Intense psychological themes and/or interpersonal conflict.
"Pretty!" she says, and kneels to press her palms to the curls and knots chalked on the stones. "Papa! Did you drawed this? What's it for?"
He made the slip-up not whilst in the throes of passion, but rather, sitting quite peacefully at the kitchen table, watching the slender blond cook.
Among them he walks, the man whose name only God remembers.
Predator-sleek and supple like a malignant-looking trickster, blurring the lines between human and inhuman, male and female, dead and alive.
"She loved him," Ed said. Crack, snap. Another flower joined the pile.
When Winry found him, he could not help but clutch at her, babbling almost hysterically.
Greed grinned, slid a hand from his pocket, curled one suddenly black claw. "Great. Come on, let's get it on."
So, he says, and his voice cuts through the sound of battle outside in the streets. "What's it going to be?"
He would have been crying for a long time, but the tears seem to have frozen in this damn cold too.
He had only meant to pass through the town; it wasn't like much would have changed anyway.
It wasn't a matter of getting his own way. It was simply a matter of getting.
The blond shook his head lightly, probably in amusement, "I'm really sorry but he's normally not like this to strangers but your resemblance? is very striking, Roy."
Bravado. Make them regret they ever talked to you.
Are you listening to me, Lieutenant Hawkeye?
But the harsh light of early morning sharpens the hard angles of desperation on Al's face so instead Ed smiles, all teeth, and lies, "Of course."
"Just who're you calling..." Edward's voice stuttered to a halt as he saw where the man was pointing. "...short?"
Inside the house, the door to the new room his father was building, with the wonderful baby-blue walls and blankets and toys, is shut and locked.
...the two men drank Roy's good whiskey, clinked glasses and Maes exclaimed that It was about damn time.
Alfons swears he doesn't need glasses - and maybe he doesn't, if he can see such phenomena as the Gegenschein light--but up close he has trouble like this.
"I'm not being forced out of another home. They won't be here long, and it's not like they'll be looking for us."
It hurt, somehow, to know that there was no one now who could see past the mask if he didn't want them to.
"Are you saying," Al inquired, slowly, "that you never believed that I didn't blame you?"
On the day the Fuhrer died, it snowed.
Ed shrugged, although his expression suggested he was trying to keep from being too smug about beating a man almost twice his age.
What he remembered of ice cream, more than the taste, was how messy it had always been.
"Beautiful," he purred again, a smile curling the edges of his lips, and Roy shivered despite the heat.
He couldn't understand this world, this obsession with his son in the negative.
A pure and virtuous soul was nothing short of surprising.
And of course, he does not believe in God anyway, and scorns the idea of predestination.
Because he had said one year; and dammit, he meant it.
But he still flinched away from that metal skin, and held his own burning automail arm a little further from his body in hopes that he would not bump against it.
"How old are you?" The answer was on the wanted posters, of course, but he wanted to check.
Could I burn like that - would the lick of flames on my skin wipe me clean?
Ed's arms swept out, taking in the street and the buildings, the grass and the trees and the sky -- "the world and our own minds to understand it! That's all!" Isn't that enough?
There are some things that aren't to be tolerated.
Around when the hour of nine rolls up to the door, fat as a bellied barfly, Roy has already taken his jacket off the hook and has gone outside to walk.
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.
But the language of legend and that of alchemical secrecy were linguistic-sisters...
A spark of interest lifted his pale eyebrows, and he set down his fork.
Very few alchemists believed in God, but all of them believed in books.
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.
And if she listened carefully enough, she could hear Edward reading in a low voice to a gurgling Alphonse.
But Mustang would hold onto his control easily, manipulating the boy to lose more and more of his.
Years later when they shipped him off on a belated honeymoon, Roy went without audible protest.
She knew the instant she opened the door and saw their blank faces.
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.
In matters of love and loss, it could be argued, the principle of equivalent exchange did not exist.
The blow cracked Ed's cheekbone, an audible noise in the quiet room, and he felt and tasted the blood that filled his mouth.