“Yeah, to cater to serial killers,” he insists, and Riza has chew on her lower lip to keep from laughing at the incredulity of the situation. 

“Well, if you don’t take this assignment seriously, I just might turn into one.” 

Roy straightens in his seat and raises his hand in a mock salute, offering up his best impression of a petrified victim-to-be. Riza allows herself a small laugh at his ridiculous antics and shakes her head. She thinks he should consider a minor in theatre; he’d fare well with his arsenal of histrionics. 

“You’re not hiding any guns, are you?” 

“Who knows,” Riza shrugs, tapping her pen on the table. “So you’d better pay attention, Mustang.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters under his breath.

As it turns out, fear is an excellent motivator: Roy actually comes up with a decent outline by the end of the session, and even promises Riza that he’ll turn it in on time – if only to keep her out of trouble. 

Belatedly, and somewhat hypocritically, Riza comes to realise that she might’ve been using the philosophy assignment as an excuse to put off her chemistry deadlines. It’s not a habitual thing, and she's generally a creature of habit, but it is what it is.

Riza hates to admit this, even to herself, but she had been procrastinating

Equity, however, did not aid the indolent. Her assignment wasn’t going to finish itself — only her. And so Riza drags herself to the library on Thursday night, already prepared to burn the midnight oil to finish this submission. 

Mercifully, thank God (and the chemistry department), the assignment was one of those specifically thematic ones where you could pick one topic and just write an essay on it. Riza had decided to steer clear of anything remotely connected to organic chemistry; it would make her life much easier and significantly reduce the chances of her overdosing on caffeine. 

At the library, Riza picks up a pack of Cheetos from the generous basket of snacks at the unmanned counter and makes herself a cup of coffee with the nearby machine; both have been specially set up for sleep-deprived students staying overnight to clear another deadline. She selects an empty desk by the window, wanders off to the shelves to pick out a couple books on crystal field theory, then returns with renewed determination to conquer this fucking essay. 

Said determination however begins to waver just about an hour in. Her outline isn’t making a great deal of sense, and the technical terms are quickly causing her head to feel like mush. They're closer to alphabets strung together incomprehensibly rather than actual words; big words like degeneracies and octahedrons and negentory something in Latin that probably was just a really fancy way of saying energy. It was like learning a foreign language altogether. 

Riza sighs and rubs at her eyes tiredly, glancing around the room. She picks up her half-drunk cup of coffee and sips at it absently as she observes the motley of different majors around here, all struggling in their own definitive ways. There are the architecture majors, who are rumoured to never sleep, hunched over their sketch pads and endless array of technical pens. There are the English majors, the subject of Riza’s envy - she might’ve gone down that route if she had a little more money and talent - with their admirable assortment of literary classics and modern retellings; varicoloured post-its sticking out in every imaginable direction. Then there are the other PPE majors, debating at a far-end corner in hushed whispers about Plato versus Socrates; about Keynesian theory and the axiomatic good of a democracy. It’s enough to drive anyone insane. (Looking back, Riza is not entirely sure why she chose this path. She often finds herself wondering these days if it’s too late for a switch.)

Then, of course, there is Roy. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawls. When she turns in the direction of his voice, he’s looking at her with a small, upward tug of his lips – a cross between what she’s come to recognise as a genuine smile and a smirk. “Then again, it’s not altogether surprising, considering your reputation for being a slave driver.” 

Riza rolls her eyes. “What do you want?” 

“Believe it or not, nothing.” Roy lets out a small whistle and slides himself into the empty chair across her before she can even protest. “I just thought I’d come check up on my deskmate, since -” he gestures at her hair - “well, you look a bit frazzled.” 

Embarrassed, Riza quickly runs a hand to smooth her hair. She deliberately keeps a shoulder-length bob for easy maintenance, but it still tends to be stubbornly uncooperative every now and then. 

Roy grins. Belatedly, Riza realises her hair is fine; Roy’s just being a prick with a twisted sense of humour. 

She huffs in annoyance, turning back to her laptop. Riza scroll through the pithy scraps she’s written and withers in her seat.  

“Just kidding, Hawkeye. You look remarkably well for someone who’s about to pull an all-nighter.”

Riza gives him a brief look-over, and decides that a little bit of revenge is in good order. 

“Can’t say the same for you.” 

It’s his turn to smooth his hair; he does it sleekly with both hands in a manner that Riza can only describe as — not boyish, but fuckboy -ish. 

“I don’t need a mirror to know you’re wrong,” he smirks, and she makes a gagging gesture. Riza waves a hand for him to leave, but he doesn’t take the hint. She’s pretty sure he’s doing it intentionally. “What are you busy with, anyway? You don’t strike me as the last minute sort.” 

Riza flushes, somewhat chagrined at being called out by the very person she’s been tutoring and lecturing. “I’m not. It’s…” she sighs, mourning the lamentable state of her essay. At the rate she’s going she’ll never be done. “It’s just some silly Chemistry assignment.” 

Roy straightens visibly. He spares a cursory glance at the open textbooks beside her, and hums - approvingly? She can’t be sure. “Crystal field theory?” 

Riza vaguely recalls Vanessa mentioning something about him being a chemistry major, and nods slowly, schooling her expression. 

“Yeah.” 

“Hm.” Roy crosses his arms and leans back further in his seat, expression inscrutable. “Are you a Chemistry major too?” 

“No,” Riza says hastily, rushing to correct him. “I’m… well, it’s probably the same reason why you’re doing philosophy.”   

“Oh. The contrasting subject thing, yeah?” 

Riza nods, casting an eye on her outline. It doesn’t make sense. Worst of all, she doesn’t know how to make it make sense. She doesn’t know if she’ll be able to make the deadline, and — oh, she’s so, so screwed. 

She should never have left this to two days before the deadline. 

“Need help?” Roy asks, archly. 

Riza instantly shakes her head at the bewildering proposition. She would not be getting help from her peer tutee , thank you very much. Besides, she’s only just managed to repay him for what she’d come to dub in her head as the ‘textbook incident’; she doesn’t need to be indebted to him any further. 

“I’m good, thanks.” 

“You sure?” He arches a brow, and Riza nods. “Not that I doubt your abilities or anything, but you look —“ 

“There you are, Roy!” A bespectacled, sprightly man chirps, appearing out of thin air to slap Roy on the back. Roy winces. Riza stares, bemused at this guy’s midnight gaiety. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Time to stop skiving off and – oh,” he pauses to give Riza a once-over, who shrinks under his scrutiny. “Stop being an incurable flirt, will you?” 

Roy shrugs and stretches his arms out, smirking. 

