To Awaken Old Ashes

It had been an age since Ansem had felt this way, if he ever had. His interests, his responsibilities, his position of power over all in his kingdom, allowed him nothing more than distant acquaintanceships; intimacy reserved for philosophical concepts and technological creations, joy relegated to the acts of teaching and guiding.

This was not a terrible thing. Certainly, his apprentices deserved to work under a man who respected their bodies and boundaries; his people, one who ensured they remained unexploited. He had thought, thus, that his wisdom, in conjunction with his dedication to research and governance, had protected him from any potential loves, and all possible resulting loneliness. He had thought, through years of experience, through the cultivation of insurmountable walls, that he could not fall—that he would not fall.

He had been, as he always was, a fool.

He could not have expected it, and yet it was not surprising when he thought about it. Xehanort was exceptional; an amnesiac young man whose age and vulnerability should have disqualified him immediately from those most neglected places in Ansem's heart. Despite his circumstances, however, the man had possessed a wealth of curiosity, a drive to learn, and a desire to explore such difficult topics that had made him irresistible to Ansem.

Of course, his position as apprentice should have put an end to things. Some lines could not be crossed, and any sheltering in Ansem's palace or researching in his laboratories should have been spared his attentions. But, for all Ansem had resisted offering overt shows of affection, he could not help but feel the borders of their relationship become more blurred by the day. Though not everything Xehanort said was something he approved of, the world seemed endlessly fascinating through his eyes. The theories his mind formulated called Ansem to his side, so they might stand nearer, speak softer, share private contemplations, while the experiments he gave shape to became excuses to lean closer, inspect minutely, admire greatly.

There was even sweetness, now and then. A simple compliment oft bolstered Xehanort as if he were a man starved for praise, longing for the respect of his teacher. Ansem was cautious with his touch—never went beyond a careful hand on his shoulder—but still Xehanort leaned into it, and Ansem would have to retreat to his study until he ceased trembling. He could not feign obliviousness to the man's actions, or, indeed, his own response to them.

Which only made his continued desire that much more irredeemable, especially when he considered the recent psychological tests they had begun together. Ansem was not certain he could—or should—live with himself. For all Xehanort's eagerness, his explicit and obvious interest, one could not ignore the uniquely vulnerable position he put himself in—that Ansem put him in. And yet, and yet, and yet...

The worst was that, in the end, Ansem could have coped were it not for the dreams.

They had begun soon after his meeting Xehanort; within a week, when the man had still been recovering after they had found him unconscious in the town square. Ansem had fallen asleep and been greeted by a vision, a silhouette breaching the border between the outside world and his most personal of spaces. He came to him in his study, wherein the shadow found him asleep at his desk, in a manner most inappropriate for his age, and took such care of his aching bones; in his gardens, wherein the shade reclined beside his recumbent form and let his fingers trace sweet nothings against his skin; and in his bed, the most common, wherein the shape slipped across the threshold to find his slumbering body and grant its most longed for dreams. Consent was never asked for, but Ansem knew, in his in-between world, that everything that happened was longed for.

My mind does not ask if I want this, because it knows I cannot bear to say yes. Not even beyond the veil of imagination.

And thus Xehanort touched him. More than that, he yearned to touch him, explored the lines of his aging body with the sort of eagerness reserved for existential questions of immense import; of the heart, darkness, light, the worlds themselves and all the peoples in them. He learned the make of him with an interest typically seen in his interactions with schematics, with machines of unusual make and purpose, with programs of odd and uncanny function. It made Ansem feel desired—a gaze he was not sure had ever been turned unto him, save by himself in moments of private confidence that always seemed to end with such humiliating clarity—made him feel as if his physicality might appeal, might be worth tending to beyond what was expected of old men and kings.

But more important even than that was the feeling of shared longing, shared yearning, shared aspirations; of a mind that knew his own. The intellect, but also the wanting, the mutual nature of their pining, their wishing, the directions of their hearts. That the lust he felt for Xehanort was matched in magnitude, that the affection shared was of the sort that could stop his apprentice as he himself was stopped when the man paused, for a moment, in the dappled light of the gardens, in the dewy spray of the fountains, to bend and put his thoughts to paper, to tilt his head as he parsed words and data on a screen.

