Alphonse would have screamed, if he had any air left in his lungs. As it was, his breaths came so quick and fast he was nearly hyperventilating.

There had been no warning, no shout from below to alert him. The only sign had been a faint surge, like what came from Al's hands when he performed alchemy.

Father didn't perform alchemy—he couldn't, not anymore. Not since he retrieved Al from the Gate.

Al hadn't noticed, not before it was almost too late. He certainly hadn't had time to don his armor before the stranger climbed through his window. He'd barely had time to snatch a frying pan sitting idle on the stove and wield it at the strange man's head.

Now Al cowered behind a desk, peeking out at the stranger in his tower.

There was a stranger in his tower.

This had never happened before. It couldn't happen. Al had always thought the tower was too well hidden. Maybe even obscured by alchemy.

Not today, though. There was a stranger in his tower. Another person.

Al's heart pounded. He might have stayed still and hidden forever if the man in the red coat hadn't begun to groan and move.

A flood of panic washed through Al's mind, and without a second thought he rushed over and whacked him over the head a second time.

The stranger went still.

Al calmed slightly, once the immediate danger was gone. He tried to slow his breathing and unwind, taking a closer look at the man who had invaded his home.

He was small, his long red coat nearly covering his entire body. If he were standing, he'd be about Al's height, maybe even shorter. His hair was tangled with leaves and mud and small sticks, but under all the dirt it was a very similar gold to Al's. It was almost as long, too, braided down his back. Golden bangs flopped long and messy over his face.

Gingerly, with two fingers, Al flipped the strand of hair over to more closely examine him.

Looking at his vacant face, Al was surprised at how smooth and round it was. Perhaps the intruder wasn't as old as he'd thought—he could be around Al's age.

(Of course, Al didn't have much experience in guessing people's ages. He knew two faces—Father's and his own.)

The man—no, boy—had freckled skin and a small nose. Even closed, his eyes were large and round. His mouth had opened a little in unconsciousness, and Al held back a giggle at the bead of drool forming on his lip.

It was a…pleasant face, he decided. Even though it belonged to someone who'd broken into his tower, Al wasn't repulsed by it.

In fact, he almost felt drawn to the boy on the floor. The urge to crawl closer to him, study his unconscious features, run his fingers over those golden-tinted cheeks—

Al shook his head, shook off the urge. He skittered away, tucking his hands safely behind his back. Where had that thought come from?

Was he really so naive, to be taken in by the nice face of a strange boy?

Would he feel the same toward everyone he met, such a strong pull? Even if they meant him harm?

No wonder Father worried for his safety.

No, this boy had broken into the tower—possibly using alchemy, since there was no other way up.

Al couldn't afford to be drawn to him. He was dangerous.

What to do with him now?

Al paced the length of the tower, thinking. He had to stash the intruder somewhere, a place he wouldn't burst out of easily if he came to.

He opened his wardrobe and pulled out the armor, making a space. He then set to the task of pulling his guest across the floor.

Right away Al noticed that what he'd thought were mismatched silver and white gloves on the boy's hands were actually one white glove, and one hand made entirely of metal. Al marveled at how real it looked. He fiddled with the thumb and one finger, testing out the joints.

The metal, he soon discovered, ran all the way up the boy's arm, to his shoulder. It was much heavier than the rest of him, and it scraped loudly on the floor as Al heaved him over it, inch by inch.

When he took hold of the boy's legs, Al found the same was true there—he had one flesh leg and one made of metal.

He shivered, wondering what the world had done to steal two limbs from this stranger. It was cruel and capricious, that was for sure.

A crumpled piece of paper snagged on the floor from a pocket of the boy's flashy coat. It was a Wanted poster, with a likeness of Al's visitor depicted in a sketch. His brows were drawn at a wicked angle, his mouth stretched in a wide smirk. The caption read: Wanted by the Crown for grand theft and petty larceny: the Fullmetal Alchemist.

Al read the words twice, his heart thumping hollowly against his chest.

An alchemist and a thief. Someone who used his talent for bad instead of good—the kind of person Father always warned about. Al swallowed the fear lumping in his throat.

And what could Fullmetal mean? Could it refer to his metal arm and leg?

What if he'd come here in search of Al? Hoping to steal him away and use his rare talent?

Al shuddered. He pictured the boy rising from the floor, wearing the evil smile from the Wanted poster. Grabbing Al, twisting his arms behind his back like in one of Al's books. Hissing "caught you" in a low, menacing voice.

Al quickened his pace, eager to get the "Fullmetal Alchemist" out of the way.

