Chapter Text
The first thing Edward Elric remembered about music was his mother’s voice. Not her singing voice, no. Though formidable in its own right.
Rather, he remembered her gentle instruction as she coached him and his brother through vocal exercises.
Every day, after school, the boys would sit by her side at the dusty grand piano in the living room. And from where he sat, he would look up and see the golden daylight illuminating her profile. She looked serene with her gentle green eyes, cascading brown hair tied in her classic ponytail, and her peaceful expression. It was an image that would never leave his mind so long as he was alive.
Today was one such afternoon.
“Let's go again.” Trisha said gently.
Ed deflated like the world’s most dramatic balloon. “But we just did it again!”
From the other side of the piano bench, Alphonse giggled. “Brother, you’re rushing!”
“I’m not rushing!” Ed retorted.
Trisha hid a smile behind her hand. “You are,” she said. “But that’s alright. That’s why we practice.” She played the opening notes again. They had just gone over their scales. Now they were practising a piece they had been working on the past few days.
“Ready, boys?”
Ed and Al nodded.
“Remember to breathe from your tummy.”
Ed inhaled dramatically just to prove he was doing it right. Al straightened up and inhaled more quietly.
Trisha counted them in. And at her cue, they began to sing.
Ed’s voice was bright and sharp, pushing forward like he was trying to outrun the melody. Al’s voice moved more carefully, softer but steadier. Mellower. When their voices met, the notes blended into something that made Trisha’s eyes shine.
They didn’t sound like seasoned vocalists who had honed their instrument over decades as she had. And really, that was fine. They were children, after all; their voices were light and unburdened, resonating with an innocence that no amount of training could replicate. And to her, that’s what made them sound so perfect.
As she continued to play and listen to them sing, she could feel her heart swell with pride. Her boys, her precious boys. Worth more than gold. It must have been why their eyes twinkled with its hues.
A lifetime of singing hadn’t left her with much in the way of material wealth. She knew when she chose this path that financial reward could not be guaranteed, nor even expected. But she had never sung for fame or money; it was the love of the craft that kept her going. So long as she could sing, she would figure the rest out. And as fate would have it, she did. Now she had had all she’d ever wanted: a peaceful life, her beautiful boys, and music.
Their voices faded at the last note. She remained silent, allowing the air to settle. “There,” she said finally, softly.
Ed puffed out his chest. “See? I did it.”
“You improved,” Trisha corrected.
“That’s not the same thing!”
Al giggled again. Trisha smiled.
“Music isn’t about getting everything perfect,” she said. “It’s about saying something with your voice.”
Ed frowned slightly. “What if you don’t know what you want to say?”
Trisha reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from his face.
“Then you sing anyway,” she said. “Eventually your heart figures it out.”
Both boys fell silent. Ed’s mouth stayed fixed in his little pout, not fully understanding what she had meant. Perhaps it was another one of those things adults always told him he'd “understand when he's older.” He'd always hated that explanation, it felt like such a cop out. What was this secret knowledge they all seemed to be privy to, that he would only be capable of fathoming at some arbitrary point in the future? Franky, it felt like an insult to his 9 year old intelligence, to assume he couldn't grasp it even if they explained it very slowly and patiently using simple words. And perhaps some pictures too, for good measure.
He wanted to protest, push further, ask more ‘what's’ and ‘whys’. But his mother’s gentle expression was enough to melt his stubborn resolve. He supposed he could drop it, for now.
Trisha turned back to the keys. “One last go and then we’re done for the day, okay?”
Al nodded dutifully. Then Ed jumped up again.
“Okay, but this time I’m doing the high part.”
Al laughed. “You can’t even reach that note!” he taunted.
“Watch me!” Ed snapped back.
Trisha sighed fondly and placed her fingers back on the keys. Her darling boys.
“Alright,” she said,
“From the beginning.”
+++
“From the top. Again.”
The command cracked through the room like a whip.
Ed gulped, dragged in a breath that burned his lungs and tried to stand straighter. Next to him, Al was already poised, hands clasped neatly in front of him, posture perfect. Like always.
Izumi’s sharp eyes darted between them like a predator tracking prey. She stepped towards Ed.
“Breathe from your diaphragm,” she ordered. “Not your chest. Your diaphragm. Engage your core.”
Ed inhaled, shoulders rising despite himself. Rookie error, he knew better.
Izumi’s gaze sharpened like a razor.
“Edward.”
He stiffened.
“Shoulders down.”
Ed forced them down.
She snapped her fingers dismissively.
“Commence.”
The piano struck the opening notes.
They began.
This piece was difficult. Far more demanding than anything they had attempted yet. It started low, deceptively so. Gave him false hope every time. By the time he reached the bridge, he’d have to jump several octaves and push the top of his range. The melody climbed relentlessly, higher and higher, forcing him to scale precariously until his voice threatened to break.
Ed was fast approaching his limit. His face was flushed from exertion and a mild ache twinged in his abdomen like he had just endured a particularly intense workout. He was pretty sure he was starting to feel a little lightheaded, too, so that was helpful. Not. Surely this had to constitute some form of child abuse, Izumi had made them sing this exact same passage five times. And if they’d dared screw up - a flat note, poor phrasing, or anything less than flawless technique - and best believe her standards for flawless were very high - she’d make them stop and start again. Right. From. The. Top. So Edward sang with every fiber of his being, hoping that the fifth time would be the last.
Please be the last.
His eyes strayed to the clock above the door. 35 more minutes of this torture. Dammit, they weren't even halfway through the hour. With every crawling, tedious second stretching out into an eternity, he started to lose hope that he'd even make it out of here alive. Maybe he'd actually died and been condemned to a special hell for former choir boys. And Izumi was the devil.
In that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to be back in that sun-soaked living room, sitting next to his mother at the piano. Singing for pleasure and not for punishment.
