Sometimes after a long day of work, when the stress of the military gets to him, he lets down his hair while he cleans the dishes. Other times he softly hums a tune only he alone knows. But the times when brother is utterly exhausted, I often see a change in him. It could be because his hair sometimes shines darker in a dimly lit room, or that the exhaustion occasionally drives him into a more agreeable persona; though I don't believe either excuse.

Brother is different at night when we're alone in the small dorm room. He is quieter, less argumentative and would much rather read his way through the night than sleep. He smiles easier and almost sheepishly, in silent apology for being a burden throughout the day.

Occasionally he reads to me, and I to him, stories mother left us that we salvaged from our home. They are not alchemy books, but novels of heroes and princesses and ugly trolls who hide away the sacred treasures. Brother does the most hilarious voices for them.

It is on days like these when we huddle together on a couch, throw a blanket over our heads to make a fort and pull a flashlight under with us in a foolish attempt to reconstruct our childhood. Although it is often cold in our room, we are no longer small enough to truly enjoy the silly act. It is simply a reminder, a comforting gesture connecting us with our past. We only remain enclosed until Brother gets fidgety and needs to move his prosthetics.

"Brother?" I later ask him softly as he stands by the kitchen sink, hair loose and humming.

"Yeah, Al?" He turns his head and smiles gently at me. Just like mom did.

"Brother you aren't…you don't have to be mother for us too, you know. I think just being brother is good enough, don't you think?" I ask quietly. He doesn't seem to understand. He simply stares at me with a vacant expression. I hope I haven't angered him.

"I know." He says finally, turning back to wash his hands and dry them on a nearby towel. I stay silent, wondering how I can possibly argue with him. He steps way from the sink, turns slowly towards me and says quietly, "I'm not trying to be mom." He walks steadily towards the bedroom and I hear the door creak closed.

I sit in the dark some time after, and wonder about these certain quirks in Edward's strange behavior. Brother has not often been compared to mother, but to father based on his gold eyes and blond hair. It is usually myself who resembles mom when people first noticed our similar calm demeanor.

The heavy step of Edward's leg breaks my reminiscent thoughts. Brother stands before me, a book in hand and sheepish smile in place.

"I don't think we've finished this one yet, huh?" He asks, holding the cover out for me to read. We haven't, and I tell him so. Brother grins and sits by me, leaning against my armor and resting the book on his knees. He opens the book with flesh hand, and continues the story with a brand new persona.

"Brother I think you're more like Mother than I thought." I interrupt. He gazes at me over his shoulder, the look on his face clearly saying "Al, pay attention to the story." I laugh, the sound hollow and metal from the armor, but Ed smirks and rolls his eyes anyway.

"Perhaps mother was a difficult child too." Ed then good-naturedly throws my head across the room.