That he could feel the hands on his body, and know that they wanted to be there, that the pleasure was shared.

And all the while, he might keep his eyes closed, keep his wretched fingers, and his far worse follies, to himself. That the pleasure could be shared and yet not ask anything of him; not even a feeble yes.

When he woke up, his warm dream space abandoning him at the door of a far colder, more lonely reality, Ansem was left to see himself cleaned and his garments assembled in some semblance of order, and know that the part of him which most needed scrubbing was beyond the reach of any brush. He would wash, feel the weight in the pit of his gut, and wonder how he could look at Xehanort, and how Xehanort could look at him. Would wonder, even, at the fire inside him, and from what ancient ashes it was born.

And to what ashes it would, inevitably, return.

Then, cleaned insofar as any man so foul could be, he would go about his day. He would read the occasional midnight snack—Braig's term for rambling, late night papers—left in his quarters and hope none had seen him in the throes of passion, would demand from himself the discipline required to attend to the needs of his pupils and people without succumbing to distraction. He would bear the burden of it, do all he could to spare Xehanort, his apprentices, and his citizens the miseries of an old man. And he would do it with such trepidation of the night to come.

Trepidation, and an ache; for old ashes to awaken each and every time.

 

---

 

The light shifts beyond Ansem's eyes. There is no sound, for his door does not creak, and the man's footsteps are so light he must imagine their presence. He does not need to imagine the weight on his bed, though. The gentle dip at the edge is familiar to him, sets his heart beating just that little faster. They have known each other only a short time, but the place this man has carved for himself inside Ansem goes deep.

Ansem is, of course, not awake. He is caught somewhere between, somewhere he must stay to keep them both safe, somewhere he must stay so they can share this.

This being the man's fingers trailing over his face, the careful attention to the lines about his eyes, the tender touch to his crow's feet. His years leave heavy marks, and yet the man does not avoid them. Indeed, he seems intent to track each and every line upon his brow, about his mouth and nose, over his temples. Ansem's breath hitches. He might be sleeping, but even so, the affection catches on his ribs and strangles.

A hand slides into his hair, gentle with every fragile strand. His head is cupped in a palm, and the man leans in, the barest brush of chin against Ansem's beard before there is a tongue in his mouth, pressing deep and caressing all it finds. Then the lips draw back, kiss a path down his throat that Ansem will have to hide come morning.

He will treasure them, though, those marks on his neck glittering as countless brilliant ideas to his eyes. But they are their secret, and cannot be shared.

There is a heaviness, then, the man bearing down on Ansem for just a moment. In his in-between place, where he is free of the burdens of knowing and doing, while still entitled to experiencing, it is everything. The shape of him melds against Ansem's own, and Ansem cannot help but swell in response, a sense of desperation building between his legs, wet and leaking. No one has touched him in an age—not even himself, if he is honest—but his body knows what it wants, even in the depths of sleep.

That man, and his sweet weight.

Clever hands make quick work of the blankets, and then slow work, it seems, of his pajama shirt. Ansem must find patience, even in slumber, as each button is undone with a care he cannot imagine deserving. Yet he receives it, and as he does, those lovely fingers, those warm palms, make time to touch his chest. They are tender with the scars beneath his pectorals, still quite visible after so many years. The hands trace them with reverence; acknowledgement, perhaps, and love for the symbols of Ansem's self-actualization, achieved with machines he himself invented. Thumbs brush his nipples, gently rolling over their peaks, and Ansem shivers. He is sensitive, as he is in the valley of his chest. The man must know, for he always touches there, never deterred by the thin curls of hair that adorn it. Ansem cannot feel he is lacking, due to either age or hormones or some unknown biological factor, when he is given such adoring attention.

He has trimmed there, though. He wants the man to know he takes care of himself, and all for him. If he were awake, he could not admit to such humiliating neediness—and worse to come—but here he can confess, even if only in this silent manner, to the one he wants most.