He could never have that again.
“Support the note!” Izumi barked.
He was already pushing as hard as he could, his abs cramping. Couldn’t she see he was trying?
“Stand straight!”
He straightened.
“Enunciate!”
He tried.
Beside him, Al’s voice flowed through the notes with ease. Steady, controlled, exactly where it needed to be. Ed’s voice, meanwhile, wavered. He prayed that Izumi hadn’t noticed.
She had, shooting him another disapproving look. Fuck.
“Edward. You’re flat.”
Ed clenched his jaw and corrected the pitch, forcing the note back into place.
The piece surged toward its climax.
“More power!” Izumi shouted. “Engage your diaphragm!”
Ed clenched his eyes shut and felt sweat sliding down the back of his neck. With a desperate intake of air, he braced himself for the most challenging part to come. This piece ended with a soaring crescendo, a single note belted out for all of ten seconds before halting abruptly for maximum dramatic effect. He could not afford to mess this one up. Not only because it would be mortifying to fuck up so profusely in front of Izumi, but because Al would surely hit it perfectly.
He bore down and forced every last breath of air from lungs until his body tensed and stars appeared in the peripherals of his vision. The final note rang out as both boys sang in unison.
Silence followed.
Ed bent forward, hands on his knees, gasping for air. Al leaned against the wall, equally winded but still somehow more composed. They struggled for breath as Izumi watched them with an unreadable expression.
“That was better, ” she said.
Ed looked up. Breathless, hope flickering in his golden eyes. Perhaps, finally, after months of toiling and now coming about this close to passing out, he had won a crumb of Izumi’s ever elusive approval.
Then—
“Go again.”
He made a hopeless little sound and collapsed onto the floor. Al slid down the wall beside him.
A sixth time it is.
+++
Half an hour later, Izumi closed the sheet music with a decisive snap. “That will be all for today.”
Ed had never been so happy to hear those words in his life.
“Study the piece,” she continued. “I expect both of you to have your parts memorized by the next lesson.”
Al nodded dutifully.
Ed rolled his eyes and started gathering his things. He turned towards the door. That door, his salvation. He had been eyeing it ever since he walked into this evil place. And now it was just a few steps away - freedom awaited. Once he was out, he wouldn’t have to endure any more of Izumi’s abuse for another week.
“Edward.”
The boy froze as if he had been caught burying a body.
It was bad enough having her bark in his face like a deranged drill sergeant from hell, but there was something especially disturbing about hearing her voice from behind when sweet escape was just within reach. He was tempted to pinch himself to make sure he wasn’t having one of his ‘bad dreams’ again. Slowly, reluctantly, Ed turned around.
She approached him with slow, deliberate steps. The click-clack of her heels echoing in the silent room as she closed the gap between them. Arms folded over her chest like iron bars, her posture almost as rigid as she was. Almost.
“You need to work on your enunciation,” she stated coldly. “You keep swallowing your vowels. Drill the exercises I showed you. You remember them, yes?”
Ed groaned. “The ones that make me look like an idiot?”
They did, though. Last time Izumi had him reeling off tongue twisters in front of a mirror while holding a pencil in between his teeth. He looked insane. Even Al had to suppress a laugh.
“You look like an idiot already and it’s precisely because your vowels are sloppy. That’s why you’re working on them now. Thirty minutes every day, don’t forget. I’ll be checking next week.”
Ed rolled his eyes and shoved his materials into his bag.
“Understood?”
“Yes, Teacher,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
Izumi’s eyebrow twitched, but she said nothing more.
“Dismissed.”
Outside, the late afternoon air smelled salty sweet. It was now approaching evening, the sun beginning to set, and the sky was an amber-violet haze. This was around the same time they would have finished classes with their mother, too. Though Ed didn’t remember the lessons feeling as long back then…
After class wrapped up, she’d send the boys outside to play while she got started on dinner. They’d chase each other around, rolling down hills and pushing each other on makeshift wheel swings. Winry would join too when she was around, and bring Den - only a pup back then. And they would play and shout and laugh until the sun set and they were called back in for dinner.
Those were simpler times.
The boys walked side by side towards the main road. Ed stretched his arms above his head with an exaggerated groan. “She makes our old school lessons feel like a cakewalk,” he complained.
Al adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “Yeah, Teacher’s tough,” he admitted. “But she’s helping us be the best we can.”
Ed snorted.
“Yeah. Easy for you to say.”
Al blinked at him. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re her golden boy, Al,” Ed said, kicking a loose stone down the path. “She goes way easier on you.”
“That’s not true,” Al protested.
Ed shot him a sideways glance. “Sure it isn’t.”
They reached the corner where the road split toward home. Al suddenly stopped.
“Oh! I forgot—I wanted to ask Teacher something about the second part.”
Ed narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why are you thinking about that crap? Class is over, forget it. Just ask her next week.”
“I can’t,” Al insisted, “I want to get my part right so I can practise properly for the next class. I should go ask her now.” He adjusted his bag strap, turned and started to run back the way they came. Edward just stood there, dumbstruck.
“Are you SERIOUSLY going back?!”
Al smiled sympathetically over his shoulder and called back, “Just go on without me! I’ll catch up!”
Soon enough he was out of view.
Betrayal, Ed thought to himself. Absolute betrayal.
After several moments of standing frozen in disbelief, Ed huffed and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Go be her favorite student.” he muttered under his breath.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he started down the road alone, kicking another rock as he walked.
Great. Just great.
+++
Ed took the same route home he always had. A quiet, residential road stretching straight ahead, rows of houses lining up on each side.
There wasn't much interesting to see here, just the same suburban neighbourhood he had always known and suspected he always would. White picket fences. Pristine, manicured lawns. Families going about their lives. Normal families. Ed wondered what that was like. Or maybe he knew once, and had forgotten. It had been so long…
Sometimes he'd stop and peek in through an open window, just to catch a glimpse of that life. A mother teaching her children how to read at the dining table. A father playing with the kids on the lawn. It filled him with a strange sense of nostalgia for something he didn't think he ever had.
