Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or the headcanon idea that inspired this fanfiction.

"…I mean, really, Al, why is this stupid party considered a requirement for all State Alchemists to attend?" Ed leaned his chair back from the table and brought his hands behind his head in a lazy gesture.

Alphonse would have rolled his eyes if he could have. As it was, he pointed out, "It's not just State Alchemists, brother." He pointed toward Hughes and his wife. "It's other military personnel too."

Ed glanced at Hughes who was introducing his wife, Gracia, to Havoc and his current girlfriend. "Yeah, and their dates or family." He sighed dramatically and closed his eyes, letting his head rest on his hands. "What a turnout for Officer's Night."

"Would you like something more to eat?" A waiter had a tray ready, predicting Ed's answer as though legends had been told of his insatiable appetite.

Ed peeked an eye open almost suspiciously, and without a word of confirmation or thanks, he grabbed the tray from the waiter's hands and set it on the table. The front two legs of Ed's chair slammed on the floor, and he leaned forward, grasping his silverware like weapons. "At least the food is good," Ed commented as he shoved in a mouthful.

Al watched him eat the third helping of the fine cuisine. Most officers had already finished the meal and were now chatting amongst themselves around their respective tables. Alphonse and Ed were the only ones sitting at their table, but Al suspected Ed had chosen the empty spot so Al would feel more comfortable watching people eat while not able to do so himself.

The party wasn't nearly as bad as Ed claimed it was. Someone in a corner of the room played light piano music as background noise. At any time, there was always someone laughing somewhere in the room; and Maes Hughes was going from table to table making sure he had showcased his lovely wife to everyone.

Alphonse thought aloud, "Mrs. Hughes must really love him to put up with so much attention, and he must really be devoted to her to talk about her all the time."

"Hey, Al," Ed drew Al's attention back with a snap. "You might want to put down whatever this is in your book of things to eat when you get your body back." He pointed at his plate. "It's not bad for military food."

Studiously, Al squinted at the mess the food had become. Edward ate fast, and he was not a "peanut butter and jelly on separate plates, please" person. "What is it called?"

Ed swallowed. "How would I know?"

"I can't write it down if I don't know what it's called."

Ed waved it off. "Just put a note down that says it was something I ate at the office party thing, and we'll figure it out later."

Al didn't bother pulling out his book, but he did notice an approaching figure. "Brother…" he started to warn.

Too late.

Someone plopped down in the seat next to Ed and humorously observed, "If you don't slow down, Fullmetal, Central will have a food shortage on its hands."

Ed choked in surprise at hearing the newcomer. He coughed for a minute before his lungs were clear. He breathed hard, cheeks flushed slightly in embarrassment. Al pushed a glass of water closer to Ed, and Ed seized it with both hands, downing the contents in slow gulps.

Roy Mustang chuckled wryly. "Or maybe you'll choke and experience a premature end to your soaring military-dog career. Imagine the headlines: 'The Youngest and Shortest–'"

Ed spluttered and water droplets landed across the table. Roy smiled self-satisfactorily, knowing he didn't need to continue. Surprisingly, Ed only seethed through expression at the "short" comment. Perhaps his lungs were too raw for a full-blown protest.

As it was, Ed finally demanded, "Alright, what do you want, Mustang?"

"You're late on your report again." He stated almost officially. "That makes thirty-four times in a row – an unbroken record."

Ed scowled. "Well, if you hadn't ordered me to come tonight, I might be working on it, and then you wouldn't have anything to complain about," Ed griped. He pushed the remaining food away and grabbed a napkin. "I'll write it now if that would get rid of you."

Colonel Mustang set his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. An amused smile flashed across his face. "It's not as though you will have anything new to say."

"What do you mean?" Al questioned while Ed glanced around for a pen.

"Every report is the same," Roy declared nonchalantly. "You go into town, disrupt the peace, destroy part of the city, and refuse to take responsibility." He smirked challengingly. "Honestly, Fullmetal. You're so predictable I don't even need to ask for reports anymore."

