Intense themes with a nightmarish edge or grim outlook.
A sin, to mar that innocence of sex, to put physical feelings with intellectual knowledge.
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's almost as though Al is the blind one, seeking to memorize his brother's features by touch.
"If you are going to keep pets, you are going to have to take care of them."
There were three ways to identify the Fullmetal Alchemist, wherever he went.
If she cries, he may have to kill her. He can't stand that sound any longer.
The cheap ink has blurred and run, but Ed's memorized the gist: Riesenbul needs help; come sort things out.
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.
Of all the castle's "guests," Roy was the only one not allowed to leave. Ever.
All it took was a push of his hand and the twist of a small brass key to put it out of sight.
On the first night, he comes to her as her teacher.
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.
"Mother?" And his voice broke, shattered as he raced to her, arms wrapping around her thin body, embracing the image, the idea. "Mommy!"
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.
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.
Before this war, he'd never wiped human blood off his automail.
Ed meets his eyes, holds them, and then -- slowly, painfully, but deliberately, traces his free hand in a line across his throat.
"Have you ever thought about becoming a daddy?" Wrath said.
He’s killing his brother slowly, but he has already promised to do it quickly; what does it matter?
He was afraid, so afraid, that something would go wrong, but he couldn't let this go.
Ed began to understand why some people talked to themselves.
Screaming or crying would have been appropriate. Edward Elric didn't care about propriety. He was laughing.
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.
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.
"I'm sorry Al," he said at last. "For what it's worth, I never meant for this to happen to you."
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...really went insane...I mean, completely lost my mind..." Ed said, carefully, "do you think you'd be able to stop me?"
I've never regretted keeping you, Envy.
Of course, when she was their age she could hardly recite her multiplication tables, much less draw complex alchemical glyphs.
He had lost everything in a heartbeat, on a chance, and deserted his brother, although against his will.
A small smile crept along her face--this visage made for mischief--and her tell-tale purple eyes narrowed.
Envy forced down the nasty smirk that threatened to overwhelm him.
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.
We were the naive kings of all we surveyed, lingering on the hilltop as we stared at our kingdom of ash, of ruins, of dust.
This is the smell of ozone from a lightning strike. This is fear.
Neither brother seems willing to speak, but their thoughts dip down into similar wells, dredging up the questions that most haunt them.
From saint to sinner, from mother to whoreâ€¦ She was far more beautiful in death than she'd ever been in life.
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.
...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...
If Al hadn't known how often the older boy feigned unconsciousness in order to stave off these visits, he might have been fooled.
What kind of stupid creature would walk willingly and calmly to its own violent, brutal death?
"If I do not, I might begin to love you, whom I should hate."
"It's getting worse," his brother said as he came in the door.
rated:G | GEN | dark
Edward doesn't come back the next night, or the next.
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.
Al thought of Martel, of Nina. He didn't want to be a chimera.
But Mustang would hold onto his control easily, manipulating the boy to lose more and more of his.