Welcome to bergamots and my self-indulgent af sin fic in which i will be exercising my writing stamina. And what better way to do that than prof/student royai au. mmmm i can just feel the moral depravity of it all. it fuels me.

The hair. Riza doesn't get the hair. She fixates on it the first day of class. Her head tilts to the side, supporting her chin with her fingers, and she wonders how it can defy gravity in certain places and how it straddles the line between an intentional hairstyle and "do you own a brush?"

But it fits him somehow. It matches the dark color of his eyes which are cat-like and his roundish face, giving him the illusion that he is much younger than he probably is. He runs his hands through his hair so frequently any attempt to keep it tidy on his part is probably undone by the time he slips his fingers through them once more. Riza watches as he does it again for the second time in the fifteen minutes she's been in his class. He's passing out the syllabus one by one through each row and when he gets to hers she's still observing him like a hawk. He flashes a smile and it disarms her for some unknown reason, scrambling any logic she may have possessed, and causes her look away hastily. There's no heat to her cheeks, but she can feel the embarrassment in her chest. The fact that she looks away guiltily probably doesn't help her case either when he walks past her desk, depositing her copy of the syllabus, and they exchange glances for mere moments. She tries to find meaning in it, but recalls that he is, in fact, a professor and will be as such for the rest of the semester.

Professor Mustang introduces the class with a kind of passion and enthusiasm that is only found in people who love what they do, even if it is Chemical Literature - which, by the way, is completely different from what she expected. Call it wishful thinking, but she had signed up for her blindly in hopes for a different kind of literary text, the classical kind that she enjoys. In retrospect, Riza recognizes her folly and she should have known better: taking an upper division class in her major hardly calls for reading prose and detecting iambic pentameters. If it fits her schedule and allowed her to gained her hours, then there was little she could complain about.

Riza notices the Professor likes to talk and walk around the room when he further explains what she's gotten herself into for the next semester. He wears glasses for reading, which gives a studious look to a man who, for all intents and purposes, looked pretty average; his baby face and the unkempt hair doesn't help that at all. But then she crosses her legs and stares down at her syllabus when he nonchalantly takes off his jacket, while reciting back the policies of his classroom, and rolls up his sleeves to reveal more than just average in the muscle definition this man had in just his forearms. Riza rubs her temple absently when she realizes she was staring again - checking him out if she was being entirely honest with herself.

To avoid reconciling with the blood that rushed to places she'd rather not acknowledge, Riza looks out the window instead where the snow is still melting from the latest winter flurry. The sun shines bright. She begins to blink away the intensity of the brightness of sunlight hitting white snow. It's eight in the morning. The entire room is warm. Blinking turns into drooping. He has a rather soothing voice, crisp and smooth like a satin bed sheet to her face. Her entire body relaxes faster than she can become aware of it.

Her shoulder is tapped incessantly. It's rapid and urgent, but Riza rolls her arm to shrug them off and mumbles something incoherent on the hard surface of her very comfortable textbook. The tapping continues and she slowly opens her eyes with the budding annoyance of waking from her interrupted nap.

Mortification doesn't begin to describe the sinking feeling when it dawns on her that isn't her bedroom or even her living room. She rises quickly in her seat, the screech of chair legs scraping against wooden floor fills the room, and she hears someone snort as they descend towards the front of the classroom. "If you don't hurry, you'll miss your next class."

She blinks the sleep away before putting the voice to the face. Riza straightens her clothing gathering her belongings hastily. She looks up, "I'm very, very sorry, Professor." She clears her throat, situating her pack on her back and hurriedly walks down to the front. "That's most unlike me."

"You're not hurting my feelings," he says cooly as he stuff a stack of papers in his bag. He meets her and smiles at her. She kind of smiles and her ears begin to warm until he says, "Only your grade."

Her face falls. She searches the surface of his desk for answers and recovery. "I'm willing to do extra credit if need be."

"Unfortunately, I don't offer extra credit. Not much extra work you can do for Chemical Literature." Riza opens her mouth to speak but he continues."I understand it isn't the most exciting of topics, but-"

"I understand and it won't happen again, sir." She bows her head, and means it.

He pauses and quirks an eyebrow, "Sir?"

She's so flustered from embarrassment and dazed from sleeping she blurts out, "My father raised to me to -" Riza waves a hand dismissively. "It won't happen again."

"All right." He nods, "I won't be so nice next time."

Except it does happens again.

Slam. The impact of a textbook landing precariously close to her face jolts her awake. She straightens in her chair to see him looming over her. Same as before. She doesn't notice when she falls asleep. His face is stern and she's not sure how it's possible, but she squirms in her seat. She dares to look around and the students are pretending like she wasn't made an example of in front of the entire class. Riza waits to be berated on how stupid or lazy she is. She waits to be belittled. But he walks away and continues his lecture as if the interruption never happened.

