I don't sleep. When I'm not on duty, I like to read. I spend the nights reading the books in Pride's library, because there's always one in the apartment. Once again, I see how simple, how annoying and yet strangely fascinating the human race is. I will probably take back that last bit. But you already know that. Now that I come to think of it, you probably were the only one who understood me. I mean, who am I to talk about desire, my dear Avarice?
With a grunt, Lust crossed out everything she wrote and started again on a new, blank page.
I hated it when you left without saying a word. I never felt a worse betrayal. When you asked me to go with you and I refused, I didn't think you'd actually pull it through. I hate you. How could you do this to us— to me? Are we really so despicable to you? Don't think I ever waited for you to come back, I'm not that stupid. Out of all of them, you were the only one I could never control. But that's just who you are, that's always been in your nature, right? You can't get enough…
Furiously crossing out her words again, Lust rolled her eyes. "Why am I even writing this?" she shook her head, but still grabbed for a new page.
This is nothing similar to a love letter, but it's still disgustingly human. I'm on a mission and I'm bored and you're not here. Of course you're not. You'll probably never read this. I hate you, Greed. I will always hate you with a passion, because you did the one thing I never could: Be free.
It was enough for that night. She returned to her book, and forgot everything she wrote, those letters to no one.
… And little did she know, that long after she'd stashed those letters away in the small desk of the apartment, where she and Greed had spent endless nights, long after the Avarice had burned— the first and last time she'd seen him again—, even long after Lust herself had fallen into the hands of the Reaper… the letters found their way under the eyes the one destined to read them.
The Avarice embodied in a new vessel. Maybe it had been coincidence, or maybe it had been instinct, or fate, what lead him to choose that precise apartment when escaping from Father— for the second time—, just like it had been what made him open that drawer.
Even though those eyes had never seen her, he remembered her immediately. He recognized her writing, and it was like he was hearing her say the words she'd written so many years ago out loud, right next to him.
I will always hate you, because you did the one thing I never could:
Be f r e e.
"She wanted freedom? Why didn't he… I…"
