Wrath was really only quiet when he slept; it was something of a relief when he finally dropped off, sprawled out with deceptive innocence on the floor at Sloth’s feet. Sloth, for her part, rarely showed a change of expression or sliver of emotion—but as their little brother snuffled and signed in his sleep, Sloth reached down and traced a finger along his limp bicep, the one that didn’t match his body.
Lust had memories. They were strange, confusing, painful. But she thought maybe she remembered love. Also hate. They seemed, from her perspective, very much alike.
She watched as Sloth slid out of her chair, gathered the sleeping boy into her arms. Carefully lifted him, held him as though holding a child wasn’t the least bit out of the ordinary, a hand cradling the back of his head.
Wrath smacked his lips, muttered in his sleep. “Mommy...” he murmured.
Sloth dumped him onto the cot in the corner as though burned, turned away from his peaceful sleeping face.
Lust just watched, and thought perhaps she wasn’t the only one who remembered both love and hate at once.