"Predictable?" Ed flared. Behind him, Al reached a hand out, ready to stop Ed if he jumped at his commanding officer. Edward's eyes searched the room, stopping in the direction of a certain corner. "I'll show you predictable," he declared and marched straight-shot, shoving aside anything or anyone that got in his way.

Alphonse attempted to apologize. "He's had a bad day, and that last mission didn't let him get any sleep so he's a bit cranky tonight too."

Roy didn't quite seem to hear him. Instead his eyes followed Ed's retreating figure curiously. "Where is he going?"

Without stopping, Ed marched to the opposite end of the room where stood the piano. A bored underling officer tapped the piano keys gently like they would explode if he pressed them too hard.

"Outta my way," Ed commanded. A dark aura spilled out of his being, showing just how bad the last mission had really been and how worn out it had left him. He was in no mood for negotiating. When the pianist took too long getting off the bench, Ed shoved him a bit, sending him stumbling backwards.

With a sigh of mixed contentment and nervousness, Ed sank onto the piano bench. He hadn't played piano at all since his automail rehabilitation. He wondered if he had any skill left, or if he even really wanted to reveal that he had any skill at all.

Since when have I ever cared what anyone thinks of me?

That thought helped, and he moved his hands into position, wondering what would come out this time. He had never learned any actual songs. Except for the one he had written, he always improvised so every time he played a different song came out.

A single chord reverberated through the piano – loud, long, and awkward. Ed hadn't put the soft pedal on, and now he felt surprised stares at his back as people realized something had happened to the light-fingered pianist. He had wanted to prove he was unpredictable, right? Well, so far he had managed that. But Edward wasn't done yet.

Three chords followed after the first, and they all went down the piano, creating a dark mood that reflected his own. They also helped him find his melody. The room was noticeably quieter as he played out his emotions on the piano. By the time he played the melody thin, Ed felt immensely better. The music was therapeutic, and he didn't want to stop playing.

So he didn't.

Instead of hitting a finalizing chord or running up a beautiful, bittersweet scale to close his first piece, he changed key and jumped into the next song, picking up the speed and giving the entire room a lighter, bouncier atmosphere. As he played song after song, Ed got more into the music. Every few minutes he switched the mood and melody, but not for the sake of those listening. No, he was far too selfish for that. He played for himself, and that's what made it so good. He let all his emotions spill out, and that made the songs sincere and enjoyable.

When those who had stopped to stare in wonderment had gotten over their shock, the noise level in the room steadily climbed till it reached the threshold it had been at before.

At some point, someone started a dancing fad, and people began clearing away tables and chairs to make more room to dance to Edward Elric's randomly created tunes. He played without a backward glance, and after a time it seemed he had forgotten that anything else existed but him and the music.

Somewhere in the room, Roy sidestepped next to Riza Hawkeye, both of them conveniently without dates. Her gaze remained fixed on the dancing couples, but his presence couldn't be missed. "Lieutenant Hawkeye," he cleared his throat. Somehow his professionalism had slinked away when he wasn't looking, because his voice nearly cracked enough to let his sudden nervousness show through. "Would you join me for a dance?"

She still didn't look at him. "It would be unseemly and unprofessional for a Lieutenant to dance with her commanding officer, even at an officer function," Hawkeye informed smoothly.

Roy blinked. Oh. "Then dance with me as a friend instead of as your higher up."

She looked at him. The barest smile crept from behind her mask of professionalism. They walked onto the designated dancing area together.

The party broke up at midnight. Busboys cleared the remaining dishes and other workers and janitors trickled into the diminishing crowd to clean up the mess. Soon the room was filled with the sound of collapsible tables being taken down, metal folding chairs clanking as they were carried off. Sparse flickers of conversations still continued despite the late hour.

At the piano, Ed sat with his shoulders slumped, and his hands hanging limply in the space between his knees. His forehead rested on the piano cover that protected the keyboard. His eyelids sagged down, sleep fast overtaking him.

Suddenly a hand clapped on Ed's shoulder. He jerked awake and bolted upright. Someone laughed, and though it took him a minute to blink the haze of exhaustion from his eyes, Ed knew immediately Hughes was standing next the piano.

"I didn't know you played the piano, Ed," he complimented. "Not too shabby either."

