What do you know, he wanted to scream, what do you know about my brother, what he’s gone through and how far he’s — we’ve — come?
He's seen quite enough of the military hospital in Central, and much as he likes the nurses, he was still glad when he thought they were through with it.
Always on Al's face was that soft, sad expression, paralleled by the fierce unyieldingness on Ed's.
The tree was wobbly, but with a few kicks and shoves Ed got it to stand up in the corner by the window.
He'd meant to say something but Ed had been so determined, so anxious to be useful, to create something.
But it was through the hands that you cooked, and with a false hand Ed found that the cooking didn't come as easily anymore, didn't taste quite like Mother's.
"If you hadn't messed in the mud to get the cat," he pointed out, "your hands wouldn't be so cold. Give me your other."
He tilted his jaw and the kid struck the match, lit it, lifted it to his cigarette.
Inside the house, the door to the new room his father was building, with the wonderful baby-blue walls and blankets and toys, is shut and locked.
On Ed's thirtieth birthday, he attends a memorial that some of the military officers are holding for Ed.
"Ah, Alphonse-kun, I was wondering when you would wake up."
He didn't play anymore, not with reports to file, books to read, notes to scratch out.
He lifted his eyes to Ed's, returned Ed's even, blank gaze. "Brothers," he said. "That's what we are."
He felt ten years old and small, pressed against a door that wouldn't open for a very long time.
The house rumbled gently, as a cat purrs, and Alphonse tied off the braid, pressing his hands to Edward's scalp one more time before dropping them to his side.
Al knew better than anyone that Ed, if he put his mind to it, could do anything, and a little thing like missing limbs wasn't going to stop him.
At fifteen he had been intimidating; at thirty, he could be terrifying.
All the alchemical skill in the world didn't matter, he was learning, when it came to something like this.
"Your arm," said Al, smiling apologetically. "It's kind of heavy."
Ed peeked into the last box and began to grin. "Twelve-layer chocolate cake," he said. "Wow, a whole slice."
"This is disgusting," he said aloud, then poked his head through the door and yelled, "Brother! This is disgusting!"
He runs out of ink halfway through the page, and with a quiet sigh dips his finger in the inkwell...
"You're a lightweight," Roy said dryly, and smiled at the face Ed pulled. "That's enough for tonight, I think."
When he comes to, the blue light of the alchemical reaction is fading, and the air is thick with smoke.
If it didn't rain so often, Ed thought, he might feel a little more like he could make plans.
There's a bit of a debate in classics over whether or not the Fates are the supreme beings of the world, whose power cannot be trumped even by Zeus, King of the gods.