Internalized reminiscence by a character on a series of events.
I know what I feel, I know what I think, and I don't need to chickenscratch the shit down and have the risk of it falling into the wrong hands.
When dealing with the military, it always paid to look ready for inspection. Neatness counted; passion was suspect.
There was one thing that Edward had missed above all others.
Sometimes Roy would just hold him for an hour or more, late at night, blind comfort.
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.
He has seen the desert. Seen her scorched and scarred beneath his steady hands. Stepped in her tattered remains, tasted her ashes with every breath.
Sometimes, he prays that the hand will come down and Ed will tell him gently they are done, they are going to quit, end the nightmare before it worsens.
Even though she wasn’t an alchemist, alchemy tended to stake a claim on all who were associated with it.
Even so, you still are a manipulative bastard.
Of course, when she was their age she could hardly recite her multiplication tables, much less draw complex alchemical glyphs.
They were not used to being alone and when they were together they were not.
To her, the Philosopher's Stone is blood and fire: his fire, her blood.
Alfons is a scientific man, and Edward is his paradox.
Car broke down again, couple kilometers out of the city, so they had to walk for a while, until Alfons couldn't speak for the coughing.
The brush began its march through the sunbeam locks, from crown to tail, and Riza pressed her lips to them. "Until then."
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.
Riza looks straight ahead. "Personally, I found during my time in Ishbal that nothing stops a career faster than a bullet between the eyes."
What he really wanted to know was something else - a question of 'why', quite likely.
Two boys, two faces, two fates, alive and dead at the same time, at different times, nothing in common, everything in common, one thing in common: him.
"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
There is immortality deep within us that has nothing to do with corruptible flesh and earthly demise.
It was only after the sheer sensation had abated — only when he felt on solid enough ground to focus on the subtleties of life once more — that the habit began to catch his attention.
And of course, he does not believe in God anyway, and scorns the idea of predestination.
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.
Mustang is possessed, maybe, but not with the feverish intensity that will someday be the trademark of the Full Metal Alchemist.
Roy could order her to stay home and rest, but he couldn't keep her from cleaning.
I needed something that said 'I am Elicia Hughes, more than just Daddy's Girl.'
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.
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.
The taste of arsenic is golden, addictive, even it does pave the road to hell.
It is somewhat odd that two brothers can be so different, yet so close.
The metal in his mouth tastes cool and tangy and yummy but he can't eat because he has to find Lust.
That day, Ed had pulled his hair out of a braid and tied it up into a neat ponytail.
He had started to wonder if it was Edward or himself that was farther out of reach at the moment.
According to Hughes, Major Mustang was close to promotion and as his subordinate, it was her prerogative to try and help him to reach the next rung of the ladder.
Here was the corner where she retreated, reloading her gun as she prepared for another kill.
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.
I, the stray dog of the desert, who sloped long and pale, slashed to ribbons, across the moonlight sands on my journey to God.
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.
She clung to him so tightly that his skin was white under her fingertips.
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 laughs readily, but no one else, he's sure, has ever seen the double-takes with which she greets his successful deadpan strikes.
She feels like an intruder, eyes watching her from empty rooms, and every stair is a memory she dares not to disturb.
And there was a certain look they shared, the one they both used when they thought Ed was being unreasonably stubborn.
Because he had said one year; and dammit, he meant it.
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.
The feeling came more naturally than anything he'd known.
"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.