“Can’t help if I’m a chick magnet.” 

Riza flushes again and protests vehemently, much to Roy’s amusement. She glares at him and then looks beseechingly at the other man. 

“It’s nothing like that. He’s the one who’s being a nuisance.” 

Hughes chortles at this, then slaps Roy on the back again, whispering something that sounds suspiciously like, I like her already. Then he sticks his hand out. 

Nonplussed, Riza takes his hand and shakes it firmly. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Maes Hughes, the guy with the misfortune of being his best friend.” 

Roy lets out an indignant squawk. Riza bites back a laugh. 

“Nice to meet you too. I’m Riza Hawkeye.”

At this, Hughes’ eyes light up with something akin to recognition, like he’s just found a missing puzzle piece, but doesn’t elaborate further. Instead, he tries to drag Roy up from his seat by tugging at his shirt. Roy just grunts and swats him away like he’s a fly. 

“Stop that.” 

“Stop bothering her and get back to work.” 

“My sentiments exactly.” Riza smiles. “Get back to work, Mustang. The library’s a place for studying, not disturbing people who are actually busy .” 

“Alright, alright, I’m going now,” Roy grumbles, ruffling his hair affectedly. “Don’t miss me when I’m gone.” 

“I won’t.” 

Riza turns back to work, hiding a grin behind a hand as Hughes practically lugs him back to his seat. From the corner of her eye she sees Roy jabbing his friend in the ribs. She shakes her head at their antics and goes back to staring morosely at her laptop. 

Five minutes later, her phone buzzes. The notification reads: 

For real, though. Let me know if you need help ;) 

Riza ignores it and promptly goes back to flipping through the treatises. They’re unnecessarily prolix and heavy and sleep-inducing, but she’ll soldier on. She has to pass this somehow; her scholarship’s literally on the line, and anything short of a B will probably land her in hot water again. 

In the end, Riza manages to finish her assignment without Roy’s help. It’s not a stellar paper by any means, but she thinks she’s done enough research and editing to at least scrape by with a B/B+. 

Either way, it shouldn’t matter. If she clears enough credits she’ll have a minor in Chemistry, but otherwise, it shouldn’t affect her future, just her pride (and her hopes of earning her father’s approval). 

Riza yawns and stretches, rising to pack her stuff. She hadn’t realised the sun had already risen; no wonder she’s so tired despite having three cups of coffee. Riza tosses the empty coffee cups and Cheetos packets in a nearby bin and returns the books to where they were originally reposed. She slings her trusty canvas tote over her shoulder, and as she walks towards the exit she passes by Roy, who’s now taken to chatting up a pretty brunette. Riza would’ve intervened, because God forbid this man from harassing women in a library , of all places – 

Except, of course, the girl looks completely enamoured. 

Riza sighs. Hughes is right: Roy is an incurable flirt. 

Something that students and non-students alike love to emphasise in college is the prospect of a stable, meaningful career: being gainfully employed upon graduation is the ultimate end-goal, the be-all end-all. It is for this reason that the college routinely invites career counselors to come and interrogate students who have no inkling of what their future holds about their future. Typically, it starts off with the deceptively simple task of drafting a cover letter and CV; while the mass email recommends that it should take no longer than two hours, most students will leave it on the backburner and take more than two weeks to string up a plausible explanation for their employability, lack of work experience notwithstanding. 

Riza is no exception to this. She’s not typically so indifferent towards work – as a matter of fact, she never is. She generally takes pride in whatever task she puts her mind to and embarks on, and it’s something - maybe even the one thing - that she prides herself in. 

As it turns out, however, her cover letter is little more than a hodgepodge of online templates and pitiful attempts at tooting her own horn. 

“Well, Miss Hawkeye,” Miss Pecker begins, perturbingly formal in her pressed suit and sleek bob. It’s a bright day outside, and the sunlight glints off her gold-rimmed glasses in a way that’s both intimidating and impressive. “I can’t say your cover letter is particularly original, much less eye-catching.” 

Riza makes a weak attempt at a sheepish smile, but Miss Pecker just stares back, unimpressed. 

“Tell me about your plans.” 

Riza flounders slightly at this, toying with the pleats in her navy blue skirt. It’s not so much that she doesn’t know what she wants to do after college, as much as she doesn’t know how to get there. (She can't help but think Nietzsche had it wrong when he said, if you know the why, you can live any how.) Before moving to the city she’d had these lofty dreams of becoming an attorney, or at least, of making a name for herself and finally being recognised by the world as something more than a sentient piece of lint waiting to be carried away by the wind. But it was only after getting into college that she understood just how debilitatingly expensive it would be: she’d be in debt for the rest of her life if she went down that route, high salary notwithstanding. (One also had to take into account the incredibly high attrition rates. Most attorneys tend to quit after three years, give or take a few.)

“I… well, I had plans to be an attorney; do a J.D. after college and take the bar,” Riza says. She only just barely manages to keep from stuttering, something which she thought she’d buried under the vestiges of her childhood. “But it’s honestly – well, it’s a little expensive.” 

Miss Pecker shrugs and adjusts her glasses in a dramatic, sagely way. 

“Well, yes. It’s hard to get rich when you’re not already rich.” 

No shit, Sherlock, Riza wants to say, but nods deferentially instead, keeping her hands prim and folded on her skirt. Truth be told, she’s always been a little more than cynical about the effectiveness of such gimmicks, and whether career counselors are even truly invested in their futures to begin with. People are generally disingenuous where money’s involved, after all. Riza herself knows this firsthand. 

“What are your alternatives, then?” 

“I’m… I haven’t really thought much about it.” 

Miss Pecker clucks her tongue, as if to say, you college students really need to get your shit together. And yes, Riza completely agrees - she’ll have to get this sorted out if she wants to be a fragment of the person she aspires to be - but the prospect of job hunting and settling down in a nine-to-five that she doesn’t particularly enjoy, just to settle down with a man that she doesn’t particularly love is frankly terrifying. (It’s the same fate that drove her mother and, Riza suspects, so many other women, to madness.)

“Well, that’s what I’m here for, I guess,” Miss Pecker sighs, adjusting her glasses again like it was a nervous tic. Upon closer look, she looks to be relatively young – the simple golden band says marriage, but the dull limp of her hair suggests that it might be an unhappy one. Maybe it’s the kids. Or maybe it’s the nonchalant, unaffectionate husband with a skewered tie who never says I love you anymore.

The modern love story in all its frazzled glory.

“Don’t fret – it’s common to not have it all figured out.” 

