Prior to forcing Edward Elric to attend the Grand Central Ball, and skipping the festivities himself, Colonel Roy Mustang bestowed unto him some heartfelt advice.

"Edward.

It's humiliating enough that you're so short.

So learn some basic foot movements before going, alright?"

Of course, after vigorously cursing his superior, Edward had done no such thing.

Grandeur and décor suffocated his senses. His eyes singed from the intensity of the ballroom's sheer dimension and ornate complexity. Edward took in the expansive marble flooring, a preposterously high, ornamented ceiling, decorated motifs, dark lacquered wood, mingling guests, red tapestries and looming archways. The pervasive golden light emanating from throngs of wall-mounted candles and the multi-layered grand chandeliers high above him illuminated his surroundings, but Edward failed to feel the intended warmth and splendor.

Edward tapped his foot with rapid irritation amid clattering high heels, the hum of conversation and clinking crystal glasses.

Squinting, he spotted a small orchestra at the front of the hall, the players prepping and turning pages for the next number, sitting arranged on a multi-leveled stage. Following a mounting hush, the conductor raised his arms.

As a slew of strings slowly crescendoed across the hall, Edward wasn't sure what annoyed him more, the upper class atmosphere or the fact that he had actually dressed for the occasion. Black dress pants, clean undershirt, black vest and jacket and, to his taste, an untidy collar and tie.

The light from above reflected off his new hand-threaded shoes, the music falling into the background.

Clutching suitors' hands and shoulders, dresses swirled as male partners swung their fair ladies.

Edward sighed, wishing that Alphonse, who had said he wouldn't be coming, had. Attending things like this was stifling, and in his frank opinion, stupid. While Alphonse had self-consciously waved the notion away with an armored hand, saying that he'd only serve as a distraction, "And it's not like I can dance anyway," Edward would have liked to have had him along, at least to participate in belittling everything.

The far end of the hall was intermixed with crowds and dining tables, where most of the diplomats sat, whom Edward had made an effort to avoid. He figured that without his brother around, without an escort, and without his tell-tale red coat, he wouldn't easily catch the sight of untrained eyes. Aside from a few snide remarks and a couple of handshakes, the Fullmetal Alchemist had passed through the dining section relatively unscathed.

Edward looked up to his far left. The Fuhrer was present, sitting with his own company of men up in a balcony. His jaw clenched, recalling Mustang's word that at this event, it was highly unlikely that the Fuhrer, his fellow homunculi, or his men would try anything. Not because there wasn't the opportunity, but because there was no need. Causing tension between foreign nations was, at the moment, no longer necessary. In their minds, their scheme was coming to a close, anyway.

Security reasons, he had said. Anything else could happen.

Aside from his normal tight lipped, minacious smile, the Fuhrer paid the Fullmetal Alchemist no heed.

Edward gulped back the bile rising up in his throat, and turned towards the refreshments.

His jaw dropped.

A vast plethora of juicy, moist morsels gleamed across the long side-table with a succulent sheen. Splayed out along the table top was a colorful variety of luscious appetizers, arranged in a complex, ornate fashion. Salivating indecently and ignoring nearby glares, Edward seized the nearest hors d'oeuvres. He sucked a shrimp out of its partially attached shell, and wondered if decent catering was a sound compromise for being forced to attend.

Maybe.

That depended on how long he could continue to avoid Winry.

He shuddered.

Being at Central at the time, Edward had been instructed to come, and since Winry was around for his automail maintenance, she had been invited as well. By Lieutenant Hawkeye, Mustang had added with a knowing smirk.

"You two shouldn't have a problem getting acquainted, I don't think."

Edward briefly considered the notion of becoming "acquainted" with Winry and his lungs seized.

He recalled catching sight of her earlier—he wasn't sure at first; he had just spotted a young, shapely girl from behind and her hair was different, done up elegantly, but the moment she had turned around, Edward felt all the blood drain from his face. He had then turned too quickly, stumbled, and collapsed behind a nearby pillar.

Leaning against the serving table, his mind raced unchecked. Being at an event where most people are dancing, at… very close proximity, and where you're expected to dance, and someone like… like your childhood friend and automail mechanic shows up, looking fucking stellar in that tight black dress, scanning the room, possibly for a potential dance partner, her crossed arms obliviously pushing up her cleavag—

His thoughts were thankfully interrupted by sudden choking.

Which was intensified by Armstrong's abrupt invasion of his personal space.