Out of nowhere, a full body mass crashed violently into his side, nearly knocking him off his feet. The impact was harsh enough to make him wish that he’d been hit on his automail side instead, would have at least taught the idiot why it was a bad idea to go running into randoms.
Ed spun on his heel and raised his fist, pissed and ready to snap at whoever was responsible. “WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING YOU—”
He stopped. Winry Rockbell stood before him, grinning like she had just won the lottery. Ah.
As if his day wasn't bad enough already.
“Hey, loser.” Winry beamed, not showing the slightest shred of remorse.
“Well, if it isn’t my favourite Rockbell,” Ed said flatly. “Oh wait, it isn't.”
“If it isn’t my least favourite Elric brother.” she countered. “Oh wait, it is.”
“Yeah, yeah. Good afternoon to you too.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Say, if you hate me so much, why’d you keep following me around? You in love with me or something?”
Winry cringed and folded her arms. “Ew. You wish. Granny wanted me to tell you to come over for dinner.”
Ed sighed. “Again?”
“Well, yeah. She wants to make sure you're eating real food. Not living off instant noodles and energy drinks or whatever garbage you're surviving on.”
“Hey!” he protested, “I… cook. On occasion.” All conviction fading from his voice by the time the phrase fully left his lips. Okay, yeah, who was he kidding? He wasn't even convincing himself.
Yes, he subsisted almost entirely off junk food. Yes, he knew it was awful for him. But it was cheap, tasty (debatable), and convenient, and it left him feeling full enough. The most he could handle otherwise was a microwave meal, canned soup, or some dubious version of scrambled eggs. And even then he'd end up burning them to a crisp because he'd get too impatient and turn the heat up too high, thinking they'd cook faster. They burned faster, Al would remind him, always after the fact. But Ed never learned his lesson, no matter how many times he had to scrape blackened egg bits off the pan. Al had always been the better cook, something Ed was secretly grateful for. There was only enough room for one hopeless brother between them.
“Burnt toast doesn't count as cooking, Ed.” Winry stated matter of factly.
Ed just rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”
Winry hummed smugly as they started walking. A moment later, she glanced over and asked, “Where’s Al?”
To which Ed replied with a derisive snort, “Funny. You only just noticed your ‘favourite Elric brother’ is missing.”
She elbowed him in the ribs, hard. Ed yelped and clutched his side, still sore from the prior full body slam Winry had so lovingly greeted him with moments prior. “Shut up. Where’s your brother, Edward?” she asked again. Ugh, she sounded so much like Pinako when she said his name like that.
“He stayed behind with our singing teacher.” Ed winced.
“Oh? Why? Is he in trouble?”
“No. He wanted to ask some stupid question about the stupid song we're learning.”
“Oh.” Winry tilted her head slightly, her ponytail swaying behind her, “What song?”
“Who gives a damn.” Ed responded.
She blinked. “That's what it's called?”
“Of course not, dumbass.”
Winry frowned and narrowed her eyes. Ed just kept looking ahead as he walked.
She tried again, “Can I at least hear a bit?”
“Hell no.”
“And why not?”
“Cause I said no. So drop it.”
“How come I’ve never heard you sing?” she pressed, “What was the point of going to that fancy singing school if you don’t actually use it?”
Ed shut his eyes. “Just stop. I’m not gonna sing it, alright?”
Winry huffed.
“Yeah? Well maybe you're just embarrassed because you sound terrible.”
Ed stopped dead in his tracks. Slowly, he turned and met her with a lethal, ice cold glare. Winry immediately fell silent.
“You think I wanted to go to that stupid school?” he spat.
Winry flinched.
“That wasn’t my choice,” he continued, “So quit mouthing off like you know what you’re talking about.”
The words came out sharper than he intended. Ed looked away.
After their mother died, he and Al had been sent off to an all-boys singing school in the north. Apparently that was easier than figuring out what to do with two parentless kids.
The adults had meant well. At least, that’s what they said. The house was already paid off, so it wasn’t like they were being thrown out. Still… their father was long gone, and Pinako couldn’t take them in. So it was decided that a boarding school would be better. More structure, more discipline under the watchful gaze of “responsible adults”. It would be “beneficial for ensuring normal childhood development”, in the words of his pediatric trauma counsellor. And that was that. Not a single thought spared for what he wanted. Not like anyone had asked.
Al took to it like it was nothing and flourished in his new environment. Ed didn’t. He saw it as abandonment.
Years later and he still wasn't over it.
“Jeez… I didn’t mean it like that,” Winry muttered.
Ed exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You just don’t get it.” he said under his breath.
Winry glanced over.
“You wanna know why I don’t like singing?”
She didn't answer. Not right away, anyway. Instead, she just looked at him. No taunting, no defensiveness. Just earnest curiosity.
“Why?” she asked.
Ed opened his mouth,
Then stopped himself.
Memories flashed in his mind's eye. His mother at the piano. The golden sunlight. He and Al singing by her side. Her humming softly in the kitchen. Her gentle voice lulling him to sleep.
The boarding school. The stiff, suffocating uniform. Those stuffy classrooms and dusty cathedrals. Standing shoulder to shoulder in white cloaks, looking exactly the same as everyone else. Sounding like everyone else.
Izumi’s classroom. The cold, blue glare of the overhead lights. Her discerning gaze. Her incessant commands. The way she could slice him down to nothing with a single incisive glance.
His throat tightened.
“…Forget it.”
Winry knew better than to push. So she didn't.
They continued walking in silence. Eventually, Ed cleared his throat.
“So… what’s for dinner?”
“Lasagna.” Winry replied.