Riza nods again. She gets the strange sense, however, that Miss Pecker is speaking from personal experience; Riza wonders if this is a job she’d settled for as well, and can’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the seemingly unsympathetic woman. 

Maybe it’s simply a proletariat’s fate to trade impractical dreams for rent money. 

“That’s… reassuring to know. Thank you, Miss Pecker.” 

“Yes, well. Annette is fine.” Annette flips through her cover letter and her CV with an unreadable expression, squinting a little. Riza swallows nervously. It’s mildly disconcerting, splaying out all her embarrassing non-achievements on the table for a stranger’s scrutiny. In hindsight, whatever she’d turned in was honestly a pathetic excuse for a CV; she didn’t think her extracurriculars were particularly outstanding, and her work experience was hardly relevant to anything in the corporate world. She’d tried to market her experience in bookstores and cafes (she’d even included her short stint in the pumpkin farm that one autumn because she was, for want of a better word, desperate) and tutoring kids of the elites in cushy penthouses as familiarising herself with the service industry , but she’s not sure if it’s actually relevant or just total crap. “This is a decent variety, at least, even if not directly relevant to whatever you might end up doing. You’re planning to graduate with a PPE degree, yes?”

Possibly a minor in Chemistry, too, if I don’t flunk it completely, Riza thinks, hoping her expression isn’t as resentful as she actually feels.

“That’s right.”

“Well, you’ll have some options, at least – though I can’t say it’s much, given the current economic climate,” Annette begins, barely looking up from Riza’s CV. ”Getting a law degree might not be a bad idea if you have the tenacity and money to do so. Switching to a criminal psych degree is a plausible alternative, too, but otherwise, you should start looking for internships in relevant industries. Fintech is an up and coming one you could look into; you could always leverage on your economics knowledge.” Annette recites all of this so blithely that it sounds like a sales pitch, like an abrasive pep talk she’s rehearsed hundreds of times. 

Riza just makes a soft humming sound in agreement. She’s done enough research to know that the tech industry is booming now, a virtual gold rush propelled by the mines of blockchain and cryptocurrency, but it’s not exactly something that she can envision herself doing, even incompetently. For one, the volatile graphs are enough to trigger a seizure. The fact that she’ll have to deal with a surfeit of numbers every moment isn’t very enticing either. 

“Alright, now let’s go through your cover letter. Some novelty would be good, for starters,” and Riza nods again. She’s not wrong, but Riza didn’t see how she could possibly inject any individuality into something so… boilerplate. Or maybe she just wasn’t a very outstanding individual. “Go beyond just being a good team player or a diligent worker, everyone can be those things on paper.” 

Annette picks up a pen and starts circling random parts of her cover letter in a bright, offensive red. Then she launches into a long rigmarole about originality and portfolios and dwindling prospects in a failing economy, and at the end of it she scribbles down a list of companies and industries that Riza should start looking at on the back of her CV. She takes another look at Riza’s attached photograph, and clicks her tongue. 

“Also, this could use some work. Watch some eyeliner tutorials on YouTube or something – you’ve got nice eyes.” 

Riza blinks owlishly, unsure how to respond. She settles for another nod, and thanks Annette for all her help, promising to give those companies a shot (although she can’t say for sure that they’ll give her one). Then she heads out to the hallway, where dejected, tired students are starting to stream in towards the unmissable smell of catered food; Riza catches sight of Rebecca and Vanessa and offers them a small wave. They join the snaking queue for food and exchange trite insights and eyeliner tips. 

When their plates are finally piled high with food,  the trio stands in a small, inconspicuous corner, chattering idly about school and the unfathomable prospect of being a working adult. Riza listens to them while biting into a bland spring roll, and sighs contentedly for the first time that morning. 

Nothing tastes better than free food when you’re a broke college student.

Notes:

I live!! Really, really sorry about the radio silence - work has been chaotic, and life has been wild, and you know the drill by now, LOL. I've also been working on other stuff as of late and trying to make poetry/flash fiction deadlines - come say hi on @firewoodfigs on Tumblr if you'd like, I post some of those there too on occasion :)

About to head out for brunch so I'm in a bit of a rush, but I promise I'll reply to comments / edit this hasty draft when time permits!! In the meantime, leave a comment if you have the time, I'd love to hear what you thought :)
stay safe out there and have a lovely week yall!! <3

Chapter 7: try to catch the deluge in a paper cup

Notes:

note the rating change (for future chapters!)
cw: panic attacks, shitty people

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The following Monday sees Riza at the Elrics’ again. Most of her weekend had been burnt working at the bookstore, since her coworkers had conveniently fallen sick, again , but it’s still nice to see the two brothers. They’re pretty much the most tolerable - likable, even - of the teenage lot she’s gotten acquainted with over the past couple of years. 

And, of course, it’s always nice to know that Ed’s gotten into the college of his dreams. 

“That’s so exciting! Congratulations.” Riza smiles, awash with pride and genuine happiness. They’re both positively beaming, cherub-faced boys with so much hope it makes her chest squeeze with ache. Once upon a time, she’d been like that, too; eagerly anticipating college and all the lofty dreams it promised, gift-wrapped in varicolored brochures and vivacious school tours with overly enthusiastic school guides. Her gateway to a better life. She’s not so sure about that now, but she’s also far too deep in debt at this point to chicken out.

Ed’s face suddenly darkens. “If only what’s-his-fuckface wasn’t team Captain.” 

Riza smothers her laughter with a discreet hand. 

“Brother!” Al exclaims, scandalised. “You can’t say that. That’s not nice!” 

“It’s true though,” Ed grunts. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten how much of an asshole he was being. Thinking about it makes me mad.” 

“I’m sure he’s not that bad,” Al chimes in, ever the pacifist. “Do you know him, Miss Riza?” 

“Sort of.” 

Riza bites her lips to keep from snickering at Ed’s deepening scowl. She knows without having to ask that Roy is permanently on his blacklist. 

“How’s he like?” Al probes, elbowing Ed when he contorts his face further into a look of complete and utter revulsion. Ed even gags. Comedic gold, really. The kid deserved an Oscar. 

“Can’t say I disagree with Ed, honestly.” 

“Really?” Al asks, wide-eyed and so endearingly innocent . Like a little fawn that she longed to shield and protect from all the vicissitudes of college life. Suddenly the memory of Roy taking the hit for her in Pelczar’s class resurfaces, causing Riza to balk inwardly.  

“I guess he’s not that bad, if you look deep enough.” 

Al’s grin is triumphant, like he’s just won a debate on morality. An angel, really, always looking at the bright side of humanity and giving idiots the benefit of the doubt. 

