Pride finds Wrath meditating in the courtyard, still as silence, still as death. The sun is painfully bright, and Pride shields his eyes with one hand as he steps out. Wrath does not move as he approaches, though each footstep rings loud and distinct upon the stones. Pride stops beside him, stands at Wrath's knee, and looks down.

Wrath is so very pale, despite the long hours he spends in the sun with his arms and head uncovered; he is the white color of new chalk, as they all are. They are the lines of Father's arrays, brought to life, and though Wrath's eyes have always been red, they now shine like drops of spilled blood in his pale face.

Pride remembers a time when his skin was the color of cream and coffee, when it stood in contrast to the X that scars his forehead. Father did not want to make this one; he wanted to be content and stop with Pride, who is his darling and his joy, and finally Pride had to bend and ask: Brother, please.

He has not needed to ask that since Envy, who was first, and this fact galls him. That name is Father's weakness, but to use it too much is to lessen its power, and so he has only used it twice, whispering to Father's ear: It's lonely here, with just the two of us; there used to be more, you can give us more...

And though Father always argues, though he turns his face away, Pride always wins. This is how things should be, because Pride can no longer do alchemy himself: he must ask instead, though it galls him to say the word please.

Their little family is almost complete.

He remembers awakening, sometimes, of pain and cold and the dim, animal instinct that something had gone very, very wrong. He remembers the dim outline of a face, gold and ivory, and the taste of red on his ruined tongue. And for weeks he sat in his chair, staring, as Father knelt before him and called the same name over and over, until his voice cracked and turned hoarse, then faded away. And finally, Father stood and looked at him with such perfect, petty grief, and named him for what he truly was: Pride.

Pride bears his name well. It was not difficult, when he was strong enough, to make his way to Father's study and lean against his chair, watching. Plague has already taken away so many of Father's support, and anyone who could even possibly have been a threat to Pride, he remembers, and recalls their faces.

After him there came Envy, with his cold face and almost-perfect mask, whose anger and bitterness turn his eyes to hot coals, and then there came Lust -- pretty, pretty Lust, who drapes herself across Father's shoulder and strokes his metal arm with inhuman adoration, and after her was Sloth, who slouches and spits invective, especially at Father, who still flinches and looks guilty when she thinks to scold him. Pride looks at her and sometimes his shoulders ache, as though he's still carrying the weight of her orders.

He has not yet decided who suits the role of Greed, but he knows there are old pictures among Father's possessions; he does not think it will be hard to find someone. He is slowly reuniting them, even if Father doesn't see it that way.

But he is not afraid, even when Envy stares at him with hatred from the shadows and tries to whisper cold poison into Father's ear; Father will die to see Pride happy, and if the Envy hates him for this, then that is Pride's due.

Wrath was the last he asked for so far, but the most important, the one Pride remembers most clearly. Father looks at Lust and Sloth and remembers them as their other selves, and more often than not he will slip, as though he still lives in the once-upon-a-time, when it was Winry and Master --

But they have no master now; he is Pride, and he should be the father, because the others were born of his whispering. He will be obeyed.

"Wake up," he says to Wrath, and nudges him with his foot. He hates this stillness, hates how Wrath still manages to slip away from him, retreating somewhere dark inside himself, where Pride's sun cannot yet find. Late at night, Wrath sometimes goes to the hallway of bones, to stare at the skulls embedded in the walls, and his face is much like it is now, carved out of cold pale marble. "Wake up."

Wrath wakes in degrees. His eyes are dull red, and there is no light when he looks at Pride and recognizes him. "You," he says. He never uses their names, their "real" names, the names Father uses -- he has not since the red stones were forced down his throat and he looked up to see Pride watching him, and knew himself betrayed.

"Me," Pride agrees. It's fine; he likes this name much better. "What were you dreaming?"

"Dead man do not dream," says Wrath. On his knees, his large hands flex briefly, then still. "They cannot."

Pride's upper lip curls up. "I dream all the time," he says. "We're not dead, we're only changed."

"We are dead," Wrath says, and his voice is heavy and cold. "We are dead, and if you believe otherwise, then that man has fooled you."

He curls his arm over his chest, then puts his foot on Wrath's hand and grinds his heel down. Wrath's expression does not change, though he must feel it -- Father built them to feel pain, to be everything that pretends to be human. Pride leans down just a little -- and this is not bowing, this is not lowering himself; this is domination, two dogs staring each other down.

"We dream," he pronounces, deliberately. "We dream of the things we're meant for."

Wrath just blinks at him and says nothing. Pride leans down until he feels Wrath's hand spasm under his heel, the involuntary flex of muscles, and then he steps back. "Come with me," he says.

At first, Wrath says nothing, staring. Pride waits, and does not blink as he meets Wrath's eyes.

"Come with me," he says again.

For a moment, Wrath does not even breath, staring at him. Pride wants to clench his teeth and does not make it an order, because that's giving up, that's bending, and Pride does not bend.