“Cool.”
He raised his arm to scratch the back of his neck and his automail creaked loudly. The sound it made was like nails on a chalkboard. Winry snapped her head towards it. “What’s up with your arm?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s just been acting up lately.” Ed said casually, trying to play it off. He lowered his arm and attempted to straighten it out, but his automail must have had its own wicked sense of humour, because as if on cue, his elbow joint croaked like a dying android begging for even one drop of oil. Winry wrinkled her nose in judgement.
“When was the last time you got it serviced?” She asked. Ed hesitated.
“Uh… a few months ago.”
“…Ed.”
“Maybe last year.”
Winry stopped right there in the middle of the sidewalk, her face frozen in an expression of abject horror. Ed stopped a few paces ahead. Already anticipating the melodrama, he simply turned away.
“Don't start.”
“Last YEAR?” Winry shrieked.
He shut his eyes as if to block out her voice. Wishful thinking on his part, really.
“Ed, you cannot be serious.” she started, “Leave it, already!” Ed snapped back.
“No! God, I’m surprised you can even move that thing!” She grabbed his arm and ripped his sleeve up, revealing the metal arm for her inspection. “It’s probably full of rust!”
Ed tried to take his arm back, “Winry, cut it out! It’s fine!”
“No it is not! That’s it—-” Pulling down his sleeve again, she tugged him forth and he stumbled clumsily after her, nearly losing his balance. For a teenage girl of relatively small stature, Winry was shockingly strong. Especially when she was angry. When it concerned Ed, that seemed to be all the time.
“HEY—!” Ed began to protest. But Winry was not having it.
“Shut it. You’re coming back to my place.”
“WHY?” He whined.
“So I can fix you up! Idiot, you think I’m letting you walk around with that busted automail? You’re crazy.”
In Ed’s defense, he really did try to resist, digging his heels into the concrete underneath him. But it was hopeless, Winry’s grip was vicelike; she was not letting up. She dragged him away kicking and screaming, leaving trailing scruff marks in his wake.
“WINRY, LET GO OF ME!” he yelled as he was taken away.
“I SAID SHUT UP AND WALK!” Winry barked, not even sparing him a glance.
And so, Edward’s rotten, very bad, no good day continued to go downhill.
+++
Winry’s room smelled of machine oil and body spray.
It wasn’t messy exactly. Just… busy. Tools laid out across her desk in careful clusters: screwdrivers, spanners, and a few more Ed didn’t even know the names of. Sketches pinned to the corkboard, overlapping each other. Diagrams, measurements, notes scribbled in the margins.
Contrast that with the band posters and polaroid photos taped to her walls and above her bed. A desk that doubled as a vanity and a study, stacked with notebooks and stationery, assorted makeup products and accessories strewn over the surface.
Funny. He had been in her room countless times before, and the juxtaposition never failed to amuse him. The place looked as if it was simultaneously inhabited by a teenage girl and a middle aged mechanic named Joe.
But that was just Winry.
She pulled up next to him on a stool.
“Sit properly.” she ordered.
Ed shot her a look. What the hell did that mean? He was sitting properly: on his ass. How else?
“What, d’you want me to sit on my head or something?”
“You’re slouching. Sit up straight. I’m not fixing your arm while you’re hunched over like that.”
Ed grimaced. He’d had more than enough of being told how to sit and stand for one day. Izumi’s stern voice echoed in his head, prickling him with a mild sense of unease. Still, he did as he was told, straightening up and resting his automail arm on the desk. The metal gave a faint creak. Winry frowned.
“Yeah, that doesn’t sound good.” she muttered.
“Astute observation, detective.” Ed remarked.
Winry glared at him. “You better shut up. You brought this on yourself, Mister Creaky-Elbow.”
Ed piped down.
She took the metal limb, bent and unbent it carefully while inspecting the elbow joint. It creaked sporadically, a possible symptom of buildup - or worse - rusting. She certainly hoped it wasn't the latter, because she didn't have any replacement parts for Ed’s specific model. Either way, she couldn't be sure without opening it up and taking a proper look. She reached for a wrench and started loosening the panel at his elbow. Ed watched her for a second before looking away.
“Try not to fuck up my wiring.”
Winry glanced up at him and snorted. “Please. I’ve got this.”
“Yeah, well. You’ve made mistakes before.”
Winry put down the wrench and looked at him. “Name one.”
Ed opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“…Exactly,” Winry said, smirking.
The panel came loose with a soft click. Winry leaned in, peering inside, her expression sharpening—focused, intent. She pushed a strand of hair out of her face with the back of her wrist, already reaching for another tool.
The room filled with the small, precise sounds of her work: metal shifting, screws turning, and occasionally a pensive murmur or hum. Winry worked quickly, but not carelessly. Every move was deliberate, certain. It had to be. Ed’s setup was intricate and configured uniquely for his anatomy, as was the case for every automail user. She had helped maintain his gear before, though she was by no means a specialist, merely a tinkerer with a proclivity for taking things apart and seeing how they ticked
After Ed first got his automail, she badgered him for months to let her admire it the way it deserved to be. Reluctantly, he agreed, gradually yielding to more and more concessions for her to “just take a tiny peek inside oh please please please, Ed!” And now here they were. She had become something of his mechanic, his in-house specialist, through sheer incessant pleading and a teeny tiny bit of coercion.
Ed surveyed the room. His gaze drifted to the small shelf above her desk - jars of screws, sorted by size and labeled.
Of course, he thought to himself, Of course she would do that.
“How long have you left it like this?” Winry asked, not looking up.
“Huh?” Ed blinked, “I already told you, it’s been a few months.”
“You said it’s been at least a year.” she countered.
“Well you need to go get your ears checked. I said I last got it looked at last year.”
Winry rolled her eyes. “We’re in September now, stupid. It’s probably been a year anyway. You should be getting checkups every three months.”