Ed snorts, thoroughly unconvinced. 

“Yeah. There are also diamonds under the ground, if you look deep enough.” 

Laughter bubbles out of her before she can stifle it. Al looks increasingly mortified at the both of them. Ed cackles and nudges his side, as if to prove a point. 

“Can’t wait to dye all his shirts red as payback.” 

“Brother!” 

“Purely by accident, of course.” 

Riza laughs so hard there are actual tears forming in her eyes. She remembers all too well, the way he’d sauntered around the tennis court, jacket fluttering pompously in the wind. The thought of all the chaos awaiting Roy is hilarious, albeit in an awfully schadenfreude way. She can’t imagine him parading scarlet capes around like Dracula without losing all dignity. 

Karma might be real, after all.  

“Alright, alright,” Riza says, still chuckling at Ed’s enviable range of expressions. “Don’t do anything to secure your expulsion when you’ve just got in.” 

Ed harrumphs. “Only an amateur gets caught. I would never .” 

“We’ll see about that.” Riza raises a brow at him. Ed gulps, much to Al’s budding delight. “Have you decided what you’re going to major in?” 

“Yeah.” Ed nods. “Probably Chemistry or something.” 

Riza blanches. Of course it had to be. Sometimes she wonders if fate just enjoys mocking her, for all the questionable choices she’s made in the labyrinth of her life that have led her down this path of probable unemployment. She also wonders, on increasingly rare occasions, if her father would have been a little more supportive if she’d demonstrated a greater affinity for the sciences. A propensity for greatness. More like him, she thinks bitterly. 

“Are you okay, Miss Riza?” 

“Of course,” Riza smiles, wincing inwardly at how fake she sounds to her own ears. “That’s a great choice – I’m sure you’ll enjoy it very much. The faculty is great.” 

“Yeah,” Ed grins, painfully oblivious to Roy’s existence as a Chemistry major. “I can’t wait, honestly.” 

“I can imagine. You’ll be wonderful, I’m sure.” At least that part is sincere – Riza truly believes he’ll go far, with that sharp wit and even sharper tongue. “Although, not to rain on your parade, but you still have to finish this essay…” 

Collective groans. Riza’s smile widens. 

“I knew you wouldn’t forget,” Ed mumbles.

“Of course I wouldn’t.” She’s here for a reason, after all. Not to mention she’s paid to be here; Riza would hate to receive any complaints from their father, even if said parent is frustratingly indifferent about their academic progress and their life, in general. 

Riza taps a pen gently against the essay questions currently plaguing both brothers, if only to tether herself back to the present. Pointless, really, letting the past haunt her with a history so inexorably unalterable. 

“Shall we, then?” 

Reluctantly, both brothers pick up their pens and get straight to work. 

Riza wishes it was that easy with Roy, too. 

— 

Surprisingly, Roy is early for their session that week. 

Even more surprisingly, he’s come fully prepared; notes annotated and outlines fastidiously written. 

“You’re unusually diligent today,” Riza remarks offhandedly as she studies his draft. “What’s gotten into you?” 

“A change of heart, I suppose. Helps to have a good tutor.” Roy smirks. She rolls her eyes. There we go again. “Where are you headed to after this?” 

“Nowhere that concerns you.” 

He jerks his chin towards the window. God help her, it’s raining cats and dogs. She’ll never get to the bookstore dry unless she decides to spend a solid thirty bucks on an Uber. 

“With all due respect, the sky and I would beg to differ.” 

Another eye-roll. “Don’t you have some other girl to bother after this?” 

“Careful what you wish for, Hawkeye,” he drawls. Riza flicks his wrist with a pen. “Ow! What’s that for?” 

“For being an idiot.” 

“Feisty,” he teases. Riza ignores him in favour of reviewing his draft. The sooner she’s done, the better. “How’s it looking?” 

“Better than your first draft, for sure.” 

“Like I said, it helps to have a good tutor.” 

Riza continues to flip through his draft, mulling over his propositions. Yet another surprise – it’s actually passable . Decently substantiated. 

“Helps to actually try, as well.” Riza taps a pen thoughtfully against her desk. She underlines a few paragraphs that she thinks could be better phrased, but otherwise, it’s not a conceptually erroneous outline. “Not bad, actually.” 

“I know, right?” Roy even puffs out his chest a little. Talk about insufferable. “You still haven’t answered my question, though.” 

“What?” 

“Where are you headed?” Thunder rumbles ominously at that precise instant, and his smirk widens. Just her luck. “Come on. I’ve got the car today. I can drop you off.” 

Riza raises a brow, dubious. He’s being unusually nice today, and she can’t help but question his motives, even if his recent behaviour has helped dispel some of the impressions she’d initially held of him. 

“Why are you being so nice?” 

Roy shrugs. “What, and let you get soaked in this rain? Consider it my good deed of the year.” Perhaps noticing her suspicion, he softens considerably, and adds, “No ulterior motive, I promise.” 

Outside, the rain pelts down on the eaves with renewed vengeance. The thought of having to wade through the muddy grass and soppy streets in her favourite sneakers makes her heart sink a little. 

“Fine,” Riza relents at last, only because an Uber would eat into her weekly grocery budget. Haemorrhaging money like that is completely at odds with the fiscal principles she clings onto so religiously as a struggling college student. She returns his draft and starts packing. “Just this once.” 

“As you wish.” Roy mirrors her and begins shoving his papers and stationery into a grey duffel. He’s so impossibly smug, she almost wants to retract her earlier statement. Think of the money you’re saving. “Where to?” 

“Uh,” Riza pauses, apprehensive about divulging her incorrigibly exciting plans for a Friday night. “Do you remember that bookstore down on Sixth Boulevard?” 

“You mean The Anthology? Yeah, of course. Did you want to pick something up?” 

“Not really.” 

His eyes widen. “You’re working there? On a Friday night?” 

“Sorry we can’t all have the luxury of dallying and dawdling around all day like you,” Riza quips back lightly, biting back a grimace. Lately it’s been hard to hide the deplorable state of her bank account from her peers. Just last week, for example, Rebecca had kindly offered to lend her some money to tide through the hurricane of rent and bills and loans; assignments and tests and multiple odd jobs. Out of the goodness of her heart, Rebecca emphasised. Not pity.

Out of pure stubbornness (and maybe pride), Riza had declined.  

“Still. It’s a Friday night.” 

Riza shrugs, collecting her things before rising. “My coworker called in sick this morning.” 

Roy follows suit, leading her seamlessly to the basement carpark just below the library. 

“Bullshit. Bet she’s just flaking because it’s a Friday night.” 

