La Petite Mort

Kimbley was indifferent to most things, really, or at least, he gave the impression of a man who didn't care much about most things one way or the other the majority of the time—the majority of time in which he was not blowing things up, that is to say... which was too often for the chimeras' comfort and not often enough for either Greed nor Kimbley's own taste.

Greed enjoyed the explosions almost as much as their perpetrator did, enjoyed watching his pet alchemist's fine work over the tops of his round sunglasses, his feline eyes glittering with hungry amusement. He didn't say one word about the muted bangs that wasn't guttural growled praise slipping out over the jagged points of his lion's teeth.

It didn't matter if Kimbley blew up something of Greed's, which was usually the case, as the Sin was sure that everything and everyone belonged to him in one way or another, sooner or later. Greed was, well, greedy; he collected things and people he didn't actually need with the fervor of an obsessive-compulsive hoarding animal preparing for winter, not really caring about his treasures, just simply and irrationally wanting to have everything available to him. He liked having; he was a collector.
It didn't matter if Kimbley blew up something of Greed's, as his desire for everything and everyone meant subversively that anything the alchemist blew to high hell was his: possession by association. Kimbley was his alchemist, ergo, anything that the Crimson Alchemist touched—i. e. exploded—was also his, albeit given to Kimbley like an unspoken gift.

Go on, go ahead. You know you want to. I d