He couldn't understand this world, this obsession with his son in the negative.
Alphonse worried, but was rapidly won over by his brother's promises.
Rubbing at a fading reminder of one such lesson on his left biceps, he hopes she appreciates what a formidable champion she’s gained.
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.
Twenty-one days, and it all falls down.
He has felt this before, from homunculi and other dead things, and where Al does not have those tactile memories from Before, only visual ones (thankfully, thankfully), Ed certainly does.
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.
... and the moral of the story is - well, I guess there's no moral to this story, it's just a bunch of stuff that happened. Kind of like the rest of this movie.
It made only a semblance of sense, but she understood that the whole truth would be revealed when Ed could be led from this graveyard of the years he had lost.
When you live in a small apartment, it's hard to miss when your brother comes home smelling like sex and absinthe.
Al, at 17, had discovered that mornings were unbearable for the first time in his life, and waking up before ten o'clock in the morning was pure agony.
He'd lied in smoke filled bars. He'd hunted down lubricants in seedy stores that catered to the most iffy of clientele. Alfons had EARNED Ed's love.
He felt ten years old and small, pressed against a door that wouldn't open for a very long time.
Ed considered for a moment how much to share with the boy. Kids could be weird with what upset them, and Ed didn't want to lose his single ally in the neighborhood.
So, really, it was only fair that Ed's first, instinctive reaction when Roy hit the ground after slipping off the roof was to snort and tell him, "I told you so."
The showy bastard snapped with a killer grin for their audience and really, Roy was meant for either politics or the stage.
Death overtook Hohenheim unexpectedly on the road to knowledge.
A false peace, rotten at the roots: he would dream for the rest of his life of the brother he could not touch and think those dreams his due.
But last night I dreamed of Teacher, standing in a brightness like sunlit mist, holding out her arms to me, smiling gently.
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.
"I'm not your brother," he told the sleeping figure; it rang hollow.
Alfons is a scientific man, and Edward is his paradox.
"For the last time, we are not having this conversation!"
The man looked like Shou Tucker -- the human man, not the chimera he'd become.
A spark of interest lifted his pale eyebrows, and he set down his fork.
But he's traveled like this before, and the hope that it won't end in failure a second time is, at this moment, enough.
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.
How do you find someone who barely existed in this world now that they're gone?
He reminds Alfons of himself, in a way, back after he'd been first diagnosed with his illness; when he used to get up and stare at his face in the washbasin mirror every day and think, I am too young for this.
The taste of arsenic is golden, addictive, even it does pave the road to hell.
He'll fix himself breakfast, and maybe something for Edward as well, if he's feeling charitable.
His breath was a transparent spirit before him, a phantom that hung in the air before dissipating into nothingness; Roy was almost envious of it.
rated:G | GEN | Shambhala | SP: movie |
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.
There would always be this silence in the air, stifling, thick, foggy and almost opaque, and I would watch from the mouth of the hallway, hands in front of me, our kitten, Unsere, threading through my legs.
Falling back into the sun-warmed grass, Al smiled to the skies, offered them his hopes and dreams on a gilded platter of golden eyes.
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.
He doesn't have time for any of this, oak trees and summer days and a pale, bony hand twined with his.
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.
He was coming to read Alfons pretty well now too, and from what Al did understand he could give as good as he got.
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.
Let me start by saying that I love my grandchildren. Actually, they’re my great great grandchildren, but that’s repetitive and makes me sound old, so screw that.
This is the most perplexing part, for Edward, because often he thinks, how in the hell did I end up with…?
This too, was wrong – not at all the way these things were supposed to go. In his mind's eye, Edward was already yielding to the pressure of his witty onslaught.
As it got later, Al could hear the night in the strange world deepen. Nights of terror, here, a country full of dead people.
No one talked of Equivalent Exchange in England, but they had a saying that came close: There ain't no such thing as a free lunch.
The only other tradition that was better than eggnog to Al, was that of mistletoe.
The brush began its march through the sunbeam locks, from crown to tail, and Riza pressed her lips to them. "Until then."
Faith didn't hold much of a place in my life; science was my passion, something I could see, something I could feel, could make sense of.
Something about the place seems to be sucking the life out of him; the more time he spends indoors, the more he seems to wilt.
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.
Alfons prays for the day when he will return to a far-off Edward, and somehow miraculously find the words, the actions, to call him back from his imaginary world.
Brother deserves better than to always walk alone. And you deserve better than to quietly freeze in the dark, regretting things left untested.
"Shut up. Don't say anything. I made you food, and there's beer in the icebox, and happy fucking Oktoberfest."
Here, in this place where eyes were all but useless, hearing could be confounded with the sensation of touch.
Among them he walks, the man whose name only God remembers.
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?
Alfons had never had anyone his age to horse around with, Edward thought, and as cerebral as he was he probably didn't get in many street fights.
You gave me hope, Edward Elric, and then you took it away.
This is what lovers do, thought Ed. They sacrifice for the other's pleasure.
"No," said Ed, his voice quiet. "You can't hurt me."
"You know what the problem with this world is," Edward started, and Alfons thought: here we go again.
"I will teach you patience even it if kills me," Alfons gritted out. "Let me do this my way, you can give up control just for one act."
The logical thing was that brother defer to brother, who would have thought in this one instance that selfishness would rear its head?
"They're human chimeras, Mr. Elric. Children, primarily, and they're violent."
"I have to spend a year at Northern Command, and you can't come with me."
It made him feel useful, and needed, even if the truth was his help wasn't entirely necessary. It made him feel like someone would miss him when he was gone.
People paid a lot of money to see things like this, she imagined.
All a very neat, very efficient system, Kessler thought; raw material and outgoing product in perfect balance, a regular production line built into flesh.
Ed was normally a cheerful, friendly drunk, thank goodness, but the slightest hint of reproach or anger on Al's part would send Ed into a crashing depression.
Of course, the jar was really the professional female companionship fund; or, as Ed liked to sarcastically call it, the pussy kitty.
It was merely a battle of wills. He would win.
He didn't know exactly what he found so captivating, seeing Edward like this, but he couldn't stop looking.
They were Scientists; this was Nature. They were Modern; God is dead.
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.
But suddenly, when Al had his body back, it was like picking up an old book and learning something new.
Too many more nights of excuses are going to drive him from appropriately celibate to stark raving mad.
Envy would never let him forget that the price of pride was destruction, and that those who infringed upon God's domain were damned.
His friend is blushing, ashamed to be seen in such a condition - and this is not new, either, this is not new at all.
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.
"Normal punishments don't work on my brother. We'd better come up with something else."
"Of course, that depends how you define cruel," he adds, amused.
No kinks, no cross-dressing, no tag-team threesomes, and all pets must be ushered out of the room beforehand.
He's a pessimist with an ego seven miles long; he's a scientist, too, doesn't approve of Al's 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.
Staring, he couldn't tell the difference aside the eyes, aside from the cloudy sunlight of his hair, just a whisper darker than his beloved's.
It was as if there was an invisible box Edward carried with him, keeping a careful several inches between him and the rest of the world at all times.
His flatmate is a night owl and is always knocking around at odd hours, reading well in the early morning; if Alfons didn't remind him to sleep he most likely never would bother to.
"All this whiny, pathetic, 'no-one-understands-me' bullshit was suppose to be over in my teens," he told the bottle angrily, "I'm suppose to be an adult now."
There was no question that the very act of living in this world was to be in exile.
There is no way Alfons knows what he does to him.
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."