Internalized reminiscence by a character on a series of events.
He wanted to be able to do something like that; tangle limbs and lips and know what it was like to not have a responsibility.
There was one thing that Edward had missed above all others.
It is what people say to him because they cannot think of any other way to relate to him, this boy who has the heavy title of 'Full Metal Alchemist'.
The question "Why learn?" always stops him; he cannot imagine not wanting to learn.
Here was the corner where she retreated, reloading her gun as she prepared for another kill.
Heavy-lidded, he would savor them slowly, letting them seep into his mind's eye until he could see nothing else.
Death could come to Roy on his time. Appointment first. Lunch, maybe.
See him move, see him train, see him jump into that air and swing his leg in a complete arch before he lands heavily to the ground in a perfect execution of Sensei's teachings.
The brush began its march through the sunbeam locks, from crown to tail, and Riza pressed her lips to them. "Until then."
There were precious few memories remaining, now, dimmed with the passage of time and the years that he’d spent lacking a flesh body, but he kept them close to him all the same.
Like other little girls, she wanted to be an actress, the heroine in her own perfect fairytale.
Winry muttered something Scieszka couldn't quite catch, brow furrowed as she leaned in to adjust something on the switchboard.
She remembers the dreamlike way the pieces seemed to sit on the board—on account of the light, maybe, or perhaps her own faltering memory.
Alfons is a scientific man, and Edward is his paradox.
He gave, and he gave, and he gave, and he could only hope that it was enough.
"Now, Earth-type world, yes? Spoken language identified as late pre-Galactic English."
rated:M-L | GEN | Alt Universe | TWT | First Place (popular); Second Place (juried) | Green Lion Winner | Alfons Heiderich | Edward Elric | crack | drama | fusion | introspective | 2009 Brave New Worlds, Original
Alphonse had thought that he must have the bravest brother in the world.
She laughs readily, but no one else, he's sure, has ever seen the double-takes with which she greets his successful deadpan strikes.
She moves the king again, to its last optional safe square and murmurs, "I'll admit this is not how I envisioned my first night on the battlefield."
Because he had said one year; and dammit, he meant it.
What he really wanted to know was something else - a question of 'why', quite likely.
You hide it well behind your bluster and your sulks, but the workings of your mind are at once cunningly devious and ruthlessly simple.
It was such a beautiful way to die.
There was no question that the very act of living in this world was to be in exile.
The metal in his mouth tastes cool and tangy and yummy but he can't eat because he has to find Lust.
Nothing made sense anymore.
For now, he has mastered one world, two worlds; they have mastered him as well, and he is tired.
Life, the Fullmetal Alchemist decided viciously, wasn't fair.
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.
She clung to him so tightly that his skin was white under her fingertips.
Even so, you still are a manipulative bastard.
It didn't really sink in when you saw the thing, all clumsy dangling wood and leather straps, like the arm of a marionette in a kids' puppet show.
Very few alchemists believed in God, but all of them believed in books.
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.
He has lots of women like her, who would like to be his anchor, and too many of them confuse that for throwing themselves head first into the ocean.
Mustang is possessed, maybe, but not with the feverish intensity that will someday be the trademark of the Full Metal Alchemist.
The taste of arsenic is golden, addictive, even it does pave the road to hell.
"We'll have you patched up in no time." Edward announced, slicing the leather into short, precise strips. It was irrational, but somehow Alphonse hated those words.
She feels like an intruder, eyes watching her from empty rooms, and every stair is a memory she dares not to disturb.
Greed has one, fundamental, flaw.
There is no way Alfons knows what he does to him.
He wanted Hughes to know how many lines he had crossed in his lifetime.
Brother wasn't the only one hiding his fears; I was so afraid everything I knew was a lie -- that our brotherhood was a lie.
They were not used to being alone and when they were together they were not.
He can hear their strained breathing but that's all, and he's never liked the General's silence and he likes Ed's even less.
To her, the Philosopher's Stone is blood and fire: his fire, her blood.
When dealing with the military, it always paid to look ready for inspection. Neatness counted; passion was suspect.
Edward had come into his life, taken over his life; and sometimes Roy wondered what was left of it for him.
She paced the wide, marble floor, visited each of the soaring windows, feeling every supple sinew beneath her skin move with the perfection of the young.
Roy Mustang often looked back on his wedding night, recalling what he had thought about his subordinates; even now, they were his family, his safety, his friends.