"I will come," Wrath says at last. The red marks on his hand, from when Pride's boot heel dug in, are nearly healed. He unfolds himself in a single, fluid motion. He stands a good head and shoulders taller than Pride, but he never looks directly at anything when he is on his feet. Even fighting, he stares down at his feet, like he is not strong enough to bear the light of the sun on his face.

"Good," Pride murmurs, and leads him across the courtyard, back into blessed cool darkness. He leads Wrath down into the hallway of bones, and does not let Wrath stop to linger, even outside the door to Father's study.

He leads Wrath to his own room, his room, and closes the door behind them. This won't stop Envy from coming in, but at least it's the illusion of privacy.

"You are mine, and you are well-made," Pride murmurs, low, and touches Wrath's broad shoulders. It takes only a small gesture to push off the robes he wears; unlike Lust, his clothing is loose and flowing; unlike Envy, there are no complicated buckles and snaps to hold it in place. He still looks like an Ishvarite, he just lacks the coloring.

"I am dead," Wrath intones solemnly. "I cannot be yours."

"You already are," Pride tells him, and it takes just another tug to undo Wrath's belt, so that all his clothing hangs open. "Father made you because of me. He supplied the power, but I was the one who remembered you. You never died, because I kept you here." He touches his own breast with the tips of his index and middle fingers. "Here."

"I died, and my body returned to the earth," Wrath says, his eyes still downcast. He removes his robes, and stands naked before Pride. "As did you. That man has broken more laws than Ishvara will ever forgive. Not even hell will take his bones, now."

"That's Father's problem," Pride says, and reaches out. Wrath's skin is cooling under his palms, the sun's warmth already seeping away. "I don't care, as long as you're here."

It's a strange thing to say, and a stupid one, and it's more honesty than Pride can allow, but he says it anyway, and Wrath understands. His hands are almost gentle when he unbuttons the shirt Pride wears, plain cotton homespun, the costume of a boy fresh from the country.

Pride is not gentle; he pushes Wrath down hard, so that Wrath's shoulders bounce off the floor, and he touches the red lines that run from them to the backs of Wrath's hands, stark drawn lines drawn like blood on white skin. He pushes until his nails turn white from the pressure, until real blood wells up in the shallow cuts he leaves.

He is not gentle when he claws against Wrath, when he grinds and moves, and Wrath moves back, so that it's a parody of humans moving together, of people and warmth and that old tired faded emotion that still lives in Father's eyes when he looks at Pride, at Sloth, at Lust and even at Envy --

If you loved me, why didn't you let me sleep? I was so tired --

Oh, they are not gentle; Wrath awakens halfway through, it seems, surges into life and bucks like he suddenly can't stand Pride's weight over his hips. Pride holds him down, sweating, and watches the expressions change on Wrath's face, watches for the moment that Wrath's anger boils itself up, that the hatred and despair of what he is and what has changed him bubbles up -- and then he slams that down, biting until he tastes blood, and uses his fingertips to paint red smears across the black lines that cover Wrath's right arm.

(And Father didn't want to keep that, too; it's not his, Al, it was his brother's, and we can't --)

Pride fights to make it last, and settles for waiting. He waits until Wrath and wrath are defeated, until they sink down before him again, allowing him the proper respect that is his due.

"You're mine," he whispers, soft. "Father made you for me."

Wrath's red eyes open again, and they watch him quietly. "I am the memory of a dead man, Alphonse Elric," he says. "As are you."

"Don't call me that," Pride rasps. "Don't --"

Sex is violent and it is messy; it takes all his willpower to not let his arms buckle, and keeps him upright over Wrath's supine body. He does, however, drop his head, and does not move when Wrath puts one broad hand against the back of his skull.

"Your dreams are already lost," he said softly. "Even when you destroy that man, you will never regain the person you were. Alphonse Elric would be horrified by what you plan."

"That's not who I am," Pride whispers. "Don't call me that."

Wrath sits up, and Pride finds he cannot move, still on his hands and knees with his head bowed forward. Wrath's hand remains cupping his skull, as though to remind him of that strange fragility. It's only after sex that Wrath shows any strength, the only time he will speak to Pride without being spoken to first.

"I will take your skull and I will smash it," Wrath whispers, soft. "I will deliver you to the peace of heaven and the arms of God, because you are only a memory of the person you were."

"You can't," Pride says, and manages to lift his head, meeting Wrath's eyes. "Father will kill you before he lets you touch me."

Wrath strokes his hair, like a mother with a child. "That man regrets, more than any other sin, what he has done to you," he says. "It's a matter of him wondering whether the sin of keeping you like this is worth losing you again. He was not strong enough to stand that before. He may be now."

Pride sinks back onto his knees, then up to be crouching on his haunches. "You'll never find me," he says. "Father has my body for safekeeping."

Because it is not there in the hallway of bones, stretched up so high that even Lust's body cannot contort to that distance. Father keeps it hidden somewhere in his study, where even Pride is forbidden to enter. He will reclaim it the moment he sets his plan into motion. He cannot afford to have something that valuable simply lying around, not if he is to keep his power, and keep Envy under his thumb.