After class, Riza stands outside of his office. She looks at her simple watch and shifts her weight from leg to leg waiting until he finally rounds the corner. He has a coffee cup in his hand which explains why he took so long to cross from one side of the building to another. He looks surprised to see her and Riza tries to put her best apologetic face but before she speaks he greets her, "Ah, it's you, Miss..?"

"Hawkeye," she supplies. "I'd like to apologize for falling asleep."

"Miss Hawkeye," he parrots back, unlocking the door to his office deftly with one free hand. "I believe I made myself clear about that on the first day of class. And yet, here we are one week later." He steps into his office and the door is left open. Riza takes it as an invitation to follow him inside.

"Yes, sir, I know I have no excuse but - " she tries her to not sound like a victim, "-if you allow me extra work, I can-"

"Like I said, I don't offer extra credit," Mustang says gravely and Riza notes the how much more tense he's become from just the beginning of their conversation. He hangs the jacket on his coat rack and she stares for only a second. She looks away just as he situates himself in his chair.

Chancing it again, she makes her case, "I work nights so I feel the need to ask if could you make an exception, sir?"

He's organizing loose papers on his desk and stops abruptly at her question. He leans back in his chair and scrutinizes her. It is a strange shift from having a friendly face to an expression that could melt her on the spot, but she schools her own under his gaze. He says to her coolly, "No exceptions."

Riza looks down, hands clasped in front of her, "I see..." She takes that as her cue to leave.

"And Miss Hawkeye," he stands from the leisurely way he was sitting in his chair. He walks over to guide her to the door. "I would rethink how you spend your nights and prioritize your schoolwork. If you're in my class it's because it's one of your core classes. You cannot afford to fail it without risking a delay in your progress." She thinks that's reasonable; self explanatory. Riza finds herself across the threshold when he finishes: "My advice? Do without the booze money."

He closes the door in her face and she stands there, stunned for a moment, before she walks away and the indignation settles and stings with each step.

"I don't like him."

"What's there to like?" Olivier supplies from across the living room as she flips absent-mindedly through a magazine. Riza can name a few things, but she doesn't say it aloud for good measure.

"No, I really don't like him…" Riza corrects herself before she glances up to her other roommate. "Rebecca, am I capable of hate?"

Rebecca settles next to Riza, cradling a steaming cup of coffee mixed with some Irish creme she's not supposed to have. "Aw, but he's cute." She earns herself a glare from Riza. "What? You can't tell me he isn't in the least bit attractive."

Riza sinks into the couch with crossed arms. "Thinking that he's cute won't help me pass the class."

"Haven't you gone to his office to explain?" She takes a careful sip. "Or if you can make it up?"

Riza sighs, "I have. I don't think he's one to budge."

"Cry in front of him. Tell him about your dad. He'd have to be heartless not to understand."

"Don't cry," Olivier speaks up again. Her domineering expression was as cold as steel, "It shows weakness."

"He doesn't need to know my personal business." She's still fuming from that morning. She hates herself for taking a class so early in the morning, but it never occurred to her that it wouldn't be an easy transition. It wasn't so simple: moving around is a lot easier and sitting in a warm classroom and a soothing voice with a handsome face inevitably lulls her to sleep.

"Riza!"

She shakes her head as if to disperse the thoughts from her mind. "I'm sorry, what?"

Rebecca relays her question back, slowly and deliberately like someone inconvenienced from repeating themselves "Have you looked him up on Rate My Professor?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Why would you not?" Rebecca scooches in closer, sharing her phone screen.

The display reads in large letters: Roy Mustang. Chemistry. Rating: 3.9/5. Riza furrows a brow, pointing at the red spice on the screen, and asks, "What's the pepper for?"

Rebecca smirks, "That's whether the professor is hot or not."

Olivier deadpans without so much as a glance up: "Did someone put that on there as a joke?"

Riza ignores them and reads aloud the tags given to him by students: "Hilarious. Great lectures. Tough Tests. Get Ready to Read. Tough Grader. Skip Class? Won't Pass. Participation matters." She runs a hand through her face, groaning.

"How heavily is participation weighted in his class?"

"Thirty percent-five."

Rebecca hisses low, but pats Riza's shoulder sympathetically. "Surely, he won't drop your grade thirty-five percent."

"I don't know," Riza hands back the phone and pulls her knees close to her chest. "He always looks like he's in a good mood until he starts talking to me. I think he really does get insulted." She thinks about the door in her face again. "But that doesn't mean he can't be a bit more compassionate towards students. The damn sadist."

"So cynical at such a young age. What a shame," Rebecca tuts. "What are you going to do?"

"There's only one thing she can do."

Riza perks up to Olivier's uncharacteristic offer of advice, hopeful.

"Don't fall asleep in his class."