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Sometimes, Al thinks it would be easier if Ed was dead. It’s a horrible thought that makes his heart hammer behind his sternum, but one he cannot stop from crossing his mind. It’s a thought he can't stop himself from examining, which usually leads to even more horrible, heinous thoughts that he can't help but examine, and. . . and so it goes. Al’s gonna drive himself crazy.
He remembers the days after Mother’s death; the silent days accentuated only by the sobs Ed couldn’t quite stifle. Al had wanted to cry too, but that would have made things worse for Ed, and Mother had not been around to calm him down.
Mother’s absence had hurt like a gaping wound, but it’d been easier to handle with Ed around to hold and soothe. Terrible as he’d been at the soothing (he hadn't been able to keep Ed from from trying to bring Mother back, after all), at least he hadn't been alone. At least he’d had a mission.
Make sure Ed eats. Make sure Ed bathes. Remind him about school, no matter how boring he found it. Wash the chalk out from under his fingernails while he sleeps. Al barely remembers anything about his life that doesn't involve taking care of Ed in some fashion.
Al is alone now. That’s not fair to Winry or Teacher, but he feels it nonetheless. Without Ed, it’s like the rest of the world doesn't exist. And without even a tomb to visit, Al can't even begin to search for a new world. Not when every single mundane occurrence has him looking for Ed’s golden head so he can share the moment, get his brother’s opinion on which type of tree bark smells best, and at what time of the year. Or which chalk is best to draw arrays with. Or which breakfast sausage has the funniest shape.
Who else is Al supposed to share these things with?
Of course Al looks for him. He has to. Not even Winry’s excellent arguments, or her tearful pleas, can stop Al from looking for his brother. She might as well ask him to stop breathing.
So, Al goes on a journey. He scrapes together every crumb of information about the person Ed turned into since their disastrous attempt at human transmutation. People thinks he’s trying to become Ed by imitating him, but it’s not that. He’s just trying to inhabit Ed’s mind as much as possible. Ed is a force of nature. Whatever happened to him, it’s more likely that Ed happened to it. If Al can just take the same steps as Ed, then he might find his brother.
It takes more than two years, but Al finds the place where Team Mustang found him. Al has very vague memories about it, and Team Mustang has disbanded, so it wasn’t easy. But he finds the underground city, the strange ballroom where Ed must have. . . done whatever he did to restore Al’s body. It’s a stuffy place, like an old library that hasn't been aired out in years. Walking through it doesn't jog Al’s memory, but his heart flutters with excitement anyway. It’s sick excitement closer to fright than joy because, despite his insistence that Ed must be alive, Al fears that he’ll find a skull under a mane of golden hair. He wishes he had brought someone along, but there’s no one left. Winry has wisely chosen to live her life. Wrath hasn't been seen since he vanished.
He doesn't know what he hopes to accomplish by walking around an empty underground mansion. There isn't even any furniture to distract him. There is nothing, and that is worse than finding Ed’s corpse would have been. Al needs closure. A lifetime of his throat bursting with dread and joy every time a head of blond hair crosses the corner of his eye stretches out before him.
There’s a broken chandelier near a staircase. Al has passed by it several times, both fascinated and repulsed. He will go to it once more, one last time before leaving this wretched place and. . .
The piece of paper is wedged into the spot where a candle might have been, small and faded. Blotches of black ink are visible, and Al recognizes the chicken scratch that passes for Ed’s handwriting before he picks it up, heart in his throat. His hands shake as he unfolds the paper.
Al,
Ed tried out multiple versions of “I’m sorry” and “It was all my fault”, then scratched them out.
I don't know if you’ll ever get to see this. I think I fucked up beyond repair this time, but you know me. Stubborn as an ox with rabies. Can oxen get rabies?
Anyway.
I just want you to know that I want you to live. If I manage to do what I think I can do and the Gate isn't a fuckface for once, I need you to live. You gotta grow up and find a wife or a husband or whatever, and you gotta have a family.
Or you can go study or something. Or travel. Or just stay home and play with kitties and build a fucking cat farm with cows just to get them disgusting milk.
But you gotta live, Al. You gotta promise me that.
I’m not worth you. I never was. And I know you’re gonna wanna argue about that, maybe I should scratch it out, but I won't because it’s true. We wouldn't be in the situation we’re in if I hadn't been such an arrogant fuck-up. I was supposed to take care of you, and instead, I fucked your life.
