ayyy! Hi guys. We love you all. I REALLY hope you all know that! This one is packed full with feels and angst. But hopefully it'll put your aching hearts at ease, yeah?

Warnings: mentions of abuse

there is a book living inside your chest / buddy wakefield, in landscape

The world works in peculiar, but repetitive ways, with mannerisms observable to those persistent enough to recognize it. Before, Riza would have herself believe she knew this, that there was a natural order to things to survive - to live. It had been etched into her skull following year after year of blood, sweat, and tears to maintain a semblance of independence. In order to eat, she would need money; in order to have money, she would need to work; in order to work, she would need to be the pillar of diligence and determination. Probably twice as much as her peers. Fitting, as they generally had the support of two parents - and she had none.

Pitying herself and hating the world was justifiable and well within her right, but it wouldn't move her forward. It wouldn't feed her, clothe her, sustain her. Personal attachments, like boyfriends, girlfriends, friends in general, a social life; they are expendable. She saw attachments as unnecessary distractions. Rebecca has remained with her only out of sheer tenacity, well aware of Riza's priorities; Olivier came into the fold from their shared space. But the truth of the matter is that she's softened since her steely vows to herself…

Because this time, she went back to him. And she's realized that now, she was only surviving.

Riza stares into the bathroom mirror, beyond her reflection. He, the disruptor, casually lounges over the bedsheets, perusing his phone. Patient, cocky, ambiguous motherfucker. She doesn't know what to make of him. Some of her knows there is genuine compassion there; part of her still feels Olivier's sting at her naivete for believing that he could have feelings for her. It's been years since the last time she's been so caught up in her own emotions, it felt like a rogue wrench in her well-oiled machine. Her knuckles rest on the marble countertop; her shoulder and head slouches as she sighs to her reflection.

When she moves to the threshold, there is a pleasantly dull ache in her hips that reminds her of their activities on the couch and in the shower when they were supposed to be getting clean. Riza stands there in a sweatshirt of his and some underwear, gripping the door frame with tense fingers and biting her lower lip.

There's just something about being on this precipice. It's like she's staring at uncharted territory from the top of a mountain, ready to dive, and she won't know what's beyond cover of cloud until she jumps. All of her instincts are frazzled as if they are out of signal or reach from her personal network.

If she wants to live, and not just survive, she'll have to strap in and reconcile what she feels. This she knows.

The smell of cigarettes still linger in the apartment. Keeping the window open does nothing but bring in the pollen and add a crisp texture to his sheets from the settling spring. He hates himself for worrying himself to that point, but it had been the rational choice to leave her alone after what transpired at her apartment.

He had been stupid. Eager. He had allowed himself to get comfortable enough with her to risk it all, but strangely he feels no remorse for that. He could swallow his pride enough to admit there's more that he wants from this ...immoral thing between them.

He was remorseful for what he had done to her and what it could mean for her more than him. He could hear the yells when he opened his car door; he remembers hesitating, but eventually opted to avoid interfering. If this was the end of his career because he let someone catch them, then so be it. But she should be spared.

No calls or messages ever came. Not even from those of the distant past.

Against the headboard of the bed, Roy is quiet as he leans back and aimlessly flicks through the apps on his phone. It's not out of boredom entirely...but he's loathe to admit that there's a part of him (a very small part of him, mind) that is nervous for what is coming next.

Strangely, he wants to know how she's been, what she's been up to. It's an odd feeling having had her at his side almost constantly and then have her absent. He had struggled crystalize the concept that he actually missed her. And then, this afternoon, she was distant. Something was off. He got even more concerned. The amount of emotions spilled out of her in that brief argument where there was so much ire and hurt. Guilt had settled in unpleasantly when he realized he had flipped the switch so quickly.

Riza appears in the doorway leading to the ensuite, cheeks still suffused with pink. "For the way your hair always looks," she says, sinking onto the bed next to him and pulling down the sleeves of another borrowed sweatshirt of his, "I didn't think you even had a comb in the house." She sits cross-legged, and begins to work her fingers through her hair, isolating the knots.

Roy snorts, setting his phone down on his side table. "This takes hours to perfect, thank you."

She smiles, attacking one knot with a dogged determination. "I suppose, it'd be a long shot to ask you if you have a hairdryer?"

He shrugs. "You're free to look but I wouldn't count on it."

"You don't know if you own a hairdryer?"

"The folly of man." She snorts at this. He watches her none-too subtly as she works through her hair, little droplets of water soaking into the sweatshirt, and It's unlike him to act so brazenly, so spontaneously.

