Hoenheim Elric's not quite asleep when Envy crawls into his bed, and the cool touch of long fingers wakes him up quickly.

"You," he says.

Envy grins at him, showing too many teeth than should really fit in one face. "Me," he says, cheerful. "I was lonely."

Hoenheim knows this isn't why. He knows that if Dante were already here, in this place, Envy would be nowhere near. But Dante is working tonight on some project of her own, down in the basement kneeling on dusty floors in her fancy dresses, chalk and ink her tools. She had invited him to work there as well, but since the Stone and everything that came with it, he's lost interest in working with her. She's not interested in knowledge for knowledge's sake. She's only interested in the material gain of it, being able to say look, this impossible thing -- I did it.

"Father," Envy says, and there's honey-thickness in his voice, sweet and coy. He takes Hoenheim's hand and places it on his thigh; the Orouboros burns hot under Hoenheim's hand. "I'm glad you aren't working with her."

Pulling his hand away, Hoenheim rolls over, as if he could sleep now. "I didn't do it for you."

Almost boneless, Envy curls up behind him, kisses a patch of decay at the back of his neck. They're spreading; he'll need a new body soon. "But you still didn't do it," Envy purred. "I don't like it when you spend time with her. Father, Father, touch me."

Hoenheim closes his eyes and tries to remain silent.

He feels Envy shift against him, the spark of heat as his body shifts and then a different familiar form is pressed up against him, breasts soft against his back. "Would you prefer me like this, then?" It's Dante's voice, and light.

Anger swells and he twists, places his hands against that thin throat. Envy's wearing Dante's current body, blond, sharp-eyed, curved in all the right places. Because it's Envy, her body doesn't show any hint of decay. "Don't ever," Hoenheim says, thickly, fingers tightening on Envy's throat, "touch me while pretending to be her."

Envy smiles in Dante's face. "Why," she purrs, "I'm not sure whether it's me you don't want touching you or her." He shifts again, and is some anonymous woman, doe-eyed. "Is this better, Father?"

What will happen is a foregone conclusion and Hoenheim swallows sickness. "Just be yourself," he mutters.

Envy shifts, and is sprawled again naked and long-limbed against the bedsheets, black hair tangled on the pillow, grinning. "Funny," he purrs. "I don't really have one of those to be anymore. But this is my best, isn't it? It's my form that you like. You wouldn't let me keep it if you didn't like it."

"Shut up," Hoenheim tells him, bending him backwards, and thinks that he needs to get away from this.