“That might be the smartest thing you’ve said all day.” 

“I’m right, and you know it.” Roy pushes a button on his car keys. The headlights blink, and he clicks his tongue. “How are you heading home after, then?” 

“I’ll figure something out.” Riza waves dismissively and stifles a yawn as she thinks of the long night shift awaiting her. Already she knows she’ll be spending the weekend catching up on sleep, as far as her schedule will allow. Roy opens his mouth, seemingly about to interject. “And before you offer — like I said, just this once.” 

“Wasn’t going to.” Roy smirks, opening the door before she can do so herself. “After you, Hawkeye.” 

“Thanks,” Riza grits out. She leans back into her seat and puts her seatbelt on, vividly tense as he does the same. Roy fires up the engine. “What about yourself? Where are you headed? If it’s an inconvenience –” 

“Nah,” Roy clicks his tongue. “I wouldn’t have offered, if it was.” 

“Okay.” 

Unbelievable, really, that she’s voluntarily sitting in Roy Mustang’s car, of all people. If her past self could see this now she might think she’s getting abducted. 

He drives, with obvious caution. The road conditions and weather aren’t ideal, but he keeps both hands on the steering wheel and whistles idly to himself. 

When they stop at the next red, Roy toys with the radio until it lands on a station that he’s presumably satisfied with. An Eagles song with a familiar guitar riff. He turns up the volume and smirks. 

“This song’s for you,” Roy teases. She’s trying to figure out which song it is, exactly - it’s hard to tell from the muffled acoustics - until it reaches the chorus. Take it easy, don’t let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy. “Lighten up while you still can, yeah?” 

Riza huffs. So much for niceties. 

“Shut up.” 

His grin widens. 

“It’s good advice.” Roy hums along, smug. Real smarmy. She might slap him if they weren’t on the road right now. “You coming for the party next week?” 

“What party?” Her question elicits a side eye. Completely unwarranted, in her opinion. “Eyes on the road, please.”

“The one at the campus bar. You know, for students to unwind and have a life outside of studying.” 

The barb stings, just slightly. She dimly recalls Rebecca mentioning something about a party next week, but of course it’d flown over her head; it’s not a priority and is unlikely to be for the remainder of her time in college. Her chief priority is to graduate with a job and become a self-sustaining adult who can afford to pay rent and file her taxes on time. 

“I’m sure Rebecca would have mentioned it to you,” Roy continues, as if reading her mind. “Come join us. It’ll be fun.” 

“… I’ll think about it,” she acquiesces, more so to play it cool than actually give it any serious thought. 

“Sure.” Roy pulls up the side road and glances briefly at her, expression inscrutable. “Well. Looks like we’re here.” 

“So we are.” Riza unbuckles her seat belt, grimacing at the sleet of rain hammering down at his bonnet. “Thanks again.” 

“Like I said, it’s no problem.” Roy gestures for her to wait. He fumbles around for an umbrella, before sidling to her side, opening her door with a theatrical flourish. “After you, milady.” 

“This is all highly unnecessary.” 

Roy shrugs. “Count yourself lucky that you don’t have to spend the next few hours with wet socks.” 

And, well — she has nothing to say to that. She grumbles her thanks as they reach the bookstore, making a conscious effort to ignore Mrs. Carney’s intrusive staring from inside.  

Roy, on the other hand, is anything if flamboyant. He lets himself in, folds the umbrella, and waves at her wrinkled boss with gusto. And as if that’s not bad enough, he approaches Mrs. Carney with all the unflappable ego of an ignorant, mule-headed male to make small talk. 

“Roy,” Riza grits out. “ Mustang.” 

“Don’t be rude to our customers now, Riza.” Mrs. Carney frowns at her, before switching back to her best impression of a toothy grin, clearly enamoured by Roy’s performance. 

Riza just gawks. The temerity of this idiot, really. 

“Well,” Roy laughs, heartily. He turns to her, looking terribly pleased with himself. “Have a good evening. I should be on my way.” 

“You’re an idiot,” she mutters under her breath as Roy breezes by her, and that elicits another bout of raucous laughter as he finally exits the store. 

“I’ll see you at the party.” 

“Perhaps not.” 

Roy simply waves, unbothered. 

—- 

Message from Rebecca Catalina (20:23) ✉️ 

ARE YOU COMING FOR THE PARTYYYYY 

I was gonna ask you but I see Roy beat me to it 

:):):););););) 

DEETS BABE DEETS 

I see the tutoring is going well???

***

“Your phone has been vibrating non-stop,” Mrs. Carney remarks offhandedly as she flips through a tattered Harlequin romance novel with a particularly raunchy cover. “If I hadn’t pegged you for such a prude I might’ve thought it was something else.” 

Riza flushes, mortified. Just her luck, really; her Friday is plunging from unfortunate to downright abysmal

“Is it that boy from earlier?” Her boss persists. “The one who dropped you off?” 

“No.” 

Mrs. Carney eyes her disbelievingly. “Really?” 

“Yes.” 

“Pity,” she clucks her tongue and resumes her reading. “He’s very charming.” 

“No.” 

“And such a gentleman, too. He would’ve given all my exes a run for their money.” 

Riza sighs. She’s no way out of this, so she nods along and starts drafting a reply to Rebecca. It’s a relatively slow evening at the bookstore - probably because college students her age have more fun places to be - so Mrs. Carney doesn’t mind quite as much. 

***

It’s nothing. There was a downpour, and he just happened to be going the same way. 

*** 

“Just so we’re clear — he can pop by any time.” 

Riza groans. “It’s a one-off. And the last I recall, you were singing a completely different tune about him.” 

Ms. Carney tuts, flipping another page coolly. “That’s because I didn’t get a proper look at him the last time. Patrons with a face like that are always welcome to my store.” 

“I don’t see the appeal.” 

Mrs. Carney gasps in mock hurt. “You better get your eyes checked,” she chides, and Riza wants to point out that, respectfully, her boss is the one who’s exceedingly reliant on her glasses, not her. She does wish to keep her job, though, so she wisely bites her tongue and lets her carry on with her silly spiel. “Besides, I’m the boss, so I get to pick my customers.” 

“Isn’t literacy for everyone?” 

“Exactly,” Mrs. Carney snaps. “Especially including him.” 

“Sure,” Riza sighs defeatedly as her phone goes off again. 

*** 

Yeah yeah and I’m a rotting banana. SPILL  

And don’t think I didn’t notice you blatantly IGNORING my question about the party!!! 

Roy is going too (as you may be aware) 

;););):):)::::: 

*** 

Riza’s taps idly at the screen as she struggles to keep up with Rebecca’s zeal. 