"I know where he keeps you," Wrath says quietly. "I will set you free."

Pride does not close his eyes, or take a moment to compose himself. He stares at Wrath, who looks almost like he does in memories, with the memory of old, hesitant kindness in the way a man treated a boy trapped in armor.

"You will do no such thing." He speaks with more conviction now, and reaches out to wrap his fingers around Wrath's wrist, pulling it away from his head and setting it against the floor. "You're mine, and you'll never raise your hand against me like that." He considers, then moves to sit beside Wrath, pulling the one arm he holds around his shoulders. "When Father completes the new Philosopher's Stone, we will have our own bodies for real again."

"I will burn, and you will fall," Wrath says solemnly, but allows Pride to manipulate him, holds his arm heavily against Pride. "That man's madness will consume you before you can rise."

"Shut up," Pride says, and leans his head on Wrath's shoulder. He lets himself close his eyes. They are leaning against the door now, and Envy could not make his way in, not even if he could still snap his fingers and burn the world to ashes.

It is almost safe to sleep.

And if dead men do not dream, as Wrath claims, then Pride knows he must not be dead: because he dreams, and he dreams long and vividly, of a sickness that claimed the country and left him coughing up blood in someone's arms -- he dreams of fire and a giant watchful eye, and of darkness that faded into Father's pale face hovering above his.

Hours later, he opens his eyes again and Wrath is still there against him, silent and still and waiting. Pride pulls away -- not quickly, but not slowly either, and he stands to redo his clothing. Wrath does not open his eyes, remaining still and silent as Pride dresses.

"The world isn't ours to have," he says finally, without moving. Pride stops in the process of adjusting his coat, and looks down. At last, he reaches out and pushes with his foot, nudging Wrath until he finally unbends and moves.

"Not yours," Pride says softly. "But it'll be mine. And then, maybe, I'll share it with you."

He doesn't look back as he stalks out of the room, down the long hallway. Envy sits in the hallway of bones, right before his own skull, and he is stretching one hand up, as though he can touch the torn fragments of cloth embedded around it, as though he could still touch the pieces of an array to life. He stops when Pride approaches, and he smiles, cold as ice, bitter as poison.

"Having fun again?" he asks, and his voice is a low smooth drawl. "Father won't like that. You know he hates the attention you give that man."

Pride stops and simply stares. Envy is taller than him, but only by a little; Father made certain to give him the body of an adult, rather than that of a half-grown boy-child. After a moment, Envy sighs and spreads his hands.

"Don't bother talking to Father tonight," he says, as though like a solicitous friend. "He's in an awful state. Let's not add the reminders of your little digressions to his list of problems, all right?" He gestures to Pride's clothing, where there are a few faint white stains.

Finally, Pride sneers at him. "You're nothing," he says. "You're lower than the dogs you used to serve."

"Maybe," Envy agrees easily enough, and when he smiles, there are teeth and sharp edges in that expression. "But I'm not the one with delusions of grandeur."

"Father is nothing," Pride says easily. He knows that the words will not hurt him -- Envy has whispered to Father so many times of his insults, and Father simply accepts them, bowing his head without argument. "He doesn't dare raise a hand against me, he --"

"Not that," Envy cuts him off sweetly, and it's so surprising that Pride is, for a moment, left speechless. Envy prowls forward, slinking like some giant hunting feline, and his dark blue eyes glitter with something that burns worse than his usual malice.

Pity.

"You think you've something special," Envy says, and he dares to lift his hand and trail the tip of one finger down the line of Pride's jawbone. "You think that Wrath is your obedient lapdog, who'll come and go as you please." His expression hardens, and he then steps away, shaking his hand as though the touch of Pride's skin disgusts him. "Father failed with you, more than the rest of us."

"What?" Pride draws himself up, furious -- he can take Envy, he knows; he's fought Envy before and won easily, without even having to strain. "You --"

"You delude yourself into thinking Wrath may love you," Envy says, and he shapes the word with biting, bitter disdain. "He'd as soon kill you as lie beneath you, and you know it." He flicks his fingers, the ghost of a snap, and deliberately turns his back on Pride. "Or maybe you don't -- but you'll certainly learn, soon enough."

Pride watches him walk away, and anything scathing he wishes to say dies on his tongue. It galls him to have let Envy win this once -- but he'll take it back, he'll remake the victory into his own, later. Soon.

It's already late. He can see how the shadows have lengthened in the courtyard, the sky bleeding to red. Father will be calling for him soon.

Pride touches fingertips to his right arm, around where the black tattoos start on Wrath's. And for a moment, he swears he can feel them, as though they've been branded into his skin by his memory, as though they are raised lines for his fingertips to trace.

"It will be mine," he says aloud, though his voice is tiny. In the hallway of bones, it rises in the thick air, and then falls dead. He can see Wrath's eyes, open and red, and they watch him with something close to -- that thing, that thing, which Envy spoke of.

I will set you free.

And then he turns, and he walks away.