Intense themes with a nightmarish edge or grim outlook.
Death could come to Roy on his time. Appointment first. Lunch, maybe.
There were three ways to identify the Fullmetal Alchemist, wherever he went.
Of all the castle's "guests," Roy was the only one not allowed to leave. Ever.
Sometimes, he prays that the hand will come down and Ed will tell him gently they are done, they are going to quit, end the nightmare before it worsens.
All it took was a push of his hand and the twist of a small brass key to put it out of sight.
"If you are going to keep pets, you are going to have to take care of them."
"...If I...really went insane...I mean, completely lost my mind..." Ed said, carefully, "do you think you'd be able to stop me?"
Envy forced down the nasty smirk that threatened to overwhelm him.
Edward doesn't come back the next night, or the next.
It's almost as though Al is the blind one, seeking to memorize his brother's features by touch.
Screaming or crying would have been appropriate. Edward Elric didn't care about propriety. He was laughing.
"Have you ever thought about becoming a daddy?" Wrath said.
Neither brother seems willing to speak, but their thoughts dip down into similar wells, dredging up the questions that most haunt them.
...when he presses his hand against the scraped array and wills it to activate, he can't help but send a whispered prayer to it. Please work. Please, please...
Ed meets his eyes, holds them, and then -- slowly, painfully, but deliberately, traces his free hand in a line across his throat.
A sin, to mar that innocence of sex, to put physical feelings with intellectual knowledge.
"If I do not, I might begin to love you, whom I should hate."
He was afraid, so afraid, that something would go wrong, but he couldn't let this go.
Ed did not want to die without seeing Alphonse again.
Faith didn't hold much of a place in my life; science was my passion, something I could see, something I could feel, could make sense of.
Roy had been among the rebels for weeks now, and he'd learned very early on that these men were dangerous, very dangerous.
Before this war, he'd never wiped human blood off his automail.
But Mustang would hold onto his control easily, manipulating the boy to lose more and more of his.
When the lines didn't matter, when the lungs weren't working in labor of sweet industry worlds, then it was so easy to see where they might be all born of the same blood.
He just carries himself with a certain atmosphere, one that feels like splinters of buildings falling off walls and landing broken or the smell of roasted flesh.
From saint to sinner, from mother to whore‚Ä¶ She was far more beautiful in death than she'd ever been in life.
If Al hadn't known how often the older boy feigned unconsciousness in order to stave off these visits, he might have been fooled.
He didn't know why they would do this to him, why they would stare with sad eyes and sad lips, with mouths turned down for the frowns that came.
Ed began to understand why some people talked to themselves.
A small smile crept along her face--this visage made for mischief--and her tell-tale purple eyes narrowed.
What kind of stupid creature would walk willingly and calmly to its own violent, brutal death?
Of course, when she was their age she could hardly recite her multiplication tables, much less draw complex alchemical glyphs.
It isn't often that our darkest fantasies get fulfilled.
Mustang fell into a kind of trance whenever he killed with his flames -- snapping his fingers continually, sometimes so fast that both his hands blurred.
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.
It was just as his body heat was beginning to bring the sheets up to a reasonable temperature that the noise caught his ears- an ugly scraping sound, unnatural and harsh in the silence of early morning hours.
Edward would speak to him, eventually. Any good dog would, and despite his obstinacy, the child could be trained.
If she cries, he may have to kill her. He can't stand that sound any longer.
"I'm sorry Al," he said at last. "For what it's worth, I never meant for this to happen to you."
"Listen, bastard... Do you always have to do things the hard way? You never, ever make it easy for me."
His brother seemed to like it when the leather left marks, a residual token of ownership, even when the collar (by job-dictated necessity) had to be removed.
Envy was no poet -- one could say that he lacked a poet's soul -- but he did recognize beauty when he saw it.
He was only human though, and he had given into his rage at having to deal with Edward's dysfunction--and now Edward was gone, and it looked more and more like he might not be coming back.
This is the smell of ozone from a lightning strike. This is fear.
And when the next words followed, barely loud enough to be heard, the General was surprised by the force behind them.
"Mother?" And his voice broke, shattered as he raced to her, arms wrapping around her thin body, embracing the image, the idea. "Mommy!"