"Normal punishments don't work on my brother. We'd better come up with something else."
That she might have to tweak a recipe to get it to come out tasty was something she found irritating at a base level.
"Pretty!" she says, and kneels to press her palms to the curls and knots chalked on the stones. "Papa! Did you drawed this? What's it for?"
Etiquette doesn't quite cover situations like this one.
Very few alchemists believed in God, but all of them believed in books.
He couldn't understand this world, this obsession with his son in the negative.
What was it like, Father mine, to die and to be resurrected again?
"As you can see," she said to Mr. Elric, wryly, "Appreciate them while they're at this age, because they turn into teenagers in the blink of an eye."
"... Hey, I thought we were supposed to be celebrating the Boss' release," Havoc protests weakly.
Ed opened his mouth, and then closed it. "Visibility is that important to you, huh?" he said.
Lust had memories. They were strange, confusing, painful. But she thought maybe she remembered love. Also hate. They seemed, from her perspective, very much alike.
Ed began to understand why some people talked to themselves.
"Well... Brother does that, every so often. He really should think before he tries to attack people."
"Bill for repair of said hotel after occupants of said room 'incited riot'?"
"Aww, is the rough and tough Elric crying for his dead brother?" sneered a voice in his ringing ears.
The metal in his mouth tastes cool and tangy and yummy but he can't eat because he has to find Lust.
What he remembered of ice cream, more than the taste, was how messy it had always been.
"I don't think there's anything wrong with you, Brother," Al said loyally, and Ed scowled.
He can still feel in his cheeks the faint scratch of beard against skin when his father kissed him there.
Envy mused that this was what it sounded like when a spirit broke, a large pop of a fictitious heart, the snapsnapsnap of each rib cage.
According to Hughes, Major Mustang was close to promotion and as his subordinate, it was her prerogative to try and help him to reach the next rung of the ladder.
She remembers the dreamlike way the pieces seemed to sit on the board—on account of the light, maybe, or perhaps her own faltering memory.
Al waited to say something until Ed's hair brushed his shoulders.
Through this, one would think I know him well, given my constant observing of him--but there is too much he does not put in the report, too much that he hides within himself.
rated:G | GEN | Fullmetal | mid-series |
Al thought of Martel, of Nina. He didn't want to be a chimera.
It was such a beautiful way to die.
Could be anything... could have anything... and there was a pride, a greed in the words as they had dripped from those tainted, twisted lips.
Yet there are still nights that he wakes up to find his hand clutched by a seated Al, who laughs his hollow laugh and asks if he's okay, even though he does not remember screaming.
Winry was ten when her grandmother commented that she already needed training bras.
There were people here who did not run screaming when he whipped out a photo. Or five.
Edward Elric was notoriously known for his intense dislike of milk.
"She loved him," Ed said. Crack, snap. Another flower joined the pile.
Al decided he didn't like that particular grin on his brother's face.
But you never thought of it as a handicap, did you, as something just the same as being blind or deaf.
Sergeant Broche smiled in frozen panic at the miniature devil that had cornered him in the officer's mess.
Brother wasn't the only one hiding his fears; I was so afraid everything I knew was a lie -- that our brotherhood was a lie.
He read his father's old, dog-eared textbooks, fascinated by the mechanics of alchemy.
"You don't think doing grown up things makes you look older?" Ed said after a while.
...it's making up for years with a date and flowers by alternately giving her the good, and then the bad, and then the good, and then the bad, and then the horrible.
It would be a shame if the future Fuhrer got himself killed over something as trivial as a chess game.
Faith, he'd thought, was something he'd learned as a child, squirming on the hard wooden pews.
This is the smell of ozone from a lightning strike. This is fear.