Piano
Winry has always loved the sound of a piano. She has never owned one, and only listened to music a very little when she was young, as it was difficult to get hold of, in Risembool. Even so, despite her lack of exposure to the instrument, she loves everything about it: the sound of each individual note; the way they blend and weave around each other and together, forming complex patterns and delicate tunes. She would enjoy watching people play even without the sound, observing the dance and chase of fingers across the clean, ordered black and white keys. And now that she has no more pressing worries on her mind, she decides finally to indulge her fantasies.
So she begins to save her money, little by little. Al contributes as much as he can, as soon as he knows what she's saving for- he once learned to play it himself, a little, he says in his typical humble fashion.
Eventually, after what feels like years to her, they gather the funds together to buy a tiny battered second-hand upright. It is horribly out of tune and scratched all over; but they hire one man to fix the inner workings, and another to tune the instrument. They work on it themselves as well: Winry repairing and replacing as much as she can of the rusty mechanisms that operate the pedals, and Al spending an afternoon fixing the body and the wheels. By the end of the day, the piano is sitting proudly, almost gleaming, in the corner of the living room. Al plays a smooth chromatic scale from left to right, running his hand up the keyboard. Winry fetches a stool from the next room and places it before their creation with a sense of immense satisfaction.
They stand back and admire the picture.
Winry can hardly wait to play it, but she forces herself to at least have dinner first. After this, she sits triumphantly at the piano with a "teach yourself" book she bought from the music shop along with it, and lifts the lid, producing a prolonged, professional-sounding creak that thrills her to hear.
It is then, however, as she tries for the first time to play the instrument before her, starting with the embarrassingly short piece on the opening page of the book, that she discovers she is not musical.
By the time half an hour has passed she is tired of persevering, and feels ready to fling the book, along with its self-satisfied little reminders to "be patient!" and "go slowly!" out of the living room window. She has not quite been reduced to hitting the keyboard with her fists, but it is a very close thing. She slumps over the instrument in hopelessness. The carefree dance between the hands and the keys, and the complex melodies she has heard on the radio, do not come easily, it seems.
And then Al comes in and sits cautiously beside her on the edge of the stool. He runs his fingers tentatively, wonderingly, over the keyboard, saying nothing.
Then he reaches around her with his right hand and begins to play the top half of a melody she has heard a thousand times.
She gasps with recognition, watching his fingers in fascination as they wander over the smooth cool keys, seeming free and playful but hitting each note precisely and exactly, each small sound forming a vital part of the tune. She lifts her hand in wonder and places it lightly over his own, following the patterns of the notes, tracing the movements of his hand and the music.
He takes her through it several times over, and then stops, and moves his hand away. Slowly, falteringly, she begins to play, picking up from where he leaves off. And this time he plays the other half of the piece with his other hand, providing a simple, steady base and counterpart for her delicate and dancing melody. Their hands move confidently across the keyboard, side by side, overlapping, their harmonies working together to fill the house with the nimble, whirling music.
And even when the piece is over, and the melodies come to an end, they don't move from the room for a long time.
Author's notes: I have a feeling this would have been easier if I chose an instrument I actually know how to play. . . -.-; Well, it made me want to learn to play, so I guess I achieved something.
I have sent several PMs and review replies to various people within the last week, and didn't get a reply for any of them. Now, either everybody on the internet has simultaneously decided to ignore me, or my PM system is down. I like to think that the latter is more probable. Just trust me when I say that I love you all, and actually I try to respond to every signed review I get. I may have to start leaving my replies in the notes at the bottom of the drabbles if this continues. Anyway, I think that "ZOMGGLOMP:D!!!!" basically sums up my feelings about the reviews you guys leave me. -luffs you all-