His vision was misted...almost comfortingly so. His hands were slathered in salve and bound with gentle gauze.
What he remembered of ice cream, more than the taste, was how messy it had always been.
...but he must take a moment to compose himself, all the same, before he can look through the small window.
And if he did forget mom's face, what would be next? Her voice? Her smile? The color of her eyes?
He remembered finding himself asking why the Fullmetal Alchemist would be the one to patch his own clothes.
I really don't like this body, he thought sadly; if he'd had a face to pout with, he would have.
He had to force himself to remember that he hadn't even known what Alphonse had been like in the flesh, but he was fairly certain that he hadn't been a polished and polite doppelganger of his older brother.
"Don't worry," Greed had whispered. "I'll take care of your little death."
He closed his fist around her sash and curled into himself, trying to keep his thoughts away from dark things.
This new life was staggering - more so, the feel of Alphonse's shoulder, warm and flesh beneath his cheek as the train lurched out of the station.
"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."
But we the people of Ishvar endure, by the grace and mercy of Ishvarra we endure, and so long as we live we will remember.
There is grass growing on the cinders, ivy covers the old stones.
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.
It hurt, somehow, to know that there was no one now who could see past the mask if he didn't want them to.
But he's traveled like this before, and the hope that it won't end in failure a second time is, at this moment, enough.
Al thought, grimly, that he was getting rather good at this.
For a few minutes they sat in silence, looking out over the sun-dazzled water. There didn't seem to be much to say.
"You'll be up against the wall before you know it, Mustang, right where you belong, eating the bullets of a firing squad for breakfast."
"Are you saying," Al inquired, slowly, "that you never believed that I didn't blame you?"
Half the apple pie was still on a cracked plate on the windowsill, covered with a bowl so it didn't go stale before tomorrow, because it was all he had in the house.
Roy wondered how far Alphonse would go to prove his point.
He always put his tongue in his cheek when he fired his weapon, and bit down when he grimaced at the aftermath.
Could I burn like that - would the lick of flames on my skin wipe me clean?
He was just moving to light the stove, casting about for a match to begin the flames that would cook their dinner, when the voice drifted in from the other room.
He had never dared to dream that things could get better, astounded as he'd been by the way air tasted spilling over his tongue...
He runs out of ink halfway through the page, and with a quiet sigh dips his finger in the inkwell...
There was uncertainty in those eyes, and wounded pride, but there was no less passion, and therefore, Roy was no less terrified.
"Your arm," said Al, smiling apologetically. "It's kind of heavy."
Car broke down again, couple kilometers out of the city, so they had to walk for a while, until Alfons couldn't speak for the coughing.
"Stop that," he snapped, flicking the tap on. "Change into something a little more appropriate. You're not him, brother."
Before this war, he'd never wiped human blood off his automail.
An alchemical reaction of the most ancient kind: sitting down to eat as though filling the stomach could replace the gap in one's heart.
Al loved the way his brother's face turned inward, his golden eyes unfocusing and a little smile coming to his face...
It's important that a little light always comes in, even if it's only enough to see shadows and outlines, and not words at all.
It made him feel useful, and needed, even if the truth was his help wasn't entirely necessary. It made him feel like someone would miss him when he was gone.
The color red was a distraction. The color red was him. Him--Mustang's own constant distraction, the waving red banner amidst the dull color that painted his everyday life.
Heaven is this: a short, crisp October day, the clear sky a great bowl above them, the amber valley a chalice below.
"All this whiny, pathetic, 'no-one-understands-me' bullshit was suppose to be over in my teens," he told the bottle angrily, "I'm suppose to be an adult now."
As it got later, Al could hear the night in the strange world deepen. Nights of terror, here, a country full of dead people.
People paid a lot of money to see things like this, she imagined.
Now the eyes were dull, the gold frosted, and bitter lines caged his mouth.
If it didn't rain so often, Ed thought, he might feel a little more like he could make plans.
What things Envy learns of his master's nature, of his future and his past alike, are those things which he has divined on his own, and nothing more.
He wanted Hughes to know how many lines he had crossed in his lifetime.
This was always my favorite part of the day, when I could observe the wicked gleams of a glare I wasn't meant to see.
And after all, no amount of rain can wash the blood away.