The hands follow that sparse hair down to his stomach. Hidden beneath layers of clothes at most times, he has allowed himself to grow a little fat. The man is never deterred, however. He seems to adore every roll and crease, every sag and mound, flab viewed not as failure but as the accumulation of years, as the nature of being in a body, as well-deserved for his efforts—whether that be the mere act of existing, the results of his life's works, or the running of a rather successful kingdom—and perhaps, most of all, as desirable. So desirable, in fact, that the man grants them more of his kisses, dips his tongue into his navel—the mark of his birth, his creation, his entrance into the world—and leaves Ansem shocked and soaked through at the intimacy.

And the man knows, because that is where he touches him next. His fingers find the seam of him through his pants and press, dragging the fabric through his slick. Still in his place between sleeping and waking, Ansem is allowed to not feel embarrassed—he won't give himself over to it, he won't, he won't—is allowed to enjoy the thrill, the fluttering of his walls as the man briefly works his clothes inside him. He pauses, as if startled by how wet Ansem is, but does not retreat. His fingers find his cock instead, and attend it. They circle the thick nub, grip its length—what little there is—and slide the hood of it up to the head and down again. Ansem trembles.

The man does not talk, but still he hears his silent question. Are you ready for me? And even in sleep, Ansem knows to lift his hips, to give him what access he needs. If he is honest, and he can be in this place, then Ansem is always ready here, always eager, in part, because he is allowed to be. The thought cannot go beyond that, of what he feels outside, or he will be struck by his own insatiability, feelings he thought he could never have, and should have atrophied with age besides.

So he does not think further, and simply allows himself the pleasure the man offers in this place between.

His pants are lowered. Here, and now, his neediness is revealed. He has tidied himself for this man—this handsome man, this meticulous man, this man who deserves his every effort—and must hope he is not found wanting. My body is a gift to you, should you desire it, he says with actions, if not with words.

And it must be desired, must be wanted, for then, with great passion, a cock is thrust to the hilt in his body. "Oh, Xehanort," he moans, dreaming within dreams. As he is, he can do nothing but be used—and how he delights in the using—his sleeping form slack in all places save his hole, which clenches hard. He wishes he could say that he controlled it, that the tightness was another gift, but in truth his body acts without his permission. The man knows all the places inside to touch, to grind against, knows where pressure is best applied to leave Ansem a mess. And Ansem is glad that at least his convulsing insides might offer something, for he cannot give much else. His legs are too heavy to spread, to make room, to welcome. He can only hope that the obscene sounds of his body and its warm embrace of the man's cock convey that his every act is appreciated, that his efforts bear fruit even from this ancient tree.

And what fruits! The pleasure builds and builds, ripples like waves as the man gives him such a steady, deep, loving fuck; the man who knows him best, the man who wants him most, who needs him, whose heart calls to him. It was meant to be. Surely, it was meant to be. All the wisdom in the world could not compare to how much this was meant to be.

The man never speaks, not even in dreams, yet how little that matters when Ansem, body gone taut, waiting for that moment of release, feels his hair against his skin as he leans down and places a chaste kiss on his cheek. It is all he needs, then, for the pleasure to crest, for the fruit to fall, for his walls to pulse and grip and grasp and gush about that loving cock. He moans, "Xehanort," and he comes and comes and comes. It is so good, in sleep, and perhaps even beyond it, that he cannot even feel embarrassed that he might have wet himself: the man would forgive even his incontinence, he is sure.

Ansem does not wake when he is done. His heart, however, is allowed to come just that little closer to the surface as the man cleans them both carefully, and then slips into bed beside him and holds him tight. And Ansem must sink then, for to face that affection at any hour, day or night, might well destroy him.

Thus, in sleep, and only sleep, Ansem may warm himself at Xehanort's flame.

 

---

 

It was the way of things, Braig supposed, that even with several centuries worth of chores on his to-do list, he still found himself with more. Scribbled at the bottom, in terrible handwriting, not because he couldn't manage his cursives, but because after a few hundred years you realized it was either never going to matter or become the only thing that did—and, honestly? Braig had no interest in being the sort of old guy whose hobby was dotting his i's and crossing his t's.

Wouldn't mind being an old guy with hobbies, though. Oh well. That's just the way of things. Some of us have work that's never done. Maybe he could try picking up something during his next break, if he ever got one. Being on call permanently sort of meant he didn't get to do that; years and years of idle boredom, all to be ready the second duty phoned him in.

