I do not own Full Metal Alchemist.

"You're dressed sharp. Got a date?"

"I have nothing of the sort. I am, however, going out, meaning you'll have to go back to your dorm or stay here. I shouldn't be more than a few hours."

Kimbley's golden eyes scanned the man, starting at a pair of swank black shoes, laces bowed immaculately, then moved up to observe the rest of the attire which comprised of navy pinstripe jacket and trousers, white shirt and blue striped tie. The eyes then finally lifted up along the pale neck which stretched above the collar then to the equally as pale visage. His lips were thin and serious and his eyes lent to this tenor, cold and equally as austere.

"I get it: you don't want me to cramp your style when you're trying to pick up women." It was too easy for Kimbley to irk Archer; who would be able to resist, really? And his efforts weren't in vain (not that any real effort was required) for the man's brow furrowed beneath his slicked back hair.

"It's nothing of the sort," he reiterated. It really wasn't anything like that at all. Archer had been following the situation pertaining to Lior, and, according to rumours, the brass were planning to send out a mass of soldiers, himself to be included almost without a doubt. He didn't mind—he thoroughly enjoyed the perils of war—but he felt that he should at least seize one more opportunity to do something he enjoyed back home.

"Then where are you going? Drinking at a bar? Or picking up some prostitutes?" taunted Kimbley in response. The joke didn't seem to be well received by Archer, who maintained his slight scowl.

"I'm going to a concerto, if you must know." He tired of being hassled continuously by Kimbley so decided on just telling the man where he was heading so as to put an end to his games. It was reverse psychology, in all honesty: Archer knew that a concerto wasn't Kimbley's idea of fun and that he would lose all interest in harassing him about it, allowing Archer to leave in peace and quiet to enjoy the melodic notes which would lull and comfort him throughout the evening's duration.

"I'll go with you."

…Those weren't quite the words of resignation Archer had expected.

"Come with me? Why on earth would you want to accompany me? You can't come, anyway."

"And why not?" Kimbley challenged, watching his recently-appointed superior defiantly.

"Because you don't have a ticket, nor do you have any suitable clothing. What's more is you would find it entirely boring and spend the entire night complaining. You like orchestrated chaos, not orchestrated performances."

Kimbley scoffed at Archer's words. "Come on, Frankie; I'm not five years old, you know. I know you can get me another ticket, or maybe you could pay on the door, or I could just sneak in. Who are you to dictate how I want to broaden my horizons?"

"If you call me Frankie again, I most certainly will not get you a ticket." Archer didn'twant to miss the concerto because of something stupid like Kimbley getting them banned for trying to sneak in…Who knew, he might even enjoy the company, albeit if he had a choice of who he would take with him, Kimbley wasn't exactly at the top of the list—or on the list whatsoever. But still, company was company. "…I'll see what I can sort out."

"Thank you, Archie," Kimbley grinned and stood from where he was sat on the living room sofa, then proceeded to head to the stairs. "I'll just borrow something of yours," he added over his shoulder as he began his ascent to the first floor of the house.

"Don't even dare to go in my room, Kimbley!" Archer called after the man but all he heard was laughing then stomps directly above his head—his bedroom. He let a heavy sigh escape him and thought he might as well call up and see if he was able to get a second ticket on such short notice.

Living with the Crimson Alchemist was a pain, Archer quickly discovered. He still couldn't fathom how such had come about. Kimbley said something about 'him doing Archer a favour' (even thought it was him getting Kimbley reinstated), and before the Lieutenant Colonel even knew it, he found his spare bedroom inhabited by that maniac.

***

They were twenty minutes late, thanks to Kimbley, though Kimbley blamed it on Archer driving slower than 'a dead turtle rolling uphill', and they ended up having to take a seat fairly near the back of the concert hall. The music had already begun but Archer strongly doubted they'd been playing the full twenty minutes, probably five at most. As Archer took his seat, he watched as the man on stage sat atop a large wooden box before the conductor, serenading him with the cello he played with such raw emotion and anguish and the surrounding orchestra which delicately contributed to the mien. He remained most impressed as the mellifluous tune transformed to become more lyrical yet still retained a melancholy feel to the piece. Truly pathetic, in the traditional sense of the word; solemn and utterly sublime.