Please, not the lecture. Ed didn't want to hear it. He'd already had enough of Izumi chewing his ear off today, now Winry wanted to have a go, too? Was everyone just lining up to take turns making his life miserable? He tossed his head back and groaned.
“Stop being so dramatic!” Winry snapped. “You’re lucky you have me, you know. If you’d left this thing any longer you’d need to get the whole joint replaced,” She threw the tool back onto the table and Ed almost flinched at the intensity with which it landed. Winry reached back and grabbed a small screwdriver. “Then you're really screwed, cause that's beyond my scope. You’ll have to go see a specialist.”
Ed glanced at her through the corner of his eyes. As much as he hated to admit it - and believe him, he really did hate to - she was right.
Truth was, he had let it go way too long between checkups. Not intentionally. He wasn't trying to piss anyone off – certainly not Winry. He knew how precious she got about his automail, though honestly, it was beyond him. Why’d she even care so much anyway? Not like she was his specialist.
His actual care team operated out of East City Hospital, the closest large hospital with a specialist automail department. It was situated just over an hour away from their quiet commuter town of Resembool. He'd been sent letters reminding him of his upcoming maintenance checks, but after the second missed appointment, he just started tossing them in the garbage. Honestly he just couldn't be fucked with it. Between school work, Izumi’s traumatising weekly lessons, and the generally dire state of his mental wellbeing, he didn't have the luxury of taking a day out for a hospital visit.
Plus, with no access to a car, or an adult who had one, the journey wouldn’t even be worth the trek, especially since his automail was still (mostly) usable. He figured he’d just save the trip until he had more serious issues.
“You could have just asked me.” Winry said, pulling him from his thoughts. Could she read his mind?
“What?”
Ed turned to her. She tightened her grip on the screwdriver, avoiding his gaze.
“You could have asked me to check it out for you. I would have helped.”
Oh.
Ed didn’t respond. He simply looked away.
They both sat in silence as Winry finished up. She tightened the last screw, then reached for a small oil can and applied it carefully to the joints.
“You’re lucky it wasn’t rust,” she said, “I just needed to remove some buildup and grease it up a little. Try moving it.”
Ed flexed his elbow joint and rotated it. It clicked smooth, clean. No more godawful creaking. And the stiffness was gone, too. He paused. Winry watched him expectantly. “Well?” she enquired.
Ed rolled his shoulder, testing the range.
“Yeah. S’fine.” he answered at last.
Winry rolled her eyes and grabbed a rag. “Jeez, thanks Winry for saving my butt once again, what would I ever do without you?” she said mockingly while wiping off her hands. “Aw shucks, don’t mention it Ed!”
She stood up and started to put her equipment away.
Ed flexed his fingers surreptitiously. Clenching his fist then releasing it, like he was testing something he didn’t want to admit mattered. Because as much as he insisted his automail hadn't bothered him before, it felt good to have it fully functional again.
Winry had done some fine work here for a so-called non-specialist. But then again, she always did.
“Thanks, Winry.” he said quietly. He hadn’t meant for her to hear, but she must have, because she huffed despite the hint of a smile tugging at her lips.
From downstairs, Pinako’s voice rang out: “Winry, Ed, dinner’s ready. Come down and eat.”
Winry straightened and wiped her hands on her dungarees.
“C’mon,” she said, nudging Ed with her elbow as he slipped his shirt back on. “Try not to break it again before dessert.”
Ed scoffed. “Yeah, no promises.”
+++
Ed plonked himself down at the dining table with a huff, his braided ponytail sliding over his shoulder as he folded his arms. Winry helped set the table while Pinako fetched the lasagna from the oven and placed it on the cooling rack to set.
Winry elbowed Ed as she passed him with a stack of plates. ”Think you could grab the glasses? It’s not like you don’t know where anything is.”
“Well damn, where the hell are my manners,” Ed muttered and rose to fetch some glasses.
“I was wondering that myself,” Winry chided as she passed him again, silver knives and forks bundled in her hands. Ed pretended not to hear that. Yeah, okay. Funny. Not like he’d been invited as a guest or anything. Though he supposed he was practically family by now, and as such he was going to be treated accordingly, with all the pros and cons that came with it. The pros meant free dinner. The cons meant helping out with the chores. He set the glasses on the table.
“Is your brother joining us, Edward?” Pinako asked while removing her oven mitts and starting on the salad.
“He said he’d be back soon,” Ed replied. He retrieved his phone from his pocket and checked the last message he sent to Al, telling him to come to Winry’s house instead of going straight home. That was about 45 minutes ago, and he hadn’t heard anything back since. The read receipt indicated that he hadn’t seen it yet either. That was weird, Al usually texted back in a timely manner. Ed glanced outside the window. It was now fully dark outside. Al said he just needed to ask one question, how long did that need to take…?
Sure, he may have still been annoyed from earlier, but his brother’s safety was his responsibility.
As if summoned by his brotherly concern, the front door swung open and Al suddenly appeared, breathless and windswept. Den rushed over to him and leaped up at his legs. The boy laughed and crouched down to meet her enthusiastic licks, returning her greeting with ample scritches behind her ears.
“There you are, Alphonse. Just in time, dinner’s ready.” Pinako called. “Come join us at the table.”
Al beamed up at her. “Thanks, Granny. It smells great.” He straightened himself up and made his way to the dining table with Den trotting in tow. She curled up on the floor next to his chair, peering up with her glassy black eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t the teacher’s pet.” Ed drawled snidely as Al took the seat across from him. “Glad you could take time out of your busy schedule of butt kissing to come join us for dinner.”
“Hey, brother.” Al replied stiffly.
Winry glanced awkwardly between them as Pinako slid her a plate. “So…Al! You stayed behind after class? How was it?”
