The color red was a distraction. The color red was him. Him--Mustang's own constant distraction, the waving red banner amidst the dull color that painted his everyday life.
He decided, then, quite firmly, that he wasn't ever going to drink coffee again, with anybody. It was too risky.
Ed imagined Al's expression would look something like Fletcher's did right now.
He even dragged out his Best Manners for the occasion, the ones his mother had taught him so long ago.
Not a fairy, then, Alfons thought in disappointment. The fairies in stories weren't usually so foul-mouthed and excitable, anyway.
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.
She'd barely managed not to wail But it's Yoletide! and prove herself both spoiled brat and country bumpkin.
Ed began to understand why some people talked to themselves.
This is the smell of ozone from a lightning strike. This is fear.
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.
What do you know, he wanted to scream, what do you know about my brother, what he’s gone through and how far he’s — we’ve — come?
Ed should have remembered this from that month on the island, back when he was a kid: you can only be in the great outdoors so long before you start dreaming of hot showers. And of dumping the people you're travelling with in them.
Alfons Heiderich, this universe's most cruel mistake, came round from the other side of the crumbling brick wall, and Ed found himself again wondering if the man existed solely for his personal torment.
Hadn't he survived a month on a deserted island when he was ten, equipped only with a little knife and one pair of shorts? He was tough. He was rugged. He could fall asleep anywhere. He could totally do this.
Some of the details he needed, of course, they wouldn't have; no non-alchemist would know. And most of the details they had, he didn't want.
Ling was an expert at this shit, he really was: making Ed feel too bad to say no to him, throwing out weird, cheeseball compliments that made his cheeks fire and froze his brain before he could brush them off
The feel of hands on his shoulders woke him, one metal and one flesh, and it was the chill in human fingers that told him how cold the night had grown while he slept.
Alphonse worried, but was rapidly won over by his brother's promises.
"Oh, what would YOU know? said Winry. "You've never looked at a girl in your life."
“Um, you must’ve learned that from Colonel Bastard. You’d better not be flashing that at the nurses. Or at me, ever, ever again.”
Winry had never gotten to appreciate the leather pants in her current position as the person who got to unzip them.
Ed did not want to die without seeing Alphonse again.
And if he did forget mom's face, what would be next? Her voice? Her smile? The color of her eyes?
Ah. Fans. He preens slightly into his coat, sits up just a little taller on his haunches. Fans he knows how to deal with.
I didn't understand that, didn't comprehend why being clean for going into the earth was a good thing until much later...
Very few alchemists believed in God, but all of them believed in books.
"You don't think doing grown up things makes you look older?" Ed said after a while.
The only problem was that Ed didn't know what the heck "getting some" was or what he was being congratulated for.
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?
They shared the same eyes, the same hair, and a level of intelligence ... and sometimes, Ed felt far too much like he was his father's son.
They were good boys, and smart, and she trusted them to stay mostly out of trouble. Mostly.
Neither brother seems willing to speak, but their thoughts dip down into similar wells, dredging up the questions that most haunt them.
And after all, no amount of rain can wash the blood away.
"You. Boy by the window who's been doodling all the way through. What would be the result of this equation?"
"We ought to have a toast," Ed says, frowning into the depths of his bottle. "They always do when they're having a drink in someone's memory."
Okay, his hair wasn't brushed, and it had been a while since he'd gotten a bath, but he didn't think it was anything to blush at.
He remembered finding himself asking why the Fullmetal Alchemist would be the one to patch his own clothes.
"You know it's a good thing I heal almost immediately, because otherwise I'd be so sore, I'd never get anywhere in the story."
Bravado. Make them regret they ever talked to you.
In a blur of red and flying braid, Ed is on his knees before her.
The idiot prince still couldn't be bothered to figure out the different notes and coins, probably because he'd never actually paid for anything in his life.
This really was turning out to be a day of surprises, thought Roy.
It was kind of ironic, and kind of inconvenient, that Rush Valley, the capital city of automail, was also hot as hell for half the year.
The advantage to being so distinctive-looking was that sometimes Edward didn't have to look for people; they found him first.
Of course he came through the window.
It would be a shame if the future Fuhrer got himself killed over something as trivial as a chess game.
Ed remembered that Al's first word was 'Mama', and his second one was 'Niichan'.
The staff look at each other, look at their automail bottle-opener, and prepare to duck.
Tomorrow: having to talk to fucking Hohenheim. The day after tomorrow: the apocalypse. No pressure, eh?
Brother likes to pretend that he doesn't care what goes on in the military unless it directly affects him. Or, you know, directly offends him. One or the other.