He turned down another corridor, gave Dilan and Aeleus a nod as he passed them on the way to Ansem's chambers. He kept the paper—a midnight snack—he carried visible, but he needn't've bothered. They trusted him, and trust made you stupid. At least a bit, anyhow. But the point was he could probably do this empty-handed; no essays, no glasses of water for the old coot. He'd gotten into the habit, though, and it was worth it for the look of the thing.

But what did he actually have for Ansem, then, if he was going to all this effort to visit him in the little hours? Why, dreams! The sweetest of dreams, in fact, as well as a burgeoning crush on the most off-limits of his apprentices. Well, after Ienzo. He assumed after Ienzo. Hadn't felt the need to check the old man's thoughts on that one. Not when he had Xehanort to work with.

And it's not like I have to work all that hard, anyway. The old guy's already falling, I'm just here to kick the cane.

So, with his midnight snack in hand, he strode down the hall, slipped through a door, and entered Ansem's chambers. His most personal and private of spaces, largely unprotected, because of how drastically he underestimated his sweet little garden's capacity to house such a nasty sneak.

Right. He snorted. Bit much, even for me. I gotta get outta my head, some time. He missed the box; it was something to talk to.

The chambers were, as always, silent. The old man wasn't much of a snorer; impressive, all things considered. Braig shut the door with his foot, tossed his paper plane of rambling bull disguised as an essay onto the vanity, and came to a stop by Ansem's bed.

The man himself lay there, all comfy under his blankets. He was a deep sleeper, although Braig expected with enough trauma he could become the sort who never slept at all. Anyone could, albeit Braig had long since given up on that sort of thing. He'd switched maybe a century back—or two, or three, but who was counting, other than him?—to catching every second of sleep he could, even when he was wide awake. Hey, a man without hobbies can still have talents; duty calls, and I answer sleepwalking. Ain't that what we all dream of? Working while we sleep.

As if.

For now, though, Ansem slept like a rock, and that suited Braig just fine. It sure made his life easier as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. Ansem's expression was not quite peaceful, but he knew not to worry about it. The man might pretend at dignity while awake, but here, in sleep, all those sagging lines and furrowed creases made him look like a guilty dog, haunted and longing.

Well, it beats dreaming of work. But we can make it more exciting, can't we? And besides, the guilt only makes what comes next all the sweeter. For you, anyway.

Braig didn't consider himself much anymore. You gotta do what you gotta do. If you're going to be useful, you stop feeling guilt after the first war, start weaponizing everyone else's during the second.

He reached out, and, with a tenderness that remained foreign to him—sure I knew it, once upon a time—ran a hand over Ansem's cheek. The man made a little noise. Always did. He seemed a bit hung up on his age; all that wrinkled skin, those aching joints, the occasional pause he had to make when he shuffled about the corridors of his maze of a palace with Ienzo in hand. He wasn't senile, at least, although Braig suspected he'd be driven to it when Xehanort was done with him. For all he had the magpie's eye for an idea, that sparkle of brilliance so obvious to him, he lacked it for trouble. Courted it eagerly and without understanding, in fact. That's a bit embarrassing for a senior, pops.

And, boy, was Xehanort trouble. Young trouble, and virile and handsome, albeit that was stolen goods. But he was so fragile, too, so vulnerable, and all while wicked sharp. That amnesiac brain was dangerous; a clever little blade with an edge so enticing, a shine so seductive, a mystery, why, how could anyone have expected the old man to resist?

But Braig did, because for all Xehanort was alluring, he was also everything one needed for a scandal; giftwrapped, in one of those fancy bows. He was so obviously bad news that he suspected Ansem might even be able to contain his feelings, keep his wits about himself enough to threaten Braig's plans. So it's up to me, to see things to where they need to be.

He swept his hand over Ansem's face, made sure all the appropriate parts were attended to. Now and then, he stroked his hair. It wasn't quite thinning, but it was delicate; the kind of stuff princesses were supposed to shit out of spinning wheels, or however those stories went. He resisted a snort, cupped the back of Ansem's skull; not as heavy as one might expect, for a professor, but then did a brain really weigh that much? No, it was all the walls of bone, trying to protect him. But they couldn't protect him from this. Some things are more than physical, including, surprisingly, 'the physical.' The more you know...