Edward thought he was going to die as a mighty hand slammed down on his back repetitively, supposedly in an attempt to help him.

"M-Major Armstrong…" Edward somehow avoided a face-first crash into the marble floor and doubled up with a shackling bout of coughing that wasn't necessarily related to shrimp.

The towering mass seemed to smile patiently for him to recover, before leaning in very close, magnifying Edward's discomfort, and asking in a low, serious tone if he had noticed anything suspicious.

"W-what? No…Everything's been as normal as ever."

Armstrong drew back to his full height, satisfied.

Edward gaped helplessly as he began to sparkle.

"Oh, but thank goodness!" Armstrong clenched his hands into powerful fists, emphasizing his declaration. "It makes my heart soar to witness so many people coming together under such a beautiful occasion…The Ball is meant to exemplify Honor, Peace, and National Pride, by virtue of the presence of great people of our country, and our neighbors, who participate… " Lo and behold, Edward could spot proverbial tears flowing down his stupendous face.

He gave a startled shout as Armstrong began sobbing, expressing the privilege and the profound joy of also being able to see the young alchemist partaking in the event, speaking with obnoxious reverence of his own youth, and such days of "childish innocence."

Edward, who had slapped his hand over his eyes, peered wearily over some ways through his fingers, spotted Winry, and caught a glimpse of her breasts swelling against the front of her dress as she bent over.

Yeah.

Innocence.

Armstrong had apparently satisfied himself, and, thankfully, whatever possessed him to leave Edward alone, galvanized him to the other side of the hall, where he promptly began harassing the foreign guests.

Edward sighed, sagging with relief.

She was in his sights again, across the hall and facing away, glove-donned hands gesturing as she spoke with another female guest.

Her naked back glowed under the chandelier, stark against the deep, low-cut black fabric of her dress, spanning and smoothing out over full hips.

Something in his chest rattled.

Drink.

You need a drink, Ed.

An unsteady hand reached for the nearest glass on the table and he took a swig without even knowing what it was, ignoring the fact that it was a stupid idea. He swallowed, coughed and grimaced. Champagne.

Ugh.

Dresses and suits seemed to swirl together, colors flashing across the ballroom, mixing.

Edward's brows furrowed as Greed, in the form of Ling, made his way over, eyes thinning with opportunity. He was equally unappreciative of the kink in his deviant smile. He crossed his arms and distanced himself as the homunculus leaned up against the table. Greed plucked an antipasto from the closest plate, and absently examined it.

"Your lady friend's here."

Edward flinched, feigning a dismissive snort.

"Goodness. That dress really does dip quite low, doesn't it."

He fought back the gurgle that was traveling up his throat. He tilted his glass again, ignoring the foul taste.

Greed's grin deepened.

"You should dance with her, Ed."

Edward doubled over, uncontrollably spraying the marble floor with a half-gulp of champagne, sputtering and coughing.

Greed ignored him, popping the delicately wrapped morsel into his mouth, chewed at his leisure, and swallowed loudly.

His gaze gleamed over in her direction, his smile twisting. "You know, I never would have figured, with the overalls and the oil, but..."

The homunculus wiped his hands, smoothed out his bangs, and straightened his tie with purpose.

"...I don't think I'd mind making her... acquaintance."

Edward braced himself against the table.

Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, his mind was muddled, numb.

W…what? No… No, he can't do that.

That's not right…

Greed's was already moving forward, weaving through the crowd, and Edward's insides twisted.

That's… no, that's just fucking…

The… ridiculous notion of Greed courting Winry, of her actually accepting, them clasping hands, his hand wrapping around her waist and spinning together like the other guests around him, and Winry smiling at him like the other women were, teasingly, at their dance partners…

Edward felt himself rise, his guts smoldering, and he didn't care what it meant.

He wasn't going to stand for it.

Everything narrowed and sharpened as he strode ahead, rudely pushing through the crowd. They didn't even exist, all he could see was Greed's swaying pony-tail and broad shoulders maneuvering swiftly around the guests. Winry's surprised, relieved face turned towards him as he drew nearer, coming into focus.

Her jaw dropped.

Maybe it was his gritted teeth, or how fast he was moving, or how he hauled himself across the floor, but when Edward narrowly avoided a twirling couple, ran in front of Greed and shouldered him forcefully out of his way, and came upon her, she was clutching her gloved hand to her chest, stepping back.

"Winry!"

She jumped, her eyes shocked wide.

His heart was pounding.

"We're going to dance."