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You always loved to prove me wrong.
From the very moment you were born, you challenged me.
I hated you. I wanted nothing to do with you. I cried because Mom gave you more attention than me; I refused to hold you. I stole your toys and snacks only to wind up in a time-out for making you sad. One time, I woke you up from a nap because you were using my blanket. That night, Mom made you sleep with me. She told me that it would be a good bonding time and we could learn to share. I whined because I knew you would cry, but Mom insisted and told me that you would not as long as I protected you from the dark.
You were fussy as I tucked you into bed, you wanted Mom. You wanted my blanket. But I didn't share nor did I comfort you. I put my hand up to your mouth, probably trying to smother you. But you grabbed my fingers and brought them to your face. You cuddled with my hand. It was a weird sensation. I almost felt proud, proud that you were cuddling up to me and that you fell asleep like that. You fell asleep while snuggling my arm. And for some reason, I wrapped you in my blanket. It felt right. You slept through the entire night.
You were three when we began to study alchemy.
Your simple arrays were made for simple objects, yet you squealed with joy each time. You wanted to be like me to create toys instead of shapes. I told you that you were too young to make them, that you weren't smart enough. Mom scolded me as you cried.
For the next two days, you studied non-stop until you woke me from my sleep and handed me a blob of metal that you insisted was a toy elephant. Your bright smile and quiet giggles made me return the gestures and forget about the ungodly hour at which you had awoken me.
The look of pride that you overcame my expectations made me proud too. You explained every detail of your array to me and I pretended to listen, my brain still sleep-muddled. It was obvious that you hadn't slept in a while. Your face was pale and there were bags under your eyes. I had to tuck you into bed that night; you were too tired to do it yourself.
You were four when mom died.
You couldn't even stand up at her funeral, you were sobbing too much. I said we were gonna die, that we weren't going to be able to survive on our own. You screamed at me and told me you were gonna do everything to keep us alive. And you did.
I think you took on her role. Even when you were depressed, you would wake up every morning to make me breakfast. You shouldn’t have had to do that, I should have been the one taking care of you.
This was the first time I realized that I had failed as a brother. I put all the weight on you. I watched you carry two spirits on your back, two lives in your hands. I wouldn't be around if you weren't there for me.
You were ten when we performed human transmutation.
I remember waking up to see your clothes on the floor, your body nowhere to be found. My leg was gone, but I didn't care, my mind was on you.
I gave up my arm for your soul. That's all your soul was worth, one arm. It should've been more. Your soul is kind and pure gold. You were never worth just an arm.
Dad's old armor was your new home, an empty shell. It's a dumb thing to say that I felt like a shell too.
"I'm sorry, I've ruined your life."
I repeated that phrase more times than I could count. But you stood your ground, saying you were happy that we were alive. That we would find a way out. You showed me bravery I've never been able to find in myself. You kept me going. You cheered me on when I got my automail and supported me when I was in pain.
I only kept moving for you. Everything was for you.
You were fifteen when we won the promised day.
Your body was so frail and so light, I thought you weren't gonna make it. But you did. You spent four months on bed rest and wouldn't listen to me when I said that you needed to move slowly.
You were improving at a miraculous pace! Eating soft foods and standing up without help. You talked all the time and were lifting your three-pound weights like a champion.
The nurses were so impressed with you, and so was I. You really knew how to prove me wrong.
…
You were sixteen when you died.
It was a shock to everyone. We had finished up our ramblings and I helped you get ready for bed. You told me you felt weird, you felt something was off. I told you it was fine, you were recovering after all.
3:47 AM
That was your time of death. The time my life ended. My soul disappeared. Everything I'd worked so hard for was gone.
Everything I did, I did for you.
And now that you're gone, I have nothing to live for. It's been almost two years since you passed. They buried you next to Mom. Dad is on her other side.
I hope you're with her right now. I hope you've been in her arms for the past two years. I couldn't stand to think about your soul wandering aimlessly, lost and confused.
I hope you've made up for lost time with dad. I hope he tells you stories and memories like he should have when you were a baby.
I used to visit often to talk, but there's nothing to talk about anymore. I haven't done anything since you died. I have no reason to.
I tried really hard to get back on my feet. I just couldn't do it. You took care of me my whole life, now that you're gone, I can't take care of myself.
You used to tell me that I'd grow to live a long life, that I'd marry Winry and have a beautiful family. You said that I'd make a difference for everyone.
But I guess it's my turn to prove you wrong.
This is my last letter. The pills have already been taken, I'll die peacefully in my sleep. I know you would hate to see me suffer. My only wish is to end up with you again. I love you so much Al, I hope to see you soon.