She's his walking, living and breathing contradiction, and he can't get enough of the paradox that she presents him with just by existing in the same space as he does. He can't call himself a seasoned academic by any stretch of the imagination - he has colleagues who are probably three times his age - but the chemistry program at Eastern University is a popular for good reason, and so Roy has had the pleasure (and displeasure) of working with plenty of students over the span of his teaching career. She's not the first student that has blatantly caught some shut-eye in his class, justifications aside. Those... incidents were getting to a certain point in his early morning class that he'd silently hope she'd fall asleep, just so he could make an example out of her. There was some perverse pleasure in startling the drowsy girl. He had known she'd appear at his office with the gall to ask for extra credit. Nobody has grabbed has grabbed his attention like she's has managed - student, colleague, or anything else in the spectrum; especially when he wasn't even looking.

But he doesn't know whether that has had any bearing on that first meeting in the library or if it was his inability to sleep at night brought him there at that hour just to see her on pure happenstance. He prides himself on his ability to remember names and faces, but it could have been anybody else working that particular job, on that particular schedule just so she could fall asleep on his particular class.

Perhaps it didn't matter how they arrived to where they were now, half-dressed and thoroughly fucked on his bed. Maybe this was always going to happen.

"You okay?" she asks, with a slight crease forming between her brows and pulling him from his woolgathering with a warm hand on his knee.

Roy catches her hand with his own, and pulls on it slightly. "The real question is if you're okay?"

She looks away guiltily and tries to reassure with a disingenuine tug to the corner of her lip. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"As much as I enjoyed that little… show in the living room," Roy trails off, knowing he's verging on new territory while smoothing over the top of her hand with his thumb. In response, a pink prettily colors her cheeks once more. "I have a feeling there's something more behind it."

In silence, he waits a few moments before tucking some of her hair behind her ear, fingers tracing over the bone of her jaw to lift her head once more. "Riza?" he asks carefully, softly. He can feel his pulse beginning to thump unsteadily in his neck. He focuses on his breathing: slow, measured intakes that don't bely the turmoil brewing inside.

She shifts again, but doesn't pull her jaw away; her fingers grip his own tightly.

"Forgive me, but it's not really something to concern yourself with." she responds, somehow managing to make her voice sound so small damn near breaks his resolve. She swallows, and blinks furiously. Roy readies himself to protest but she proves herself to be one step ahead of him. "After Olivier interrupted us and you left, there was a moment of contention, and today has been the last straw after everything has been piling up."

Worry forms a knot in his throat, guilt makes it heavy in his gut. "With Olivier?"

Riza shakes her head. "No, but I apologize that I took that out on you. I shouldn't have - you deserve better than that. It was unfair of me."

"Why don't you tell me about today?" He doesn't realize it's more than just waking up on the wrong side of the bed. He asks because he's promised to be better since he moved from Central.

"Why?"

"If you don't want to tell me, there's nothing I can do about that. But I think airing it out is a better alternative to bottling it in and letting your problems - our problems wreak havoc."

With a touch of indignation, she argues, "I don't see how wrongly taking it out on you makes it our problem, Roy."

"The very fact that you did makes it our problem, Riza. Whatever it is, I'd like to help after the trouble I caused this week."

She scoffs and anger begins to the earmark in places like her jaw and the tight ball of her free hand. "But it has nothing to do with you."

Roy sighs again and moves to sit like she is with the cap of their knees inches apart. He clasps her hands with both sides now and lowers like he's bowing to kiss the top of her hand rather than bringing it up to his face. When he comes back up, she's staring at him strangely. "All I'm saying is you don't have to make this burden yours alone."

Riza exhales heavily, and from her shoulders to her posture, he sees her body sag from the breaking down of whatever weight she was carrying. Her mouth twitches like she's choosing her words with heavy consideration. She breathes back in and her eyelashes flutter from the glassy surface her eyes have taken up. "For starters, let's just put it out there that I didn't have a normal childhood with a nice house and a picket fence."

"Neither did I," he responds, shrugging, with about as much emphasis as he'd use to talk about the morning weather report.

Like she's embarrassed or something close to it, her hand nervously scratches her head and pushes another strand of damp hair behind her ear after it had come loose. She's so hesitant he can feel the pull on his heartstrings just from the cracks that are beginning to surface. The chew on her lip tells him there's so much she's holding in.