Al smiled at her. “Good, thanks! I just had a question for the Teacher about this piece we’re learning.”
Ed scoffed.
“Boy, must’ve been some question, you were gone for a hot minute— was wondering if you were planning on sleeping over or something. Should've let me know, I would've packed your toothbrush.”
Al held his gaze, unflinching. Winry’s eyes bounced between the two like she was watching a championship ping pong match, except instead of a ball flying back and forth it was some frighteningly lethal shade. Pinako just shook her head and prepared another plate.
“We did practise a bit too.” he responded calmly. “I've got the second passage down now. Teacher said I sounded flawless.”
Ed hummed and blinked slowly. His lips curved up into something wicked and sharp. “Of course she did.”
Winry’s head swiveled back to Al, who was graciously accepting his plate from Pinako. He folded a clean napkin on his lap and picked up his knife and fork.
“You know, brother,” he began, tone almost pleasant as he cut into his food, like he was entertaining friendly conversation about the weather, or last weekend’s game, “Maybe if you stayed behind once in a while, Teacher would go easier on you.”
Ed’s jaw dropped open in utter bewilderment. A snicker broke free as Winry fought to suppress a laugh, but Ed was so flummoxed he didn’t even catch it. The fucking nerve of his so-called baby brother— that little shit. Ed almost felt embarrassed for having worried about him only a few moments ago, the prick should have gotten jumped for all he cared. Okay, fine… maybe that was a bit much. But still, who the hell did he think he was? Just because he was Izumi’s perfect little pupil, he thought he was now better than him or something? Even worse, underneath it all, Ed didn’t know what he hated more: the audacity of Al’s response, or the uncomfortable thought that maybe he was right.
Al just shrugged innocently and popped a bite of lasagna into his mouth. ”That's just my suggestion.”
“WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?” Ed hollered, slamming his fists into the table with such force that poor Den winced, and the salt shaker toppled onto its side. Pinako sighed, set it back upright and went back to her meal.
“I’m just saying—” Al started, but Ed wouldn’t let him finish. “Do not get smart with me, Al!” he interrupted, pointing his metal finger with an implicit threat of violence.
“Boys.” Pinako sternly cut in, “No fighting at the dinner table.”
Ed looked at her, “You’ve got the wrong idea old lady, we’re not fighting. We’re just having a civil conversation over dinner, right Al?”
Al took a sip of water from his glass and placed it back down. He turned to Pinako. “Granny, could you pass me the salad, please?” he asked politely, like the stellar young man he was.
“Of course, Alphonse.” Pinako replied, sliding the bowl over. Ed gawped once again.
“HEY! I’M TALKIN’ TO YOU!”
“Ed, give it a rest already!” Winry intervened, “Just eat your dinner. God, what’s up with you? You’re grumpier than usual.”
“I'm not grumpy.” Ed insisted, grumpily. Everyone looked at him with expressions ranging from skeptical to deadpan to just plain tired.
Fine. Maybe he was a little grumpy. He sank back in his chair and tried to relax his jaw, only just noticing how much tension he had been carrying in his body. Now that he thought of it, he’d been gnashing his molars together the whole day without even realising.
He watched his brother sitting across from him, his posture flawless even as he ate. It was always so easy for Al, wasn't it? Always so effortless. Like he was unaffected by it all, unbothered by it. As if he had already gotten over it.
How could he pretend that everything was fine when it wasn't?
Dinner settled into a quieter rhythm after that—cutlery clinking and scraping against plates, the occasional bit of chatter. The conversation weaved around trivial topics like how the boys were doing back at school after the summer break, upcoming assignments, and Winry's new drumset. Well, technically new. She'd gotten it second hand from a neighbour moving out. She’d need to procure her own drumsticks, though, and some extra little bits.
Then Al asked, “So, Winry… how are your parents doing? Have you heard from them recently?”
Winry’s expression softened.
“Yeah… they’re okay. Busy as always.” she gave a small shrug. “They try to call as often as they can. They promised they’d do it every day, but… y’know. They don’t always have the time.” She hesitated just a moment, biting her bottom lip, before continuing, “I know they’re trying. It’s just… hard sometimes.” She dropped her fork gently onto the plate and cupped a cheek in her hand.
“I just miss them.”
Winry's parents were military doctors. Due to frequent deployment, they were often away for months at a time. Missed birthdays and holidays were a regular occurrence, though they tried to send something whenever they could – a gift, a card. It always meant something to her, even if she’d rather have them there. Of course, she wasn’t completely alone. She had Pinako. But even so…
Al nodded sympathetically. Across the table, Edward’s gaze stayed fixed on his plate as he pushed his food around with his fork.
Winry sighed, heavier than intended, then shook it off. “But I'm always happy whenever I hear from them. It makes my day.”
She put on her best smile. Al smiled back, gently. And Pinako watched them both with a soft expression.
Ed spoke before he could stop himself.
“Must be nice,” he said, not looking up, “having parents who still call.”
Fuck, no– wait. He hadn't meant it like that—
Winry froze. Ed snapped his eyes shut, partly from the instant wave of regret that washed over him. But mainly because he couldn't muster the nerve to see her reaction.
Slowly, Winry turned toward him. Her face bore an expression not of anger or belligerence, but something else. Something tender.
Something hurt.
“...That's not fair, Ed.” She whispered, her voice sounding like brittle glass, and Ed knew that, he knew it. He gripped his fork.
A heavy silence descended on the table like a heavy cloak.
Then Pinako cleared her throat,
“I forgot to mention, Winry, a parcel came for you today.”
Winry looked up. “Really?”
“Mm,” Pinako continued, “left it by the front door. It's from your parents.”
Winry shot to her feet so suddenly she almost flipped over her plate.
“Ah, no you don't, young lady.” Pinako declared, stopping the girl in her tracks. “You’ll finish your dinner first.”