*** 

Your overly generous use of emoticons is going to give me a seizure. Like I said, it was nothing. Blame the rain. And his presence dissuades me more than anything else, thank you. 

*** 

NOOOOOOOO 

Come with/for me then <3 (and get to see him as an added bonus!!! Killing two birds with one stone)

***  

Riza cringes inwardly, knowing that Rebecca must already be more than midway through some diabolical scheme. 

*** 

Afraid that’s animal abuse. 

Hahahaha ur so FUNNY stfu yes/no (the answer is yes plzplz it’s literally been too long since we went for a party together) 

Okay, I’ll try. 

Okay like YES??? 

I believe that’s the ordinary meaning of ‘okay’, but you’re welcome to interpret otherwise. Also, emphasis on try

YESSSSS OKAY 

YOU’RE THE BEST ILY 

(Will forward to Roy) 

No need. 

*** 

Five minutes later, she’s added to some brazenly-named group chat: GONNA PARTY LIKE IT’S OUR CIVIL RIGHT!!! Riza is about to leave the group, assuming it must be spam, but the same epileptic churn of emoticons quickly affirms that it’s Rebecca. 

*** 

Rebecca C.: HI ALL 🤩🥸🥳😝😚🥰😇

Rebecca C.: THIS IS TO CONFIRM THAT THE ONE AND ONLY RIZA HAWKEYE WILL BE JOINING US FOR NEXT WEEKEND’S PARTY 

Rebecca C.: As the best friend of our future chief justice I’ve picked up a few nifty tricks along the way, which includes having multiple eyewitnesses so a certain someone can’t renege on her promise 

Riza. H: Not sure that’s how estoppel works. Also, my exact words were “Okay, I’ll try.” 

Rebecca C.: you say you’re busy with work out of the blue I will personally come and drag you out 

Rebecca C.: Roy can drive the getaway car ;);););) 

He who must not be named: Yes, I can. 

~havocwrecker (unknown contact): SPICY 🌶️ taco 🌮 bell 🛎️ 

Riza H.: I am leaving this group. 

Riza H.: What even is the relevance of Taco Bell in this context 

~havocwrecker (unknown contact): Dunno, just always a good time, and yall spicy 

Rebecca C.: NO DON’T 

Rebecca C.: We here may at some point of our lives require legal advice and/or a criminal attorney 

Rebecca C.: Have mercy (u got me begging u for MERCY) (why won’t you believe me!!!) 

Riza H.: Better start groveling, then. 

Rebecca C.: Love u too!!! xoxoxo 

It’s past midnight by the time she gets home, but Riza sets out to reviewing her course materials for next week as soon as she’s out the shower. One might remark that she’s working herself ruthlessly to the bone, but if she doesn’t keep her hands preoccupied her mind will start growing a mind of its own, and that never ends well – especially with her birthday around the corner. A marker of gloom. Time, flying by like a single-minded eagle with a prey in sight: the indulgence of youth. 

In hindsight, it’s not so much that she enjoys working, as much as she’s taking active steps to prevent a lone thought from blooming. If she starts ruminating about life in the middle of the night she’ll spiral down a dangerous rabbit hole. That never ends well. 

Riza inhales sharply, gripping her pen so hard it might break. Her heart flares at the swell of memory. It’s a fruitless endeavour. The present is already marred. She’s not absorbing any information, and she’s so tired that she thinks her body might cave before her mind does. 

It’s only when she’s about to head to bed that she chances upon an old neighbour’s Facebook post, backyard teeming with the vibrancy of spring — contrasting sharply with the decrepit hovel of a house behind. Riza sucks in her cheeks and pinches the picture on the screen to zoom in. She’d recognise it anywhere. Her old house, looking worse for wear with every day. She slams her phone down and decides that’s enough social media for one day, willing herself not to cry. 

When sleep washes over her at last, it is fitful, restless. Riza awakes feeling like she hasn’t slept in a week, and concludes that adulthood is nothing but a shitshow. 

—- 

This party is decidedly different. For starters, it’s ritzier than the average college party with kegs and beer pongs and plastic cups; the variety of spirits and wine reeks of old money, and Rebecca confirms that yes, the Armstrongs - an old family friend of hers - indeed come from such. Not to mention it’s bigger. The crowd is frankly intimidating, but even amongst a sea of seemingly diverse people she feels unnervingly out of place in her jeans and thrifted satin top; a peach, quarter-sleeved number with a subtle band of sequins ringing its hems. 

Roy, however, seems to pay this no heed, looking enviably lax in his casual polo despite the burgeoning mob. 

“I see you made it in the end.” 

“I’m under duress.” 

Roy laughs — at her, or at her joke, she can’t tell, but he seems to be doing that an awful lot as of late. “You’re a natural comedian, Hawkeye. Lighten up. It’ll be fun.” He sticks a hand into a pocket. “It’s rare that we ever get such an assortment of drinks at a college party.” 

Riza wrinkles her nose, tilting her head slightly to the side. “Yeah, I guess.” 

“Not a fan?” 

“Not really.” 

“Who could’ve guessed,” Roy teases, though without any real malice. “How about just one drink?” 

“Sure,” Riza concedes. Perhaps some alcohol in her system will do her some good; she’s been so on edge as of late that she feels like she might just tip over the precipice any time. A mild buzz might just be what she needs. 

“Come on. I’ll make you a drink.” Roy slides through the crowd with ease as she trails behind him, arms crossed in self-preservation. “Any preference?” 

“Maybe just a gin and tonic.” Riza eyes him warily as he fills a cup with ice. “Anything’s fine, as long as it’s not spiked.” 

Roy scoffs. “Please. That’s beneath me.” 

“You’re no saint.” 

“Well,” Roy winks almost deviously, proving her point. “Maybe not, but I believe your boss also spoke very highly of my chivalry.” 

“She’s delusional.” 

“You wound me so.” Roy lets out an injured sniff as he prepares her drink of choice with practiced ease. “But yes, just so we’re on the same page — I would never do that. It goes against the golden rules of any good and self-preserving bartender.” 

“Since when were you one?” 

“I help my mother out at her bar sometimes.” 

“Oh,” is all Riza says, mildly nonplussed. “I didn’t know your mom owned a bar.” 

“Well, yeah.” A corner of his mouth twitches up. He hands Riza her drink and proceeds to reach for the whiskey next. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” 

Riza shrugs, sipping at her drink as a retort hangs idly on her tongue. It’s not entirely untrue; the recent weeks have led her to reconsider her impression of him somewhat. 

