He'd meant to say something but Ed had been so determined, so anxious to be useful, to create something.
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.
Once you promised me that you would dance on my grave. I'm keeping you to that promise, you know.
"Colonel, if I may ask... what is a cat, to be more precise, a kitten doing in the office?"
For in equivalent trade, everything has value and therefore everything can be taken away.
PR, we need PR, he kept telling himself, but at this point he didn't think he could string more than two sentences together.
Al waited to say something until Ed's hair brushed his shoulders.
Ed glared at him, and Al sighed. Maybe today wouldn't be a good day for Edward after all.
He lay back on the couch (in Roy Mustang's office, where else?) and declared , "I'm not wearing this."
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.
He had only meant to pass through the town; it wasn't like much would have changed anyway.
"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?"
Hope — he could almost reach out and touch that hope, hours away, maybe, just a few ticks of the clock and an array or two later and it could be real.
A man can do terrible things in the name of his uniform--his leader, his service, his country. Then he spends the rest of his life going crazy or chasing penance.
These days, he loves the movies.
She hated being idle; it ranked far above the petty pain of a mere gunshot-wound in her personal list of annoyances.
There was a crunching noise from Roy's direction, as of teeth biting through the edge of a porcelain cup.
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.
Every line in his chest and back was defined; he hardly seemed to have any body fat at all.
What kind of stupid creature would walk willingly and calmly to its own violent, brutal death?
The first time your mother asked you what you wanted to be, you answered, 'King of the whole world!'
I really don't like this body, he thought sadly; if he'd had a face to pout with, he would have.
"Stupid bullies," Ed grumbled, limping for a few steps before he remembered that he wasn't supposed to be feeling it. "Call me a girl, will they?"
Only some things, he knew, could be repaired. Not every broken sword could be re-forged.
"Our boy here hasn't done a lick of work since eleven am, and she hasn't noticed at all. D'you think she's in love?"
Ed liked him this way -- so why did it make him so furious to have to deal with Al caring one way or another about him?
Louis Alex Armstrong has been seriously wounded... BUT THE SOUL STILL BURNS.
"This one's for you, Al." Edward swore, raised the glass to his lips, and braced for the impact.
But you never thought of it as a handicap, did you, as something just the same as being blind or deaf.
Roy Mustang was shipped back home last week. Neat as a parcel of vegetables with the stamp upside-down on the crate.
Winly was touched, really, that even after two years without seeing one another, Ed still wrote her letters.
And he learned to think ahead from his grandfather, over the chess board on the back porch of their home.
A false peace, rotten at the roots: he would dream for the rest of his life of the brother he could not touch and think those dreams his due.
... and the moral of the story is - well, I guess there's no moral to this story, it's just a bunch of stuff that happened. Kind of like the rest of this movie.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her tobac tin, more to annoy her visitor than anything else.
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.
"... Hey, I thought we were supposed to be celebrating the Boss' release," Havoc protests weakly.
Not a fairy, then, Alfons thought in disappointment. The fairies in stories weren't usually so foul-mouthed and excitable, anyway.
Al makes a worried little noise, and Ed raises his head a little. He's been found out, he thinks, and knows he should feel something.
If she cries, he may have to kill her. He can't stand that sound any longer.
Always on Al's face was that soft, sad expression, paralleled by the fierce unyieldingness on Ed's.
She hadn't come to confront the sameness of him, but the difference — the nonconformity anyone could mark and everyone did...
He was afraid, so afraid, that something would go wrong, but he couldn't let this go.
This is the smell of ozone from a lightning strike. This is fear.