Intense psychological themes and/or interpersonal conflict.
It would be a shame if the future Fuhrer got himself killed over something as trivial as a chess game.
Greed grinned, slid a hand from his pocket, curled one suddenly black claw. "Great. Come on, let's get it on."
Al loved the way his brother's face turned inward, his golden eyes unfocusing and a little smile coming to his face...
Ed shrugged, although his expression suggested he was trying to keep from being too smug about beating a man almost twice his age.
And if he did forget mom's face, what would be next? Her voice? Her smile? The color of her eyes?
With no warning at all, something changed in the air between them, and the fight turned dirty.
Ed had confessed that he had no idea how the relationships had started.
Neither brother seems willing to speak, but their thoughts dip down into similar wells, dredging up the questions that most haunt them.
He grabbed the nearest inmate by the front of his shirt and hauled him up. "Where is he!?" he roared.
They were sharing a bed by necessity that winter, piling all the quilts onto one bed and hiding under them while the little radiator struggled to warm the small room.
"How old are you?" The answer was on the wanted posters, of course, but he wanted to check.
She accepted the label and its implication without argument, lifting the revolver and sighting along its barrel.
How do you condition the unconditional?
I really don't like this body, he thought sadly; if he'd had a face to pout with, he would have.
Why was Ed still letting this fear haunt him? How long was the lingering pain of these old wounds going to hang between them?
"I was your mother once," Dante told him with an air of great drunken magnanimity one evening.
It hurt, somehow, to know that there was no one now who could see past the mask if he didn't want them to.
"Brother," he whispers into the soft warmth of Ed's skin, "Is mom going to get better?"
There were faces more beautiful, and figures more perfect--he saw them all the time. But none had whatever it was that made him ache for her.
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.
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.
He's been after her since the day they met. He'd been a newly-made Major and, at the time, the youngest State Alchemist ever. She'd been a Colonel going on Brigadier General.
Humans were fools, and alchemists were the worst of the lot.
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 misses me," came the quiet whisper, a hope that maybe this madness would end, that maybe, maybe, he could be released, that he could go home.
He hates the military. Maybe he doesn't. Roy and straight-line thinking aren't on speaking terms anymore, though he likes to pretend.
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.
The hand under Edward's intact leg shifted, and the fingers snapped. A wave of heat danced across his skin, and he shivered in fear as the failed experiment died.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her tobac tin, more to annoy her visitor than anything else.
Once you promised me that you would dance on my grave. I'm keeping you to that promise, you know.
He underestimates the little things, like how long it will take him to put his socks on in the morning, and she comes up the stairs when breakfast is long since over to find him crouched over a torn stocking, blinking back furious tears...
He was a version of his brother if he'd grown up, but fainter, as though he'd been diluted in the bright light of the Gate.
Ed glared at him, and Al sighed. Maybe today wouldn't be a good day for Edward after all.
He didn't play anymore, not with reports to file, books to read, notes to scratch out.
All it took was a push of his hand and the twist of a small brass key to put it out of sight.
He had lost everything in a heartbeat, on a chance, and deserted his brother, although against his will.
"Your arm," said Al, smiling apologetically. "It's kind of heavy."
They stand and take notes, eyeing him suspiciously, but he doesn't turn to meet their eyes...
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."
He read his father's old, dog-eared textbooks, fascinated by the mechanics of alchemy.
They would bow, they would drop into a fighting stand and extend their swords, there would be the shout of en garde. And then she would take him down.
"Beautiful," he purred again, a smile curling the edges of his lips, and Roy shivered despite the heat.
For instance, Havoc knew that Hawkeye was not fond of gunmanship.
It was so easy to forget how uneven alchemy made a fight. No ordinary guy ever had a chance.
Here was the corner where she retreated, reloading her gun as she prepared for another kill.
"We don't need those little bastards. We'll make our own family."
He had started to wonder if it was Edward or himself that was farther out of reach at the moment.
For in equivalent trade, everything has value and therefore everything can be taken away.