"Well, this is crap, isn't it?" he heard, followed by a heavy thump as Kimbley dropped himself in the seat beside. Not many people close to where they sat were watching the performance as the orchestra moved seamlessly into the second movement, many glaring at the crass comment from the Crimson Alchemist, though they were all returned by a challenging glower from said man in return. No one dared take him on, however, and looked forward once more to where the tune had now noticeably changed. Perhaps it was fortunate they had been late, otherwise Kimbley's remark might have brought the entire orchestra to a grinding halt.

"I thought you said you were going to behave," Archer spoke in a much more subtle yet reprimanding tone.

"What? Aren't I allowed to even voice my opinion?" Kimbley retorted, now lowering his voice to match Archer's in volume.

"You aren't supposed to talk full stop. Now, if you don't mind."

"But it's boring not talking for two hours or however long this crap lasts."

"Then you should have stayed at home and talked to yourself for two hours," Archer rebuked, already annoyed by the man and it had been but five minutes. Whether or not Kimbley was sulking Archer didn't know, but the man did fall silent, much to Archer's pleasure.

"…Who made this up? Is it 'Batch'?" Kimbley asked, disrupting his state of quiet which Archer was enjoying so much. Archer exhaled heavily before he looked over to the other soldier.

"'Batch?'"

"Yeah, Batch. B-a-c-h."

Another exasperated sigh. "You're asking of the composer and whether it's Bach. Not 'Batch'."

"Fine then. 'Back.'"

"No, Bach." Archer made it a point to stress the end of the name to emphasise the correct pronunciation.

"Bach." Kimbley made a point of collecting the saliva in the back of his throat and making a disgusting exaggeration of what Archer said, again earning glares from those seated nearby but this time he merely ignored them. "Like that?" he asked all too innocently. Even Archer gave him a look which emanated repugnance.

"Yes, like that. But this isn't Bach."

"Then who is it?"

"Check the programme."

"But I didn't get one when we came in because you dragged me into this damn place."

Archer seethed, extremely peeved with Kimbley by this point. So much for good company.

"Elgar. Edward Elgar."

"'Edward Elgar'…Like Edward Elric?"

By now the orchestra had gone into the third movement and the music sounded more…wistful was how Archer thought of it, but he didn't really know—nor did he get a chance to truly even appreciate it with Kimbley trying to engage in a game of 20 Questions beside him.

"Yes. Like Edward Elric." It just seemed easier to appease the man and answer his damn questions by this point and hopefully he would just leave him be. Honestly, so much for Kimbley saying he wasn't five years old; he was being more annoying than Hughes' kid at his funeral. Constantly whining and screaming as if death wasn't merely a part of life. But Kimbley was just about old enough to be able to distinguish when one should speak and when one should keep his mouth shut.

When Kimbley didn't say anything for a few seconds, Archer sat himself comfortably once again and closed his eyes to fully enjoy the music. He only opened his eyes once again at the beginning of the fourth and final movement where the music became dramatic suddenly. He looked over to his right to see why Kimbley had become so quiet all of a sudden but, to his horror, found the seat to be empty. When had he got up? Where had he gone? Hopefully he wasn't wreaking havoc anywhere, though if he got kicked out at least it would mean that Archer could enjoy the rest of the concerto in peace.

He looked around him to see whether he could see the man, yet to no avail, and eventually decided just to forget about him. Of course, that was when Kimbley decided to make his return, shuffling along their row to reclaim his seat beside Archer once more.

"Where did you go?" Archer asked straight away.

"I thought we weren't meant to speak at these things," Kimbley rebuked.

"Kimbley," Archer growled, almost forgetting to keep quiet with his frustration.

"I went to take a leak. Got a problem with that? So, what did I miss? Let me guess: that guy waved his arms around like an idiot some more." Kimble nodded towards the stage where the conductor was flailing his arms about with zeal. Archer shook his head and rolled his eyes at the comment but chose not to respond verbally.

"Please just stay in your seat from now on as opposed to gallivanting off as a bored child would."

"Fine, fine," Kimbley promised and raised his hands in surrender, temporarily obstructing the view of the people behind him. He then lowered them to his lap and sat obediently, looking the epitome of innocence—or at least attempting to, but the wry grin he wore skewed any image of virtuousness he was attempting to portray.