"Mm," Ed nodded, too tired to be embarrassed by the compliment.

Gracia smiled at him as well, "The music was very beautiful, Edward."

"Thank you," he nodded again, blinking hard to stay awake.

They left him there, but before Ed could pass out on the piano again, Havoc came around with his girlfriend in tow.

"Not bad, kid," he grinned at Ed, the signature cigarette missing from his mouth for this one event. "Maybe you could play for our wedding."

Havoc's girlfriend had a hand looped through Havoc's arm so she was standing fairly close to him. She squirmed away in the tiniest display of discomfort at Havoc's words. "Which will be a long time in the future," she clarified. Havoc didn't seem to notice her underlying message – didn't seem to realize she had spoken at all.

"Uh-huh, sure," Ed muttered, not quite hearing them as he laid his head on the piano cover again.

They moved on. Breda, Falman, Fuery, Hawkeye, and even Major Armstrong came and complimented him on his skill and their surprise at his even knowing how to play in the first place. Ed nodded in acknowledgement of their presence, but he wasn't quite sure if he was dreaming or not.

At last, when the room was nearly empty, Roy Mustang approached the half unconscious Ed.

"Fullmetal," he addressed him loudly and in a clipped, military tone.

Ed turned his head. A red mark on his forehead showed where he had been leaning against the piano. He slowly lifted his head. When he realized who was speaking to him, he groaned. "What now?"

"I want a full, detailed report on my desk by tomorrow morning. It seems you aren't as predictable as your reputation would have me think." With that, he walked off.

"Crazy old-man," Ed mumbled, resting his head on the piano once more. "Who does he think he's kidding 'tomorrow morning'? More like afternoon." His voice began to fade. "Or how 'bout never…?"

"Brother?"

Ed just sighed.

Al prodded him again. "Brother, they're going to lock up soon. We have to leave."

Ed sighed again, exhaustion spilling out of his small form. "My wrists hurt and my fingers feel like they've fallen off," he complained.

"You didn't have to play the whole time," Al said without sympathy.

"There wasn't anything better to do," Ed deflected.

He sat there quietly until Alphonse prompted him again. "Brother…"

Edward lifted his head and rubbed the red spot on his forehead, feeling the blood rush to the spot. "Alright, let's go." He swung his legs out and stood. "Ugh…" he moaned. "My head feels like mush and my limbs feel like jello. Even my stomach hurts."

Al chided gently, "Maybe next time you won't stay awake the whole time you have a mission and then come to a party on an empty stomach."

Ed stretched. "The mission was time sensitive; I wasn't about to let those people die down there."

"I know."

The door seemed too far away, but Ed started walking even with his legs wobbling under him.

"You played really well," Al said suddenly.

Ed halfheartedly groaned. "Not you too, Al. I only did it to get back at Mustang."

Al chuckled. "You should have looked back to see the look on his face when you started playing."

"Yeah, I bet that was a sight," Ed smiled, but almost as soon as he had spoken, his legs gave up on him. "Umph!" Ed's knees hit the floor first before his torso and head followed. His ribs throbbed in protest at the rough fall. Instead of pushing himself up, he lay on his stomach where he was, one cheek resting against the cold floor. "You know, Al," he closed his eyes. "I never realized how comfortable the floor was," the sarcasm was only partly sincere.

Alphonse stared at his older brother for a moment, sighed, and picked him up. Al carried Ed in an uncomfortable piggy-back fashion all the way to their room. In the room, he helped Ed, half-asleep, get his coat and boots off before he passed out completely – on a bed this time.

Ed lay softly snoring, his mouth open. Every so often he muttered half a word to himself or to someone in his dreams. His flesh foot twitched occasionally, and one hand had slipped underneath his undershirt, pulling it up enough that his stomach lay exposed to the cool air in the room.

Al giggled quietly to himself as he sat down at the end of the bed. "My big brother in all his true glory."

The headcanon post that inspired this fanfiction said: "Ed knows how to play the piano. He once played it at a military party, and everyone was shocked at how great he was."

Hope you like reading as much as I enjoyed losing sleep to write it.

-Dante