Intense themes with a nightmarish edge or grim outlook.
Ed did not want to die without seeing Alphonse again.
"It's getting worse," his brother said as he came in the door.
rated:G | GEN | dark
Screaming or crying would have been appropriate. Edward Elric didn't care about propriety. He was laughing.
"...If I...really went insane...I mean, completely lost my mind..." Ed said, carefully, "do you think you'd be able to stop me?"
This is the smell of ozone from a lightning strike. This is fear.
All it took was a push of his hand and the twist of a small brass key to put it out of sight.
Envy forced down the nasty smirk that threatened to overwhelm him.
It isn't often that our darkest fantasies get fulfilled.
...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...
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.
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.
Ed meets his eyes, holds them, and then -- slowly, painfully, but deliberately, traces his free hand in a line across his throat.
Roy had been among the rebels for weeks now, and he'd learned very early on that these men were dangerous, very dangerous.
A small smile crept along her face--this visage made for mischief--and her tell-tale purple eyes narrowed.
It's almost as though Al is the blind one, seeking to memorize his brother's features by touch.
A sin, to mar that innocence of sex, to put physical feelings with intellectual knowledge.
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.
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.
But Mustang would hold onto his control easily, manipulating the boy to lose more and more of his.
He had lost everything in a heartbeat, on a chance, and deserted his brother, although against his will.
Al thought of Martel, of Nina. He didn't want to be a chimera.
"I'm sorry Al," he said at last. "For what it's worth, I never meant for this to happen to you."
Edward doesn't come back the next night, or the next.
From saint to sinner, from mother to whoreâ€¦ She was far more beautiful in death than she'd ever been in life.
"Mother?" And his voice broke, shattered as he raced to her, arms wrapping around her thin body, embracing the image, the idea. "Mommy!"
There were three ways to identify the Fullmetal Alchemist, wherever he went.
Death could come to Roy on his time. Appointment first. Lunch, maybe.
Ed began to understand why some people talked to themselves.
"Listen, bastard... Do you always have to do things the hard way? You never, ever make it easy for me."
The cheap ink has blurred and run, but Ed's memorized the gist: Riesenbul needs help; come sort things out.
Of course, when she was their age she could hardly recite her multiplication tables, much less draw complex alchemical glyphs.
Of all the castle's "guests," Roy was the only one not allowed to leave. Ever.
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.
"If I do not, I might begin to love you, whom I should hate."
If Al hadn't known how often the older boy feigned unconsciousness in order to stave off these visits, he might have been fooled.
I've never regretted keeping you, Envy.
"Have you ever thought about becoming a daddy?" Wrath said.
What kind of stupid creature would walk willingly and calmly to its own violent, brutal death?
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’s killing his brother slowly, but he has already promised to do it quickly; what does it matter?
If she cries, he may have to kill her. He can't stand that sound any longer.
Edward would speak to him, eventually. Any good dog would, and despite his obstinacy, the child could be trained.
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.
Before this war, he'd never wiped human blood off his automail.
And when the next words followed, barely loud enough to be heard, the General was surprised by the force behind them.
He was afraid, so afraid, that something would go wrong, but he couldn't let this go.
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.