“And I’m sure there’s much I don’t know about you, either,” Roy continues, unflappable as he savours his drink. She flushes, but refuses to falter. Maybe it’s a ploy to dredge up some buried secret. “This is pretty neat. Wanna try?” 

“No, thank you,” Riza declines, electing to nurse her own drink instead. She observes him discreetly and suddenly feels guilty. He’s probably bored to death; he thrives off attention while she’s a wallflower. “Don’t let me hold you back, by the way. You should go mingle.” 

“I’m good,” he leans back against the table to mirror Riza’s position. A few girls — Vanessa being one of them, Riza notes without surprise — eye him with intrigue as he faces the crowd. 

Ever the incurable flirt, Roy waves at them with a sort of manufactured charm, triggering more than a couple swoons. “Happy to stay put on display.” 

“Don’t you have some public duty to be the life of the party, or something?” 

That elicits a hearty laugh. “They’ll live, albeit with some loss. Although, if you wanna hit the dance floor, just say the word.” 

“I’ll pass, thanks. Have you seen Rebecca?” 

Rebecca and Hughes spring out of the crowd at that precise moment, their respective partners in tow. Or, who Riza presumes is Hughes’ girlfriend, given their entwined hands and beaming expressions. Havoc shoots an affable smile her way before making a drink. 

“There you are! I’ve been looking for you all evening,” Rebecca chirps, slinging an arm over Riza’s shoulder. Dressed to the nines, she’s a sight to behold; sequins and glitter sparkling like stars under the mirrorball. She narrows her eyes at Roy. “Stop flirting with my best friend and leave some of her for the rest of us.” 

“We weren’t flirting,” Riza deadpans, even as her neck warms. Mortifying, really, that Roy Mustang of all people has grown into a creature actually tolerable. “We were looking for you, too.” 

“Whatever you say,” Rebecca waves dismissively. “The Nile is not just a river in Egypt, by the way.”

Riza nearly sputters, but manages to keep a straight face. And Roy, curse that wretched man — just howls with laughter, even as Maes nudges him in the rib. 

“What can I say, I’m just irresistible.” 

“Sure, if you think so. Now can we please dance?” 

And, of course, because Rebecca never fails to get what she wants, they end up on the dance floor; smushed up against a sweaty, interfused mass of college students all gathered in search of different highs and a reprieve from life. 

— 

It feels like hours have passed since the party’s started; even though a quick glance at her phone tells her she’s really only been on the dance floor for less than an hour. But her feet are starting to ache, and the crowd is starting to get to her, and her fringe is annoyingly sticky and matted with sweat, so Riza sheepishly excuses herself and makes a beeline for the washroom, weaving through the masses until she gets to another segment of the Armstrongs’ residence that’s relatively uninhabited.  

Riza continues down the imposing hallways. She can literally see and smell and feel their opulence, glittering from every inch of polished marble. It boggles her mind how people can afford such lavish and extravagant lives while she’s just barely scraping by; teetering on the verge of eviction if she just loses one of her many jobs. Pursing her lips, Riza shoves her envy down back to one of her many tightly-sealed mental compartments. Jealousy is a wasted emotion, she reminds herself. It won’t change her predicament or do her any good. 

When she reaches the bathroom at last, she’s slightly miffed to find that there’s a snaking line, but she waits without complaint and settles for scrolling idly through an online collection of poetry she’d stumbled upon the other night, until it gets to her turn. 

Relieved to find that most of the crowd has scattered by the time she’s done, Riza settles beside yet another table with drinks, and helps herself to a lime Breezer from a bowl of ice (that’s helpfully marked with a Post-It saying, in cursive, help yourself!). The little space of solitude is welcome; all the energy abuzz on the dance floor has sapped her of hers. She’s reveling in the quiet, sipping on her second drink, unperturbed by the usual mental clutter, until — 

“Hawkeye?” 

She freezes, bottle nearly slipping and shattering into smithereens. 

“It is you, isn’t it?” 

Her first instinct is to run, but it’s as if her feet have forgotten movement, a fixture even in the face of danger. 

The man saunters over until they’re face to face. Her throat hitches. Riza stares blankly, bewildered, looking right past him like he’s nothing more than a mirage — even though heisheisheshouldn’tbehere —  

“Fancy seeing you here,” Connor persists, tone almost taunting. He eyes her appraisingly, as if judging her sartorial choices. “Are you here alone?” 

“No,” she snaps, acting on pure instinct, crossing her arms defensively. Her nails dig sharply into her elbows. Riza forces herself not to shake. “I’m not.” 

“Really? You seem awfully alone to me. Guess you haven’t changed since we last met.” 

Riza stiffens at the memory of their last meeting; a disastrous, frankly degrading breakup that has left her permanently cynical of men. Not that she hasn’t already had enough reason to be so previously, but she’d been young and naive and plain stupid, and now it’s come back to haunt her: a terrible, foolish mistake in the living flesh. 

“Hawkeye.” Another voice, slicing through the agonising veil of memory. “There you are. We were just wondering where you went.” 

“Hey,” Riza manages, still clutching at her skin. Her nails are buried so deep she thinks it might bruise, but it’s all she can do for self-preservation at the moment. She longs to flee, to scurry away, never mind if she looks like a timid mouse, but her body is an uncooperative, separate entity that she currently has no control over. 

“Who’s this?” 

“I’m Roy. And you are?” 

“Connor.” He smirks in vindictive delight. “Her ex.” 

Dread sweeps over her. Her heart is throbbing so loudly in her ears she thinks she might throw up. Vision blurring, she fails to even notice Roy’s sudden proximity as he looms close, casually resting an arm around her shoulder. 

“I see.” 

“Are you with her?” 

“Yes.” Ordinarily Riza  would’ve come up with some caustic remark to deflate his ego, but shock roots her to her spot. “I’m with her.” 

Connor sneers. “Really? I find that hard to believe.” 

“What’s so hard to believe?” Roy’s grip on her tightens, but not hard enough to bruise or hurt. 

“… just for a bad fuck. Or maybe you haven’t even gotten that far —“ 

One moment Roy is beside her, and the next he’s thrown a fist at Connor, and it is this sudden lapse into violence that finally jerks Riza out of her trance, that spurs her into reacting. 

“Shut up, asshole.” 

“You fucker,” Connor wheezes. “What the fuck was that for?” 

“For talking a bunch of shit.” 

Reflexively, Riza pulls Roy back, clutching at a sleeve and effectively maneuvering him away from Connor’s fist. 