Archer was all too aware that Kimbley hadn't taken his eyes off of him for ten seconds. And in his peripheral, he could see he was still being grinned at for twenty. After those seconds had elapsed, he turned his head to look at Kimbley and opened his mouth to speak but got beat to the punch.

"Good, you want to talk. What's your favourite instrument?"

The question had been so out of the blue, it had temporarily stumped Archer.

"What?"

"Your favourite instrument," Kimbley said again.

Archer was getting irritated beyond belief now. "I don't know. I just want to enjoy the rest of the concerto."

"Mine's the cello."

"Good."

"Want to know why?"

"No."

"Because it's gender-confused."

That statement did catch Archer's attention. "What are you on about?"

"Well," Kimbley explained, "Look at the body. I'd say that it has a pretty feminine body, just like the violin and the double bass and that other one…"

"Viola," Archer interjected, but Kimbley paid him no heed.

"So they're all women, I'd say, but then you have a huge rod sticking out the bottom. It's a hermaphrodite instrument!"

Archer gave the man a flat look. "You're an imbecile."

"You're a cello," Kimbley returned without missing a beat. "Anyway, that's my favourite instrument. What's yours?"

"Piano."

"And why?"

"Because it is."

"Yeah, but why is it your favourite?"

Archer took in a deep breath then exhaled it slowly. "Because it can be a standalone instrument. Yes, it can be part of orchestras, but it can be just as, or even more, beautiful just on its own. It doesn't need another instrument to provide a treble or bass accompaniment and it's versatile and can be used in more than one musical style. Does that answer your question?"

Kimbley nodded his head in response as he looked up at the orchestra, clearly thinking deeply. Archer seized this opportunity to start watching the performance again.

"But the double bass might be fun to explode."

Archer said nothing in response to this, as he tried to focus on the music but he was now more obsessed with counting just how long it would be before Kimbley spoke again.

"…They're so big and hollow that if you just rapidly expanded the air inside…I bet that would help it steal the limelight," he chortled amusedly to himself. "That would be a grand finale indeed.

"…And who would want a hermaphrodite instrument between their legs? Would you like a hermaphrodite between your legs? Actually, don't answer that."

Still nothing was said on the Lieutenant Colonel's part as he strived to watch what remained of that concerto. The orchestra built to a dramatic climax and held a lengthy chord before the audience applauded politely. Kimbley's applause wasn't as enthusiastic as the rest of the steady beats of praise that flooded around them. His were slow and sarcastic, and it didn't help subtlety's sake when he stood up to do it. Archer feared each time the arrays on his palms came into contact, not knowing what the man was planning to do.

"That." A clap. "Was." Another clap. "Crap." Yet another clap.

Archer clenched his fists tight before he stood abruptly and turned to exit the row the other way, not even sparing Kimbley a glance.

"Hey, Frankie, where are you going?" Kimbley called after the retreating man before following. Archer didn't so much as falter as he headed to the door to the lobby, then left the building and returned to the car. Fuming, he got in the car, put on his seatbelt then started up before waiting for Kimbley to get in the other side.

"You weren't enjoying it either, huh? I can't blame you: music was pretty crap. Thanks for getting me a ticket though."

Archer managed to keep a more or less composed expression despite his inner rage; the only evidence of any sort of irritation was the deep breaths he took to try and calm himself and the glare which bore a hole in the windscreen.

"Maybe next time you can book us something we can actually enjoy."

If there was ever a next time, Archer vowed right then and there that he would promptly skewer himself with a cello spike.

I've really started to take a shine to Archer as a character recently...Perhaps I should feature him some more in my stories.

The piece I had in mind while writing this was Elgar's Cello Concerto in E minor Op. 85...even though it wasn't composed until 1919, but I doubt they would have even had Elgar in their world, so excuse the anachronism. I had to use it though because I thought that it was a piece written by Elgar just after a war to represent 'the angst, despair, and disillusionment he felt after the end of the War, and an introspective look at death and mortality' (to quote good ol' reliable Wikipedia.) I felt those themes were right up Archer's street. Shame he didn't really get to enjoy it.

Oh, and I have nothing against cellos; I'm a cellist myself. Represent.

Anyway, thank you for reading.

No instruments were harmed in the writing of this fic.