Intense psychological themes and/or interpersonal conflict.
If it didn't rain so often, Ed thought, he might feel a little more like he could make plans.
But at least there was softness beneath the fear, and the eyes apologized to her for her pain, even when the lips did not.
But the language of legend and that of alchemical secrecy were linguistic-sisters...
It is to such a morning that Alphonse wakes up, light pouring in through the blinds and over the bed sheets.
Once you promised me that you would dance on my grave. I'm keeping you to that promise, you know.
I, the stray dog of the desert, who sloped long and pale, slashed to ribbons, across the moonlight sands on my journey to God.
Ed had confessed that he had no idea how the relationships had started.
Even though she wasn’t an alchemist, alchemy tended to stake a claim on all who were associated with it.
Yet there are still nights that he wakes up to find his hand clutched by a seated Al, who laughs his hollow laugh and asks if he's okay, even though he does not remember screaming.
His desire for everything and everyone meant subversively that anything the alchemist blew to high hell was his: possession by association.
The voice hit Ed like a blow, and drove the breath from his lungs. "Where are you?" he shouted. "Where are you?"
Of course, the jar was really the professional female companionship fund; or, as Ed liked to sarcastically call it, the pussy kitty.
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.
I really don't like this body, he thought sadly; if he'd had a face to pout with, he would have.
She knew the instant she opened the door and saw their blank faces.
Some of the details he needed, of course, they wouldn't have; no non-alchemist would know. And most of the details they had, he didn't want.
"That would have killed you, you idiot! You wouldn't be destroyed, or erased, or whatever. You would be killed! I would have murdered you!"
Humans are so greedy, the Truth had told him in his dreams; and for all his airs and graces, he is no exception.
Today I saw the god of fire, Roy writes in his notebook, knowing he will never be believed.
A spark of interest lifted his pale eyebrows, and he set down his fork.
Al makes a worried little noise, and Ed raises his head a little. He's been found out, he thinks, and knows he should feel something.
Every rule in the book tells him that it's wrong, frat-er-nisation, number one cause of discharged officers in peace time situations.
The creature tilted its head, eyeing the two men to the side of her, and slid off its precarious perch.
But they were no longer young, and they no longer lived together, and Al wouldn't embarrass his brother in front of their hosts by trying to take care of him.
He's seen quite enough of the military hospital in Central, and much as he likes the nurses, he was still glad when he thought they were through with it.
Only some things, he knew, could be repaired. Not every broken sword could be re-forged.
If Al hadn't known how often the older boy feigned unconsciousness in order to stave off these visits, he might have been fooled.
The room had gotten hot and stuffy, and there was sweat on both of his hands, though the sheen on the automail had not come from his own body.
"And search for free porn." Havoc pointed out.
"Beautiful," he purred again, a smile curling the edges of his lips, and Roy shivered despite the heat.
Every statement directed at me now seemed to be prefaced with "you bastard." I didn't mind; it was as good a name as any other.
Alchemy, the science of turning lead into gold, was never about actual, physical transmutation.
They'd been on the run so long, Ed had long since lost track of the last time he'd slept in a bed instead of in an abandoned barn, or under a hedge.
He doesn't love Scar. The idea is ridiculous, but they are all they have left, each other's bodies rocks against the tide of strangeness, unfamiliarity.
A collection of 100 word ficlets.
Here was the corner where she retreated, reloading her gun as she prepared for another kill.
There is only the Now, with Them, although They have not come for a long time.
Faith, he'd thought, was something he'd learned as a child, squirming on the hard wooden pews.
To her, the Philosopher's Stone is blood and fire: his fire, her blood.
You want to break him just once; see what he really is beneath that cool exterior.
Could I burn like that - would the lick of flames on my skin wipe me clean?
Winly was touched, really, that even after two years without seeing one another, Ed still wrote her letters.
Always on Al's face was that soft, sad expression, paralleled by the fierce unyieldingness on Ed's.
A pure and virtuous soul was nothing short of surprising.
For an instant, a look passed between them, and Alphonse could almost imagine that he saw his own emotions reflected within the eyes of his brother.
Like other little girls, she wanted to be an actress, the heroine in her own perfect fairytale.
And when you held your breath, where did you keep it, in your lungs or your mouth or your throat?
Fingertips drifted over curves, up over hips and thighs and the dimple of ribs, and if my eyes were closed, I could have told you in detail every perfect flaw and scar.
He hadn't asked Hughes to follow him to this place.