“But—” Winry started, but Pinako was not hearing a word of it. “Sit.” she interrupted, “Before your food gets cold.”
Begrudgingly, Winry sank down into her seat.
And started absolutely wolfing down her food. She made Den look like a graceful eater.
Al and Ed watched with eyes wide open.
Ed — perhaps unwisely — chimed in again. “Real ladylike, Win– OUCH, AL?!” he rubbed his wounded shin and glared at his brother, who had kicked him under the table. That little jerk went for his good leg, too.
Pinako met Ed’s gaze with a cold glare. “And you. You've done enough damage for tonight.” she warned him. “Eat your food and keep quiet.”
Ed turned his head back to his plate. Man, he was making nothing but enemies tonight at this dinner table.
Probably deserved.
+++
After dinner, Winry retreated to her room. She'd skipped dessert, which was already alarming because Winry never skipped dessert. Pinako had even made her favourite, sweet berry crumble with extra cream, yet she wasn't enticed. She told Pinako to save her portion in the fridge, that she'd have it later. Then she took her parcel and retired to her room in silence.
The brothers sat at the table finishing their pudding. Pinako returned to the table with two containers stacked atop each other and wrapped in cloth. “I made some extra for you boys. You can heat it up tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Granny!” Al said, accepting the tupperware. He looked at Edward. “That's tomorrow's dinner taken care of, right brother? “
But Ed was somewhere else. He blinked. “Huh? Uh, yeah… ” He rose from his seat and wandered towards the staircase. “Gonna go take a whizz. Be right back.”
They watched him slink away. Pinako turned to Al.
“How are you boys managing?” she asked.
Al smiled weakly and lowered his gaze. “We're alright. Teacher - ah - Miss Curstis, checks on us every so often, so it's not too bad. And it's always nice when you visit, too, Granny.”
Pinako hummed in acknowledgement. “And your brother’s taking care of you?”
Al nodded. “He's trying his best. Really, he is. Sure he can be prickly sometimes, but… ” He trailed off. Pinako watched him, her expression neutral. “It's not easy for him, considering… well, you know.”
Pinako gave a knowing nod.
“And you, Alphonse?”
Al looked at her, exhaled softly and mustered his bravest little smile. Though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
“I'm trying my best too.” he said, and he meant it.
+++
Ed meandered aimlessly through the hallway towards the bathroom. He didn't actually need to go, it was merely a convenient cover-up. He just had to get the hell away from that table, from pretending he wasn't spiralling. From lashing out at anyone else.
He walked past the door to Winry’s room, and stopped.
Fuck. Winry…
What he said earlier… he could still hear it. God, it sounded worse every time he replayed those words.
He clenched his fists and gulped hard. And for once he considered doing the one thing his stubborn pride rarely allowed him to:
Apologise.
He approached the door. Stopped. Lifted his fist. Hesitated. Dropped it. Then he went for the doorknob. Wait, no. He should definitely knock first. Okay. He looked around. No sign of Al or Pinako. Alright. He sighed, then tried again. Then stopped himself, again. Shit. He bumped his head softly against the door.
He was going to be here all night at this rate.
Fuck it, just go for it. He stepped back, took a deep breath and knocked firmly on the door. No backing out now.
“Come in.” Winry's voice called from the other side. Ed opened the door.
There she was, sitting on her bed. Around her lay crumpled balls of discarded wrapping paper, and some items he assumed were gifts from her parents, though from where he stood he couldn't make them out. She held a letter in her hands, presumably something she’d been in the middle of reading when Ed knocked.
Ed entered the room and closed the door behind him. Winry watched him silently. The whites of her eyes were tinged slightly red.
“Is, uh—” Ed attempted, his voice already breaking. He cleared his throat. “Is now a good time?”
Winry didn't move. “Depends.”
Ed opened his mouth, shut it. He tried again. “Okay. Well, listen—” He blinked hard. Why the hell was this so difficult? It was just one dumb word.
Winry was listening. Ed dropped his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck. A nervous habit.
“Sorry. About… earlier.”
That was the best he could manage.
A moment passed in silence. Winry looked down at the letter in her hands. She sighed and folded it carefully in half.
“It’s fine.” she said, voice barely audible. Ed wasn't sure he bought that entirely. But he wasn't going to push. He was already plenty outside his comfort zone.
So that was it. Apology attempted… and somewhat accepted. Huge success. Now what?
He stood there awkwardly. Winry was still looking away, knees pulled up to her chest. He thought an apology was meant to fix things, but the air felt just as tense as before he'd barely eked the words out.
Well. He supposed he could just… leave. Grab Al and head home. It was getting late anyway, tomorrow was a school day, and ugh, he still had to do those lame exercises Izumi gave him. Thirty minutes a day, bla bla bla, whatever. He had very little desire to do them, but he had much less desire to face her wrath at the next lesson when she'd inevitably find out that he hadn't been practising. So unfortunately he had no real say in the matter. As was the case with everything else in his life, it seemed.
His attention returned to the discarded wrapping paper on her bed.
“What'd your folks send you?” He asked, pointing with his chin. Winry glanced in the direction he indicated.
“Ah, yeah. Just some stuff. Snacks, souvenirs. This thing… “ she swung a keychain around her finger. “Must have been from dad. As if I don't have enough of these already.” She scoffed fondly, rolling her eyes. “Oh, and these.”
She held up a pair of new drumsticks. Ed inspected them. “Never took you for a drummer. When’d that happen?” he asked. Though given how much she liked to hit him with various household objects, he supposed in hindsight, it made sense. And perhaps even it would even be a boon. Hopefully she’d take her frustrations out on the drums now, instead of him.
Winry shrugged. “I've always thought it was cool, but then I saw the drummer from Homunculus play,” her eyes immediately lit up and she grinned, clutching her drumsticks and kicking her feet in girlish glee, “and oh my god, she is sooo cool! She totally inspired me to start.”
