"We ought to have a toast," Ed says, frowning into the depths of his bottle. "They always do when they're having a drink in someone's memory."
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.
She hasn't learned not to weep — only to weep without tears.
That she might have to tweak a recipe to get it to come out tasty was something she found irritating at a base level.
Louis Alex Armstrong has been seriously wounded... BUT THE SOUL STILL BURNS.
Al loved the way his brother's face turned inward, his golden eyes unfocusing and a little smile coming to his face...
He was looking forward to the prospect of a hot meal in the cafeteria; even if it wasn't exactly home cooking, at least it was hot, and it was fresh.
The feel of hands on his shoulders woke him, one metal and one flesh, and it was the chill in human fingers that told him how cold the night had grown while he slept.
But at least there was softness beneath the fear, and the eyes apologized to her for her pain, even when the lips did not.
Al, at 17, had discovered that mornings were unbearable for the first time in his life, and waking up before ten o'clock in the morning was pure agony.
...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.
"Those are very nice gloves," Pinako observed when Edward came back.
Alphonse washed, and Edward dried (owing to the automail; safer not to submerge), and between the two of them the stack eventually diminished.
And there was a certain look they shared, the one they both used when they thought Ed was being unreasonably stubborn.
It was so easy to forget how uneven alchemy made a fight. No ordinary guy ever had a chance.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her tobac tin, more to annoy her visitor than anything else.
He tilted his jaw and the kid struck the match, lit it, lifted it to his cigarette.
Ed glared at him, and Al sighed. Maybe today wouldn't be a good day for Edward after all.
PR, we need PR, he kept telling himself, but at this point he didn't think he could string more than two sentences together.
But the harsh light of early morning sharpens the hard angles of desperation on Al's face so instead Ed smiles, all teeth, and lies, "Of course."
"Just who're you calling..." Edward's voice stuttered to a halt as he saw where the man was pointing. "...short?"
Ah. Fans. He preens slightly into his coat, sits up just a little taller on his haunches. Fans he knows how to deal with.
With two younger sisters himself, he knew well that siblings quarreled, but never to this extent.
Ed finally conceded that the cats were indeed very useful.
He didn't play anymore, not with reports to file, books to read, notes to scratch out.
In the file were pictures of the alchemist's circle where the boys had attempted to bring back their mother.
If armor could narrow its eyes, Ed knew Al would have been doing so.
The Full Metal Alchemist, of course, accepted his assignment with all the gravity due his station.
If Ed had his way, his allowance (and all of Roy's salary) would be spent entirely on the most expensive brand of dog food to have ever existed.
Five minutes before the day officially ended, Havoc retrieved the car, and saluted as Mustang came down the steps and opened his own door.
He recalled lifting it cautiously up to his nose, and then back away from the stinging, spicy herbs along with the smouldering scent of tobacco.
"Normal punishments don't work on my brother. We'd better come up with something else."
They would bow, they would drop into a fighting stand and extend their swords, there would be the shout of en garde. And then she would take him down.
Al decided he didn't like that particular grin on his brother's face.
And he learned to think ahead from his grandfather, over the chess board on the back porch of their home.
"Damn well better be--I bought 'em two days ago and I'm not keeling over yet. Got any dry ones on you?"
Alfons Heiderich, this universe's most cruel mistake, came round from the other side of the crumbling brick wall, and Ed found himself again wondering if the man existed solely for his personal torment.
Roy Mustang was shipped back home last week. Neat as a parcel of vegetables with the stamp upside-down on the crate.
He knew, as he had never known before, his own body; the strength and flexibility in every limb, every joint, every bone.
"I don't think there's anything wrong with you, Brother," Al said loyally, and Ed scowled.
Roy stuck a finger in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it as he savored the heavy and rich fluid.
You're the only person on earth who will ever be able to read this message.
Al thought of Martel, of Nina. He didn't want to be a chimera.
It was a lousy day, depressing and the color of the sky on his way home reminded Ed of the color of the Gate and he just felt helpless and sorry and lonely and bad.
Roy could've sworn First Lieutenants existed only to invent torture methods for Colonels, but he wasn't about to say that one out loud.
Winry muttered something Scieszka couldn't quite catch, brow furrowed as she leaned in to adjust something on the switchboard.
If there was something Al still deeply enjoyed about his illness, it was seeing Ed play a sort of housewife.
It was the last moments of the change that had always held Ed rapt, had always thrilled him with the knowledge that whatever came into being, every tiny detail of it, was his creation.