It took lots of hefting and grunting, and a lot of arranging, but in a modest amount of time, the boy was fitted in Al's closet, with a chair lodged under the door handle to keep it from opening.

Selim flicked out one shadowy tendril, rapping against the door as if testing its sturdiness. He blinked his approval at Al.

Al scooped up the frying pan and clutched it to his chest. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the full-length mirror, face white and eyes wide with fear.

Selim wrapped around his ankle, wide red eyes flicking between Al and the closet.

His fear somehow gave Al the strength to comfort his little friend. "It's okay. No need to panic. I just have a person in my closet."

I have a person in my closet.

"I…" A disbelieving, albeit slightly hysterical, smile grew across his face. "I have a person in my closet!"

He laughed, hardly able to believe the morning's events were real. Just a few hours ago, he'd been worried about his messy room and an apple pie. Now he had defended his home and had the incapacitated intruder trapped in his wardrobe.

"I have to show Father," he mused. "This will shock him." Selim bobbed happily in agreement.

Prove him wrong, Al added silently. He flushed in shame for even thinking it.

Father meant well, but sometimes Al couldn't help but feel a bit…smothered. True, he hadn't met many people, and he was unfamiliar with how the world worked, but he wasn't helpless. As he'd just proved, he could defend himself if needed—and he'd done it without his armor, to boot.

Father wouldn't let him prove his capabilities in the outside world, fine. But someone from the outside world had come to him, and he'd handled it! He had a famous, wanted thief trapped in his closet.

Just in time to show Father, too. Maybe he'd get his birthday wish after all.

A giggle burst through Al's lips as he swung the frying pan into attack position, narrowly missing the mirror in front of him.

He imagined showing Father the unconscious Fullmetal Alchemist. The way Father would study him, stroking his chin.

Perhaps he would look at Alphonse with a new regard. A new degree of respect twinkling in his eye. Perhaps there would be words of praise—rare, for him. Accomplishments were hard to come by in this small tower.

Something caught Al's eye in the mirror. A red glint, reflected from the light outside onto…some kind of stone.

It must have fallen out of the boy's pocket.

It was small, barely bigger than Al's thumbnail. Unnaturally round and red, the color glinting proudly in the light.

Selim slithered over to it. He poked at it with one stubby leg, but as always his dark form made no real contact.

Al picked up the stone, cautious but curious. Immediately a tingle ran through his fingers. Something inside him prickled. Danger, a voice in his mind whispered. Throw it away.

Al did not throw it away, but instead inspected it, turning it round and round in his hand.

If he concentrated, he could swear it whispered to him. Called to him. Like something inside it was…alive.

Could it be…

Al covered his mouth with one hand.

He had never studied alchemy, and Father hadn't taught him much beyond the basics. But he had told Al all about this, this legendary treasure.

The Philosopher's Stone.

Able to bypass equivalent exchange due to its horrifying ingredients: human souls.

So it was true. People in the outside world really would commit such atrocities. They would use human lives to make themselves more powerful.

Someone else in this world was as depraved as Al.

And this boy in Al's closet, this Fullmetal Alchemist, whatever that meant—had he stolen it? He was a thief, after all. Or had he made it?

Fear slithered along his spine, like someone was pouring cold water down his neck. Hide it, Al's inner voice whispered, fearful. Get rid of it.

Al cast about for a good hiding place. Anywhere the stone wouldn't be found.

Before he could decide on a place, a voice outside made him jump.

"Alphonse."

Father was back.

Al's heart pounded. "No," he whispered. "Not yet."

He was nowhere near prepared to talk to Father about what had just happened—about the unconscious boy in his wardrobe. Moreover, his armor was scattered on the floor in pieces.

He hurried to the window and clapped, trying to focus single-mindedly on creating a solid, sturdy staircase for Father. He wasn't sure how successful he was, though—the day's events flashed continuously in his mind like bolts of lightning, jarring and blindingly bright.

As the stairs sprang into being, Al rushed over to the corner of the tower, where a stone tile in the floor was slightly out of place. He wrenched it aside, dropped the red stone in the empty space, and replaced the tile.

Once the Stone was hidden, Al set a rigorous pace donning his armor.

Selim skittered across the floor, taking refuge in a dark corner under the oven.

Feet, legs, torso, chest, arms, and finally—head. He fixed the helmet over his golden hair, loose from all the excitement, and turned to examine himself in the mirror.

The armor made him look bigger, taller, stronger. He wore it like a second skin.