“That's why you got that drumset.” Ed noted. Winry nodded affirmatively. “Yeah, but it didn't come with drumsticks, so mom and dad got me these.” She smiled softly and looked down at them with a gentle appreciation. “They really didn't have to…”
Ed observed her silently. Her previously tense demeanour had dissolved into something more relaxed, more genuine. Her shoulders were looser, and her eyes seemed to shine with… not happiness, no. But something close.
Whatever she was feeling, Ed thought it may have been contagious, because seeing her like that made him feel it too.
“What’d you say that band was called again?” he asked after a moment.
Winry looked back up, her face instantly brightening. “Homunculus. They're this insane industrial metal band from East City. They're doing crazy stuff with analog synths and sampled power tools—literally, Ed, I think the drummer uses a circular saw on a steel plate during the bridge. It’s brutal.”
Ed squinted skeptically. Analog synths? Sampled power tools? He hadn’t the faintest clue what any of that meant, let alone how it could be applied to music. He’d grown up performing to classical pieces where melodies flowed ornately against a symphony of lush strings, dainty flutes and refined pianos. Neat, polished, and always, always controlled. Music was something to be handled with extreme care and deliberation, like something made of glass. Beautiful to observe, easy to break.
But this thing Winry was describing…it didn't sound like music. It sounded ugly. And brash. And loud. Not for the sake of emotional climax or narrative, but just because it could. Sounded uncoordinated, uncontrolled. Or perhaps, even, uncontrollable. Devoid of rule or order, of any kind of meaning. Like throwing noise at the wall just to see what would stick. Like really, a circular saw on a steel plate? Powertools? Were these guys making music or working a factory shift? Nothing as crude as that would pass for music in the world he came from.
And yet…. he was intrigued.
“Must be nobodies,” he concluded. “I haven’t heard of ‘em.”
Winry simply snorted dismissively in response. “Yeah, well you wouldn’t have. For one, they’re not exactly mainstream. You have to be in to know about them. And honestly? They’re a little too raw for your tastes, choir boy.”
Ed’s eye twitched.
“It's former choir boy to you, gearfreak,” he said, “And I bet they sound like crap anyway.”
“That's hilarious considering you just said you haven't heard them.”
“Don’t need to,” Ed folded his arms petulantly, “they’ve got a stupid name. Tells me everything I need to know. I mean what the fuck is a hummus-clueless—”
“It's Homunculus, idiot.” Winry interjected, and Ed just rolled his eyes.
“Oh, did I give the impression that I gave a shit? My bad, it won't happen again.”
Winry laughed sharply and leaned back, clearly finding this all very amusing. “I dare you to listen to one of their songs,” she challenged him, pointing a finger, “then look me in the eye and tell me they're crap.”
Ed scoffed. “Easy. And you don't have to dare me, ‘cause I was gonna do it anyway. Scoot.”
Winry freed space for Ed to sit next to her. He took a loose earbud and popped it in, while Winry grinned fiendishly and took the other one. She swiped into her playlist and picked a track from the band's most recent EP: Seven Deadly Sins.
“Prepare to eat your shorts.” She said,
Ed scoffed again. “Eat my fucking what—”
Winry hit play.
It started quietly. Deceptively so. But quiet didn’t mean peaceful. No, it was a wretched kind of quiet, the calm before the storm. A creeping bassline stalked underneath as a wicked sounding voice drawled into his ears, crooning something he couldn’t quite understand, a language never intended for human ears... it sounded like an incantation, like something evil being summoned. A heretical pagan ritual; the prelude to a bloody sacrifice. Something terrible was coming, and Ed couldn’t wait. Or maybe it was dread. Goosebumps raised on his skin. And then… then it hit him.
A wall of noise.
He thought he had died and gone straight to hell. If he had, he imagined this was exactly what it sounded like.
Screeching vocals, screeching metal. Churning, crashing, damning sound. His irises dilated, his heart plummeted to his gut. What was this, if not the sound of death itself? The vocalist gulped a desperate breath as if grasping for air, sweet air, like he had been swept up by the sound, drowning in it, then unleashed a blood-curdling scream as the track descended into the chorus.
Ed was sweating now, his heart thumping in his chest. Eyes wide. His body had jumped into fight or flight, reacting as if he himself was in danger.
No, no, no, no. Everything about this was wrong. So, so wrong. Nothing about it was graceful. None of it was beautiful. It was ghoulish and cursed and terrifying. The dissonant clashing of the instruments, the vengeful riff of the guitar, the thunderous crash of the drums, that perverted, winding bassline, and the vocals— don’t even get him started. They violated everything he knew about singing. Every rule, every constraint, every technique. Breathing loudly before each line? That was improper, Ed knew. School and Izumi had worked very hard to beat that habit out of him. But this vocalist didn’t give shit about that, gasping for breath every time he hit a new verse. And he didn’t just “swallow his vowels”, he fucking cannibalised them, distorted them beyond recognition, mutilating them with every harrowing growl. He…he sounded like something inhuman.
And his tone was gritty and gravelly, and he spat every consonant like scorching venom. Ed envisioned him as one of heaven’s angels condemned to hell, screeching in eternal rage at the God above who had abandoned him, boiling with the heat of fire and of brimstone and of a million damned souls.
The track ground to a violent, crashing halt, the sound of feedback lingering like fallout from a nuclear blast, before fading into nothing.
Ed’s chest crested and fell like he had just run a marathon. His body was shaking. Winry removed her earbud and looked at him. He was whiteknuckling the duvet.
“Well?” She asked expectantly.
But Ed didn’t look at her. Didn’t even move. He sat frozen for a few moments more, shellshocked. Then,
“Play it again.” he whispered.
Winry stilled. A devilish smile cracked across her face.
She hit repeat.