A/N: Damn the workings of my deranged mind! I don't know why, but somehow being at the balloon glow last night gave me an idea for an EdRoy story. WHY? God only knows - probably the same reason that seeing a yucca cactus made me think of Envy. Yes, I have issues. This was gonna be a oneshot, but it was getting long, so I decided to break it up so you have all the fun of waiting for the next part. Please enjoy the silly fluff! I promise, it will get more romantic soon. Yay for Ed, Roy, and us rabid yaoi fangirls (though to our defense, they are definitely in love)
Rated T for swearing (because it's more fun that way) and brief groping (but I absolutely DO NOT do lemon, ever)
Disclaimer: does the art look like it done by a 4 year old with a motor disorder? Are there Ed and Roy onscreen kisses? Then no, I don't own FMA. Which probably makes a lot of people very happy.
The Fullmetal Alchemist and the Dance of Death
The long hallway echoed with the sounds of shouted curses and heavy crashing thumps.
"Damn Fuhrer, always full of the brilliant ideas and the wonderful plans! I hope he gets kicked by an incontinent camel! I hope one of his military dogs explodes his empty head! I'd like to see him agree to this! Hell and Damnation!"
The Fullmetal Alchemist was not happy. And when Edward Elric was not happy, everyone knew about it. In this case, everyone within three miles of the hallway leading to Practice Hall F. The reason: Practice Hall F had been officially set aside, by reason of the Fuhrer's new mandate for military personnel, for…dance lessons. That's right. Edward Elric (he shuddered even thinking about it), had to take dance lessons, because the Fuhrer was holding some sort of diplomatic… ball… thingy, and all the State Alchemists were going to act as escorts, so orders had come down that any Alchemist who couldn't dance had to report to Practice Hall F at 6:00 for lessons. Which Ed had done, except that he was now having second thoughts. Second thoughts of the "maybe if I use alchemy to blow up the room, I can get out of lessons, at least for today" variety. By now, his stomping strides had led up him up to the door of the hall, and he decided to go with his instincts and convert the room to rubble. With a loud shout, he kicked the door open violently with his automail leg, causing it to collapse in splinters, then clapped his hands together…and let them fall to his sides as he gaped in shock. Roy Mustang was leaning against the wall, looking bored and slightly sullen.
"Co-Co-Colonel?" he squeaked.
"Why Fullmetal, how nice to see you," Roy drawled. "Don't tell me our illustrious Fuhrer managed to capture you as well? I somehow thought he'd… overlook you."
"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE'D HAVE TO STAND ON A PHONEBOOK TO SEE OVER A CURB, YOU MORALLY BANKRUPT COLONEL WITH A MINISKIRT FETISH?"
"Well," a new voice broke in, "looks like someone has a lot of passion, that's very good in a dancer, very good. Now, if you don't mind, may we begin?"
Ed suddenly realized that the room contained quite a few people who weren't the Bastard Colonel, and all of them were looking at him. He slowly turned a very lovely shade of red, stammering out an apology to the rather irritated dance instructor.
"Alright, everyone, now that that's over, pick a partner, you can't dance alone," called the instructor.
Which was when Ed had his second unpleasant revelation of the day. There were probably 40 people in the room, all dressed in blue military uniforms (except for him)…and all male. He looked around, hoping that he'd overlooked someone with a chest, or that he'd see long hair pinned up under a blue hat, but no such luck. The only ponytail he saw was on a guy almost as large as Armstrong.
"Mustang," he whispered urgently, "That weirdo said to pair up, but there's only guys in here!"
"Really," said the Colonel sarcastically. "Is that so? I hadn't noticed. I assume that all the female personnel already know how to dance; signs of an ill-spent youth, I suppose. Riza can certainly be quite graceful when she wishes… Just grow up, Ed. It's not that big a deal."
"Fine, but you're going to be my partner," retaliated the blonde.
"Me?" Mustang asked in strangled voice, "Why me? And why should I?"
"You're going to do it because otherwise I'll tell everyone at the office that you're here. And…I don't know any of these guys! They could be creepy perverts who'll try to take advantage of my youthful good looks! At least I already know what I'm getting into with you. Just don't get any ideas, okay?"
"Fine, but I get to lead…since I'm taller."
Needless to say, it was quite a while before the flashing lights, explosions, and shouts of "WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SHORT HE'D GET LOST IN A SHAG CARPET? I'LL TRANSMUTE YOU INSIDE OUT AND INTO NEXT WEEK!" faded and class (moved to a slightly smaller but more…existent room down the hall) could begin again.
"One and two, three and four, step forward, step back, turn, turn, and one and two…" The staccato speech of the dance instructor had faded to a dull murmur; almost all of Ed's concentration was directed toward remembering the complicated sequence of steps that formed the Sala da Ballo Leggiadre, the most well known Ametrian formal dance (according to Mr. Dance Instructor). This would have been hard enough in and of itself (quite a few people had already gotten tangled up and fallen), even without Ed's natural awkwardness, but there was another complication. Every part of Ed that wasn't trying to figure out how to dance was passionately devoted to a) reminding him how uncomfortable and weird it was to have the colonel's hand resting on his back, and b) figuring out how to maintain the farthest possible distance from the colonel without actually breaking apart. Unfortunately, this was not conducive to dancing ease, and so Ed and Roy resembled nothing more than some kind of bizarre, two-headed chimera, possibly containing goat, lurching around the dance floor. Much to the displeasure of the colonel, who liked his subordinates to believe that nothing was outside of his immediate expertise.
"Damn it, Fullmetal, it's not that complicated! You're making me look like a complete idiot! If you don't get it together, I will personally ensure that you never get another mission more important than walking the lieutenant's dog! And furthermaaaaAAAAH!" The colonel screamed as Ed lurched into him, stepping hard on his foot. With his left foot. The one made of very hard, very heavy metal. He couldn't help it; he lost his balance, and two went down in a tangle of limbs.
"Sorry, bastard," gasped Ed, "But it's your own damn fault. Why didn't you dodge me?" It suddenly occurred to him that the two of them were laying on the ground in a very awkward position. He scrambled to get up, only to pause, eyes widening, at the unexpected feeling of a hand brushing against him. Rather lower than the small of his back. There wasn't thought involved; Ed simply pulled back his arm and punched Mustang in the face as hard as he could. And then all hell broke loose.
It was sometime later that Colonel Mustang returned to office, limping slightly, one eye swollen and bruised, shirt spotted with blood. His underlings knew better than to ask what had happened; the expression his face clearly signaled "anyone who tries to talk to me will find out first hand what it feels like to spontaneously combust." The dark-haired officer went into his office and slammed the door behind him before collapsing into his chair. Then he just sat there, staring at his hand as he opened and closed it. He tried to pretend that he was just working out the soreness – between Ed, who didn't seem to know how hard it was acceptable to squeeze someone's hand when one's arm is made of automail, and the punches he had managed to get in, it did hurt like hell – but he knew that was a lie. He refused to acknowledge that what he was really thinking of was how much he longed to run his fingers through long, silky hair, hair like spun gold, hair that mirrored fiery, angry, hawk-like golden eyes. Some things, he supposed, are better left to the realm of dreams.