But it wasn't…him. He didn't see Alphonse in the mirror; he saw a faceless figure who could trip over his own feet at any second.

It had been years since anyone besides Selim had seen his face. He'd been very young when Father taught him to put on the armor, and aside from some special occasions, he'd worn it in his presence ever since.

One day out of it surely couldn't hurt.

Al squared his shoulders as Father's footsteps became audible. He was going to ask again. He would show Father the captured thief as proof—and ask.

Father appeared in the window and lifted his head to acknowledge Al. "Alphonse. You'll be pleased. I've brought you some things to transmute."

Al's words came out in a rush, before he'd had time to assemble them in his head. "Father, I have something to tell you—well, show you. Ask you."

Father ran a hand over his bearded jaw in something like a weary gesture. "Is this about your birthday?"

"Sort of. And the floating lights—"

Father cut him off. "Alphonse, we discussed this already. Wouldn't you prefer a more productive topic?"

"I have something new to add." Al hated how detached the words sounded. This shouldn't have been a debate—this was his father.

But it was the only way Father would listen.

He edged around the room, coming closer to the wardrobe." Before, you said I wasn't capable of protecting myself."

"It's true, Alphonse. You are not strong enough for the world."

"I've never been able to prove myself, though." Al had his hand on the chair blocking the door, ready to pull it aside. "But—"

"That is not a chance I'm willing to take." Father turned his back on Al.

"You don't have to now!" The words burst from him, louder than he'd anticipated. If Father would just listen. "See—"

Father whirled back on Al. His eyes were wider than usual. "Alphonse, I am not here to argue with you. When I tell you my wishes, I expect you to obey."

Al stuttered, shaken but determined. No matter what, he was desperate to reach the end. "I just think—this is something that—"

"Alphonse, enough." Father's tone was cold and flat, and more dangerous than Al had ever heard it. A shadow fell over his face, his expression sending a ripple of genuine fear down Al's spine. "My decision is final. You are not leaving this tower tomorrow, or any day. This—is—your—home."

His eyes blazed with a finality that made Al feel very small.

Al let go of the chair. His fingers trembled.

"I thought I made that clear." Father pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply as if gathering his patience. "Now I've antagonized you, and you're upset."

Al took a shaky breath. "I—I'm sorry, Father." It was all he could do to speak in a steady voice.

Father did not reply. His eyes were closed, as if he couldn't deign to look at Al.

Al felt cold. Ashamed. He never challenged Father like this, and for good reason. He had no right to. No matter what he wanted, or how badly he wanted it.

His plans would have to change.

"What I wanted to say was…I know what I'd like for my birthday."

"Yes?"

"I want to try my hand at making quiche again. Could I have some of that tropical nutmeg you brought once?"

Coward.

Al flinched. He hated his conscience sometimes.

"That's a long journey for me, Alphonse. Traveling there and back will take me three days."

"I know. I just…wanted to take my mind off the lights. I mean, the…stars."

"Hm." Father stroked his chin. "That's understandable. It would help take your mind off this nonsensical dream. You've always been adept at occupying yourself here."

Al hummed his agreement. He avoided Father's eyes, even beneath the helmet.

"If that's what you want, then very well. I'll leave at once, but your birthday will pass before I return."

"That's okay," Al said hastily. "I don't mind."

What he was doing wasn't technically lying. He did want to make quiche, and it would take his mind off the lights.

It still made his stomach turn.

Father prepared to leave once again. He packed food and clothes for the journey, throwing his white hood over his faded golden hair.

"In three days' time I'll be back with your gift. I trust you know what I expect in return. Equivalent exchange dictates—"

"I know." Al clenched one fist. "Nothing can be obtained without giving something in return." He was prepared for that.

Father nodded his approval.

He sat on the windowsill, preparing to swing his legs over and make his exit. But he paused and turned back.

"There is nothing more important to me than you, Alphonse. I trust you know that."

Al blinked, offput. "Of course. I know."

Rarely did Father ever express such sentiments, such affection—even in such a formal way. By Father's standards, those words might as well have been I love you.

"Everything I do is for you."

"Yes, Father."

His lips turned up into a minute smile. "I'm glad you understand."

But Al didn't understand. Not fully. He couldn't.

"I'll be back in three days' time. Goodbye, Alphonse."

Al waved mutely.

.

As soon as Father was gone, Al went into motion. He might not have Father's blessing, but he still had an intruder to take care of.

And Al might have just figured out what to do with him.

I know, I know, I'm sorry! The boys will finally meet next chapter.