Intense psychological themes and/or interpersonal conflict.
He recalled lifting it cautiously up to his nose, and then back away from the stinging, spicy herbs along with the smouldering scent of tobacco.
He had lost everything in a heartbeat, on a chance, and deserted his brother, although against his will.
A spark of interest lifted his pale eyebrows, and he set down his fork.
But at least there was softness beneath the fear, and the eyes apologized to her for her pain, even when the lips did not.
"Stop that," he snapped, flicking the tap on. "Change into something a little more appropriate. You're not him, brother."
“Envy,” she murmured in her brother’s ear. “I need a favor.”
Roy could've sworn First Lieutenants existed only to invent torture methods for Colonels, but he wasn't about to say that one out loud.
Ed tilted his head down, looked up under Greed's bangs — and there, he saw a familiar, shaky grin.
There were good things about having Mustang around, least of which was when one forgot their matches.
And when you held your breath, where did you keep it, in your lungs or your mouth or your throat?
There was a terrible vulnerability to Roy when his cover slipped, and it made Ed uncomfortable.
His vision was misted...almost comfortingly so. His hands were slathered in salve and bound with gentle gauze.
His desire for everything and everyone meant subversively that anything the alchemist blew to high hell was his: possession by association.
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.
Here, in this place where eyes were all but useless, hearing could be confounded with the sensation of touch.
They were good boys, and smart, and she trusted them to stay mostly out of trouble. Mostly.
Ed began to understand why some people talked to themselves.
"If you hadn't messed in the mud to get the cat," he pointed out, "your hands wouldn't be so cold. Give me your other."
The creature tilted its head, eyeing the two men to the side of her, and slid off its precarious perch.
"When you put it that way--" Roy conceded. "But it does seem improbable. You promised me a murderer, but are you so sure that it was no accident?"
How do you find someone who barely existed in this world now that they're gone?
But he kept going back. She knew, and confronted him at one time.
"...That is an order, Fullmetal, and I will have you court-martialed if you refuse."
Ed had confessed that he had no idea how the relationships had started.
Zinnsoldat, they named it, the Tin Soldier, in reference to their former service and in acknowledgement of their current uselessness.
So, he says, and his voice cuts through the sound of battle outside in the streets. "What's it going to be?"
I could sleep here, soundly, knowing that I followed in his footsteps, lay in the same beds, held the same forks and glasses, and spoke with the same people he had protected.
Faith, he'd thought, was something he'd learned as a child, squirming on the hard wooden pews.
It was inconceivable to think that this could ever be called beautiful...but the same could have been said for her once, couldn't it?
"When I walked in on you in the bath, Edward, I wasn't expecting Al to be there too."
He could ask so many things at this point. About sex, Ed, himself...
For now, he has mastered one world, two worlds; they have mastered him as well, and he is tired.
If Al hadn't known how often the older boy feigned unconsciousness in order to stave off these visits, he might have been fooled.
It was getting kind of depressing, though, by the time the color red alone would make him wonder about the child; the flash of a cardinal, a sprig of bright berries, the gaudiness of nighttime tavern lights, and the scarlet lipstick of bar women.
Theirs is a strange relationship--they know so little about each other--but somehow it's okay, as though knowledge would throw a spanner in the works.
He closed his fist around her sash and curled into himself, trying to keep his thoughts away from dark things.
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.
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.
When he comes to, the blue light of the alchemical reaction is fading, and the air is thick with smoke.
A small smile crept along her face--this visage made for mischief--and her tell-tale purple eyes narrowed.
The Colonel should, by all that is logical in the world, be less intimidating out of his uniform.
Here, all is one, one is all, but everything is also nothing.
The first time was not a night of magic or fireworks, not something dreams were made of, not something that either of them planned on repeating again.
Roy Mustang was shipped back home last week. Neat as a parcel of vegetables with the stamp upside-down on the crate.
Envy would never let him forget that the price of pride was destruction, and that those who infringed upon God's domain were damned.
If killers and empty assassin armor hadn't frightened him, half a foot of park bench shouldn't leave him feeling so useless and pathetic.
To her, the Philosopher's Stone is blood and fire: his fire, her blood.
For in equivalent trade, everything has value and therefore everything can be taken away.