“Leave it,” Riza half-begs. The last thing she wants is to cause a ruckus in another person’s home, or for the authorities to be involved in what really should’ve just been a petty, forgettable encounter. “He’s not worth it.” 

“Fine,” Roy spits, acidic, and she realises then that she’s not the only one shaking. He is, too. “Let’s go.” 

Wordlessly, Roy leads her out of the mansion and into his car. If she hadn’t been so frazzled it would’ve occurred to her that he shouldn’t be driving after that glass of whiskey a couple hours ago (or that she’d previously vowed to only accept one ride), but she’s too overwhelmed to even properly process that piece of information, and follows him into his car without protest. 

— 

They’re still and unmoving in the car, for what feels like forever. Silence stretches between them, dangling on a thread so taut it might snap any time. 

Eventually, Riza breaks it, words cutting through like a knife. 

“I’m sorry for earlier.” 

“What for?” There’s no heat to his voice, now — just pure curiosity. She takes this as a good sign and trudges on, in spite of her parched mouth. 

“For ruining your night. I’m sorry you had to witness—“ 

“Nonsense. You ruined nothing, and you shouldn’t be apologising for something that’s not your fault.” As if reading her mind, Roy reaches out to extract a bottle of water from the glove. “Here. You look like you could use a drink.” 

“Thanks,” Riza mumbles, eyes averted. Humiliation sits heavy in her throat like bile. She thinks of her half-drunk Breezer and instantly regrets not choosing a stronger drink earlier. 

“Not at all.” Even without looking at him, she can feel the worry and frustration rolling off him in waves. Riza just hopes it doesn’t meld into pity. Or disgust. Revolt. 

just for a bad fuck, and —

Connor’s words echoes in her head, roaring like death knells, and it suddenly becomes too much to bear. Her eyes begin to prickle with tears. 

Riza blinks hotly, forcing them back with the heel of her palms. 

“Hey,” Roy coaxes. With a tenderness so alien to her, he pulls her hands away, chafing them with his. “Don’t do that. It’s okay.” 

“I’m sorry,” Riza blurts out again, more so out of habit than anything else. 

“Like I said, there’s nothing to be sorry for.” 

Riza nods, because if she speaks the waterworks might start for good. Instead she bites the insides of her cheeks and clenches her fists, obdurate and stiff. She will not cry. She will keep her emotions in check. She will not let some fucking ex get the better of her. 

“Hey,” Roy tries again. “It’s okay to cry, you know. Just let it out. No judgment, I promise.” 

“No,” she grits out. To cry is weakness; it only creates and begets trouble. (The mantra of her youth — a gospel truth she’s always abided by to avoid her father’s wrath as a kid.) “I’m fine.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No,” Riza repeats, fists still shaking in her lap. If she talks about it she will most certainly cry, and while she’s immensely grateful for Roy’s intervention earlier, her gratitude did not translate immediately to complete trust. “I just… need a moment, if that’s okay.”

“Take all the time you need.” 

“Thank you.” The next few minutes are punctuated by the sounds of her breathing, erratic and sharp, necessary as they are unsettling. The compulsive urge to apologise strikes once more. “I’m sor—“ 

He cuts her off. “Don’t be. You’ve done nothing wrong.” 

Riza nods again, breath coming in little, timorous flutters. She still doesn’t trust herself to speak, but her composure is slowly seeping back, alongside a searingly painful awareness of the situation. 

Shame curdles in her stomach like spoilt milk. Riza half-chugs her water, tamping down the sprig of nausea that threatens to spill and indignify her more than the night already has. 

“Would you like to head back home?” 

“Would it be out of the way—“ 

“Doesn’t matter,” he presses, but not in a forceful way. He fiddles with the radio and smiles at her in a soft, reassuring way that, perplexingly, soothes her frayed nerves and leaves her feeling awfully undeserving all at once. “Where do you stay?” 

Preferring to type then talk (and momentarily forgetting her earlier insistence on it being a one-off), Riza unlocks her phone, keys in her address and turns the screen towards him. 

“Got it. Mind if I borrow this?” 

“Go ahead.” 

Riza props it up on his stand, and leans into her seat, still off-kilter. A brush against her knuckles, feather-light and unobtrusive, jolts her back into awareness. Warmth emanates from his hand. For a fleeting, inexplicable second she wonders how it might feel in hers. 

“Alright?” 

“Yeah,” she exhales, sounding insultingly frail even to her own ears. “Thank you.” 

He smiles again, unnervingly gentle in the glow of streetlights. 

“It’s nothing. Let’s get you home.” 

— 

Message from He Who Must Not Be Named (01:16) ✉️ 

How are you feeling? 

I’m alright, thank you.

You’re sure?

Yes. Thanks, again. That was… kind of you. 

No problem, no strings. If you need someone to talk to, you know who to call~~ ☎️ 

Who?

Her phone goes off without warning while she’s scrolling through a series of inane shorts on YouTube. (She’s had a shower and a steaming mug of chamomile tea, and she’s just settled down proper on her couch to decompress from the inordinately long day.) Startled, Riza nearly drops the buzzing device onto the floor, but marshals herself and clears her throat before picking up. 

“Hello?” 

“Hi,” comes the breezy response, muffled by a hint of sleep. “Just in case you’re not sure who to call.” 

Involuntarily, her lips quirk up in a smile. “And who might that be?” 

“Me, of course.” 

“Please,” she huffs, equal parts relieved and annoyed; it’s nice to know he’s not treating her like she’s made of glass after the whole debacle and her frankly humiliating public display of emotion. A weakness, as her father used to call it. “Go to bed.” 

“Right back at you. Goodnight, Riza. Sweet dreams.” A chuckle, a prelude to something ludicrous. “And by that, I mean you have my permission to dream about me.” 

“That would be quite the nightmare, wouldn’t it?” A noise of protest, feigning injury. Her smile doesn’t waver. “Goodnight, Roy. Thank you.” 

“Anytime.” 

 

Notes:

SO. *deep inhales* I know it’s literally been a year, but I haven’t forgotten about this wee fun fic, and inspiration has stricken once more at the most inopportune of times!! I’ve just started a new job and have a huge exam in July to study for, but I promise I’ll be back for more once all that’s done — I’ve got a bit of a plot brewing in my head and I’m excited to keep writing :)

Thank you to everyone who’s been following this story so far and for your comments — they literally make my day and keep me going 🥰

Please leave a comment if you enjoyed, I’d love to hear your thoughts I might take forever to reply but they genuinely fuel and inspire me to turn my streams of consciousness into something nearing coherence 🥹

I’m also on Tumblr as @firewoodfigs - come say hi <3 and happy Royai week!!! xx