"When I was fifteen," she starts out slowly and Roy feel himself tense to prepare what she'll say. "I emancipated myself from my only living family member."

The gears in his head stop. His eyes narrow, because he doesn't know what it means. "Emancipated?"

The smile she gives him is grim and worn. "It's a legal process to separate myself from my parent or guardian and be treated as an adult, to prevent myself from being put into a home.

"I never knew my mother; she died during childbirth so it left me with Father. He tried, some part of me wishes he had tried more, but children can't choose their parents. He gave me a home, food, an education… I was more fortunate than most, I know. Some don't even have a chance two out of those three."

"When you were fifteen…" Roy sounds it out in his mouth as the gearworks finally begin its process again; quick to process her age, her only family member, why she would go through such drastic proceedings and it dawns on him swifter than he has a chance to limit his expression at the revelation.

"My back," she vocalizes it for him. There's no tremor in her voice, no indication of the months of rehabilitation and healing that would've happened. From the brief glimpses he's seen, her scarring is older than his, paler, but he knows enough about burns to recognize third degree scarring when he sees it. Against her spinal cord too - he tries to push back the urge to see it in his mind's eye. She moves her head up, blinking like she's trying to keep her tears from overflowing down her cheeks and the muscles in his jaw flexes as her hand subconsciously twitches in his. "I remember having to show evidence for the court case by showing them the extent of injuries from the explosion. And then, photographic evidence wasn't enough."

Explosion? His curiosity careens in a way that he almost asks it, but Roy bites his tongue. "Have you seen him since?"

Riza nods again. "Today, in fact. By the time I got out of hospital, Father had been put into one and my case worker was already organising the papers needed for my emancipation. It kept me busy then." Riza lowers her head and quickly swipes at her cheek with the hand he was holding. "I know this isn't what you asked for."

"I wasn't expecting quite this much honesty," Roy adds innocently enough, and he wasn't.

She's always managed to be a cornucopia of surprises for him, always made him second-guess the ground that they stand on. There is no tried and tested theory that aligns with her and her actions; instead, he feels as if he's on the brink of a brand new discovery, and with every new part of her revealed to him, he becomes that much more secure in the knowledge that this is no ordinary set of circumstances.

He looks at her when he catches on to the her silence, and she's horrified, absolutely mortified as if his truthful comment shattered her after pouring out her life's story. He catches her arm as she's about to move away from him and the bed and crumble this between them. "Listen, that's not how I meant it." She stares at him as if she's not completely convinced. "This is privileged information, from you, and I didn't expect you opening up like this to me. Not after you had been so closed before."

Roy watches her relax again and move another hand across her cheek frustratingly. She says lowly, "I'm sorry… I don't do this often." There aren't many twenty year-olds with this level of maturity; even less for the ones that do and swallow their pride to openly admit their mistakes. She's done it from the first day he met her. Sadly, he now realizes it's not borne from a position of instilled values. Mistakes are the harshest teacher, single-handedly tutoring Riza for a long time now whether the mistakes were hers or not.

"I know." Wordlessly, he pushes himself to the back of the bed and he beckons her to join him. He holds her flush against his chest. She's tense still, but he rubs her arms, then hugs her without suffocating her, until she's ready to go on.

"I'm tired," she says abruptly, resting her hand on his forearm just for the touch. "I'm really... fucking tired. Olivier's dirty looks and pointed silence are more than I want to deal with. I can see why she's angry and at the same time, I don't. Father's visits are just the same. Like I am just space that happens to occupied, no acknowledgement, too busy in his head trying to figure out where he fucked up so badly that he can't even have staples-" She chokes on the end of the last word and burrows inside herself, bringing her knees back, but it's his arms that catch her tears.

He pulls in the bundle of tense muscle even closer to him, relieved when she clutches to him tightly. Her sobbing is silent, he wouldn't even know if not for her body tensing when she tried to silence them and the sniffling. She whispers I'm sorry again and he can't possibly pull her closer.

It's been a long time since he last found himself in this kind of position - though back then he was not only a lot younger, but far more rash and prone to reckless decisions. But unlike with his sisters, he cannot protect her in this moment from whatever bogeyman that haunts her, whether real or imagined. There are no injustices to be rectified, no men to go after with quick fists. Her story has already been told, neatly santised for those who go prodding, and now he's witness to the messy truth that follows afterwards: you're never free of the abuse, not even with bars or miles or even six feet of dirt to separate you.