I think I’m probably gonna die, and I’m not even sure if my plan will work. That makes me feel like I’m a coward a little, but it’s the only chance I got. Only reason I’m hesitating is that if this is my only shot
Here, Ed scratched out something so hard that there is a hole in the paper.
It’s not gonna hurt, and it’s gonna be over in the blink of an eye. I didn't suffer. I would have done it even if it skins me alive, but I know you wouldn't want me to suffer. Maybe I’ll even live, though you won't be able to find me if I do.
Why? Why not, Brother?
If I leave, I’m gonna try to be someone you would have been proud of. I’ll forgive our piece of shit of a dad. I’ll swear less. I’ll adopt a cat. I will try to deserve a brother like you.
Equivalent Exchange: be as happy as I want you to be.
I love you, Al.
I’m sorry I was such a shit brother.
I love you,
Ed.
Al is on his knees by the time he finishes the letter. Tears spill on the paper, smearing the ink that makes up the letters of Ed’s name. A sob heaves out of Al’s chest as he stretches his arms so his tears don't damage Ed’s letter. He sets it down and cries for longer than he thinks possible, until his throat is raw. He has to let Ed go. Whatever Ed did, it will mean nothing if Al doesn't live the life Ed dreamed for him.
He goes back to Rush Valley, because he knows Ed would have wanted him to stay with Winry. Trying to start a romantic relationship with her crosses Al’s mind, as Ed probably would have liked that, but it seems wrong somehow. Winry deserves more than being some kind of tribute to a dead man.
(Ed is dead. Ed is dead. If Al keeps repeating it to himself, maybe he’ll start to believe it.)
Ed had liked helping people, so Al does so as often as the opportunity arises. He refines metals so Winry can make cheaper, but sturdier, automail. He fixes roads that the government has no interest in, and so on. People like him. Al smiles and feels like a liar. He only ever does anything if he thinks Ed would approve, and Ed would have approved of everything he does except that.
Life looms over him, long and lonely. Most nights, he refines an array that would take him to The Truth. If he ever activates it, he will ask It what happened to Ed. It will probably kill him for the answer. Al bets, one day, he won't care too much about that.
A year after Al found Ed’s letter (which he keeps on him at all times, like an amulet), Winry meets a blond, long-haired man and falls in love with him. The guy looks a lot like Ed, but dimmer, and it’s enough to make Al return to that underground city. He is going to do something very stupid and very dangerous, but he figures it’s not any worse than marrying a man who looks like Ed.
He uses the chandelier to transmute a liquid gold array onto the floor. The thing at the Gate is alive, and some of the ancient texts he unearthed call it God. Maybe it will take the gold as a sign of respect. Al pricks the pad of his index finger and rubs a drop of blood on the heart of the array. With a last whispered apology to Ed’s memory, he activates the array.
The pain he is waiting for never comes. There is only whiteness behind his eyelids and static in his ears. A gleaming door flashes before him an instant before his consciousness snuffs out.
Time passes. Maybe.
Maybe he opens his eyes instantly. He’s in a room he can't recognize, by sight or smell. There’s a painting of a strange, steel-grey balloon among clouds.
“Alfons,” a voice Al vaguely recognizes calls out, “you’re gonna be late again. I don't want to hear any whining if we miss our train, ‘cause this time it isn't gonna be my fault--" The door is pushed open.
Al straightens up, heart in his throat. Ed’s golden eyes are wide.
“Al?”
“Brother.” Al feels a sob crawling up his throat. He gets out of bed on shaky legs.
“Oh, Al,” says Ed, taking a couple of careful steps forward, “what did you do?”
Tears spill from Al’s eyes. He had considered that Ed would be angry, of course he had. He had not considered that Ed’s anger would scare him.
“I had nothing, Ed,” he says. “Maybe I could've done what you asked if I knew what happened to you.”
Ed makes a pained noise, or tries to. Then he opens his arms.
Al almost trips over his feet. He pulls Ed’s small frame into a tight hug, tucking Ed’s head under his chin.
“I’m sorry,” says Al, burying his nose in Ed’s hair. Despite everything, a weight is lifted from his soul as Ed’s scent hits his nostrils.
“It’s okay, Al,” says Ed. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”