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drabble

Sometimes Braig wondered if Ansem knew - if Ansem really, really knew that his little foundling did around the laboratory in the evenings. Probably not, or if he did, he was probably reaping the benefits for himself now and then.

Xehanort seemed to truly like science, which was an important thing for any scientist, but his questions often ran the spectrum into the bizarre. He seemed to know things, or discover things that seemed to be beyond normal comprehension. When his fingers touched something, well, there tended to be reactions.

The first time he'd calmly asked Braig to fuck him because he was curious about how that sort of thing would work, Braig had sent him away. The second time, apparently after not being rejected elsewhere, murmuring things far too dirty for such young lips, Braig had simply bent him against the table and done it. There hadn't been rhyme, reason or even guilt. He hadn't cared that he pulled long, silver hair or left bruises on slim hips. He didn't regret it.

Sometimes Braig wondered if he was the only one who had caved to temptation so many times. And if he should perhaps care a little that he'd done so.