He tries to keep his face impassive as she readjusts once she's reigned in the sobs, sniffling and scrubbing at her eyes roughly with the sleeve of the borrowed sweater. At this rate he'll need to send her back into the bathroom to clean her face: it's become all puffy and blotchy, but the raw emotion allows him to appreciate the beauty that goes beyond her skin. He's quick to run his thumbs over her cheekbones, wiping away the tears that still spill over, before drawing her close to him, their limbs tangling awkwardly as he rests his chin on top of her shoulder.

"I'm sorry." he tells her softly, his thumbs rubbing reassuring circles on her skin. In this position, he can feel every shuddering inhalation she takes.

Riza snorts. "I don't remember you being there when it happened."

"It's not an apology. It's sympathy. No one should go through something like that."

Passive and still, she says, "I appreciate it, but I've had enough something to last several lifetimes."

"It's not pity either. I can't imagine it's an easy story to relive," he trails off, pressing a kiss onto the crown of her head.

"I suppose say the same about yours."

He straightens and swivels to look at her. "Mine?"

Riza turns her head, smiling slightly despite her reddened eyes. "Your side. It's hard to miss."

Roy laughs, sliding his arms properly around her stomach. "Not quite. Even if I wanted to tell, I can't. The non-disclosure stops me from saying basically anything."

"You have a non-disclosure?" She turns her entire body now, crumpling the sheets beneath them to face Roy. "On that?"

"Pretty par for the course when working for the military," he explains. "I can't think of any colleagues who aren't under at least one."

Riza blinks and shakes her head slightly. "You used to be in the military?"

"I wasn't always teaching chemistry, Riza. Even you have to admit, I'm a little younger than most to have a cushy position as a professor." It's the closest he could give as a hint without violating the clauses. He knows that she's smart enough to ask the right questions to get the information she wants, if she's paid attention in his class. She's chewing her lip thoughtfully, and watching him with keen, bright eyes.

"Is that why you're so fit?" she asks finally, a sly grin growing on her face. "It's not a complaint but it never made sense contextually. You're a professor, not an athlete."

"That's the question you ask? Not curious about how it happened, or what kind of cool battle I might've gotten it from?"

Shrugging, her grin only widens in response. "You just said you can't say anything. I went for the next best thing."

He can't help his own grin, so he runs a hand through his face. "Old habits die hard, but I'm nowhere where I used to be."

Her gaze falls back to his chest and he can see her mouth the words where I used to be - he's not one for peacocking - well, not that much - it's an appreciated ego boost nonetheless.

"But now I'm sure there's so much I don't know about you."

The grin fades from his face. "What do you mean?"

Riza gestures to the walls. "There's no pictures. Here or in your office. And just earlier you said, your childhood wasn't like most. I'm curious now, what's your story?"

Roy contemplates for a moment. Five years back, he would've done anything to avoid the subject. Now, he feels the need to equal the footing. "We're similar in some ways," he starts, cocking his head to the side. "My parents died when I was one, maybe two. A car crash, I'm told. I was bounced around the system for ten years, give or take, until my aunt found me. By that time I had several chips on my shoulder...I didn't make it easy on her."

At this point, Riza's eyes are wide like saucers, her jaw is slack. "How many...?" The rest of her question is unspoken, but he knows what she's hinting at.

"Just two. The first one was okay. The last one…" he swallows; it's been a long time since the fires from that deep-rooted fear and contempt have had a chance to spark. He continues matter-of-factly, "They were not kind people." He rolls his shoulders, feeling the familiar pop as his bones shift over one another. "But they were clever not to leave visible marks. My sisters were less lucky in that regard."

"Sisters?"

Despite the grim nature of the conversation, he can't help the smile that grows on his face at their mention. "Yes, fourteen."

Her mouth drops properly. "Fourteen sisters?"

"You get more funding if you take on more kids, and my last foster home had a good efficient money laundering operation going on. It's not a perfect system, but most of them got out. With only a few bruises."

"That's horrible." Her hand falls back down to her lap from covering her mouth.

He meets her eyes, glassy with unshed tears. "You don't have to cry for me. It's been a long time since then. All I can do now is help those that are still in situations like that."

"What do you do?"

"Charities, mostly. Making sure to donate to the ones that are honest about their endeavors."

"No, I meant," she hesitates again. "To cope, to go on. To deal with ...that." Sighing, Riza looks at her fingers. "I kept people at arm's length. It felt like they would just disappear eventually."

Roy sits up slowly, mulling over his words with care. "It's easy to fall into the trap that one day you're going to forget it ever happened. That won't happen. You're going to remember. You're going to be reminded at the worst of times. For me, I think it was surrounding myself with people who love me that helped the most."

Riza exhales heavily with a bitter laugh tailing it. She twists her fingers in her palms. "You'll have to help me find some who do."

He stills, suddenly very aware of the feeling of constriction in his chest. "I'm sure your friends..." he tries.

"Olivier gave me a good chewing out after you left, remember? And Rebecca…" Her hand goes through her now frizzy hair. "She texted that we need to talk. We do. But I'm terrified to confront her about all this."

"Then why would you risk your friends to come here?" The silence that follows is deafening and then, he realizes what kind of response he's asked of her.

She visibly tenses from his words and looks at him with apprehension, trying to sounds the words. "I-I don't know. It was instinct. It was…"

There's an expectation hanging in the air between them that he doesn't want to give description to. He feels like he's fucked it up after so much that's been discussed. Now, there's a hand shrouding the space around his heart and squeezing at all the right moments. He waits on her response with bated breath.

She's quiet for a few moments before she responds. "Probably the same reason you'd listen to a student's problems who has nothing to do with your own."

His heart twists uncomfortably at her cool tone. "Riza…" he runs a hand through his hair roughly. "We're both beyond that point of relying on our positions to cover for us. You stopped being my student a long time ago. To be honest with you, the moment you pointed out in my office that I had made the exception for you, I knew I wasn't going to be able to be objective with you."

She opens her mouth to say something, but the words are robbed of her.

"I'm not even grading your essays anymore," he confesses. " Not since the library incident. I get a colleague to do moderation with me and I make sure to always put your assignments in with his pile. I will not have your reputation ruined because of me, but please be honest. Do you really still think of me as just your professor?"

He can see the cogs in her mind turning over and over, trying to formulate a response that deflects much more than it answers. "No," she says eventually, sounding the words slowly as if savouring the weight they hold. "Not anymore."

It is not the answer he expects to hear, and he thinks he must've heard her wrong. He had imagined this conversation a thousand times, imagined a thousand different responses that removed her as an active participant. He wouldn't have stopped her. But instead, she's presented him with the option he'd scarcely dared to believe: that maybe, it was entirely possible that he hadn't imagined this all up in his head.

"I know now that opening up… is a trial for you. I don't doubt that for a second. I know what I want from this and it's completely different from when we first started this. But I'll give you the option to decide."

"And what would that be?"

"What I want?"

Riza nods hesitantly.

He takes her hand gingerly and he studies them for a moment, how well their fingers settle against each other. Her body betrays what her words hide - and it's that sliver of hope that gives him the courage to continue. "It doesn't make sense to me. It's not by any means logical. There are a million and a half alarms going off in my head that this is ludicrous and detrimental for both of us. But the truth of it now, is that I'd like to be with you.

"And not because of the sex, or age difference, or whatever else that comes to mind once people realise the nature of how and where we met. But because you are different in how you think, I admire your stubbornness, your own will to survive on your own. I couldn't imagine the loneliness. And I think you deserve to know someone does care about you."

Her brows furrow. "Who?"

He shakes his head in bemusement, despite the nerves coursing through him. God, it's like he's a teenager all over again. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, Riza. I care about you. A lot."

"You do?" She blinks slowly, a perplexed look settling on her face. "No, no, we weren't meant to- you said-"

"I know what I said," he says quickly, swallowing down the fear bubbling up his throat. "And if you want to stop it now because I crossed that line, I understand. I really do."

Her expression falters. "I don't-" she takes a deep breath "- I don't want that," she replies quietly, squeezing his fingers tightly. "But this is just - I liked it before, before-"

"Before other people found out?" Her shoulders sag and Riza nods.

"I just- I like this, I like us. But if everyone else is going to think I'm only sleeping with you for grades."

"And I know you're not, if your reaction to my joke was anything to go by." He's trying his hardest not to grin because nothing has been confirmed, not really. It doesn't quell the giddy feeling growing in his stomach, however. "I wouldn't ask anything of you, not at least until the trimester is over."

Her lips twitch upwards. "So where does this leave us?"

His thumbs brush over her knuckles. "I'm not sure that's the right question to ask. What I do know is that I like you, I like spending time with you, and I would like to keep doing that."

The smile growing across Riza's face is the kind he'd like to see several times whether she's been crying or not, and it's hard not to mirror her. "I think I'd like that too."