Ansem pressed his face into his hand, nuzzled his cheek.

A twinge.

Braig buried it. He had a role, and all its many chores, to fulfill. Nothing else to it.

He moved one of his hands back to the front of Ansem's face and dipped his fingers, still gloved, between his lips, palm brushing his beard in the process. The old man liked to suck on them. It was a bit sad, really, how desperate he was. They'd been at this a few weeks, maybe a month, and he still moaned whenever Braig rubbed his tongue. Beneath the sheets, his hips squirmed.

What does he even imagine he's doing? Well, I suppose there aren't that many options. You live for centuries, the lack of variety almost gets disappointing. Not that Braig got much action. Lack of interest, mostly, but there weren't that many people that drew his eye. It's all just games, because it's all just work.

He drew his fingers back out of his mouth and trailed them down his body, paid careful attention to his throat. No kisses. He didn't do kisses. But he could, with Ansem's own spit, press his thumb against the tendons of his neck, or dig a digit into the hollow at his collar, and give him something like them. But it's all just you, old man. It's not me, and it's not him. It's just you. It's all just you.

Ansem made another pathetic noise, chasing his hand with his body. Braig didn't feel anything. Braig couldn't feel anything.

He shifted a little on the bed, laid both his hands against the old man's shoulders and pressed down hard. He always seemed to like it, that extra weight. Braig thought, maybe, for all his genius, he hadn't figured out you could buy a heavy blanket and achieve the same effect. But then, he supposed this was less about grounding, and more about grinding, if one considered the subject of his dreams.

More noises, a long moan. His brow creased, his lips parted.

On to the next act, then? If you insist.

Braig removed the blankets with a flourish. Beneath, Ansem wore a plain, long-sleeved button-up pajama shirt, same as always. A peek through his closet had revealed more interesting attire, but Braig had never seen him wear any of it. Whatever excitement you dreamed of in youth, it's gone now. Outside your research, anyway.

And your sleep.

He took his time with the buttons, mostly because Ansem seemed to enjoy it. He'd tried it fast a few times, but had discovered after doing it across concurrent sessions that it seemed to spoil things a little. More a side dish than the main course, eh? So he went slow, and then, once done, ran both his hands over the old man's chest; over the scars under his pectorals—nearly invisible, but apparently a source of immense pleasure—over his stiff nipples, then right down the center through his sparse hair.

Did he trim this? That's... Not quite a twinge. He dismissed the thought as quick as it came to him, focused instead on his task, and all those places on the old man's body that had him lifting his hips.

Because even if Ansem asked for slow, he begged for fast. He liked a tease, it seemed. Did he beg Xehanort in his dreams too, Braig wondered, or were his desires private even there? I can think of a few people as repressed, but you're certainly up there.

Well, far be it from Braig to deny the old man what he wanted. He dragged his hands over his bare stomach, pressed down so he could feel the weight of him against his oh so vulnerable belly. His senior's paunch, his rolls and pouches of fat, the contrasting jagged edge of his hips were all given 'affection,' though not from the one actually administering the touch. He bore the body of someone who spent most of his time seated and bent, although Braig had to acknowledge his daily walks. Your joints haven't gone totally to rust...yet. He dipped his thumb into the navel, listened to the quickening of his breath.

Still not awake. Was I ever this unaware? It was hard to think of a time when someone could have taken advantage of him like this.

Hard, but not impossible.

He lowered his hand, slow, and pressed it to the other's mound. Moist, sticky. Old as he was, neither a lifetime of testosterone nor post-menopausal atrophy had apparently affected his ability to soak through his pants. Granted, he never wore underwear to bed, but Braig still had to hand it to him; to be this wet from so little touch was impressive. You really are starved for it, huh? He dug the tips of his fingers into the seam of him, pushed the damp cloth inside, paused as he felt the old man twitch, and then churned his slick to foam against his convulsing cunt—the repressed are always perverts—before dragging the lot of it up through his folds to his swollen clit.

"Ah...ah..." Ansem's whimpers were shaky, breaking on moans. His hips undulated, pressed hard, asked for more in their sad way.

Alright, alright, give it a rest. He circled his fingers over his fat nub, like any good lover would. Ansem squirmed, one hand clutching at the sheets, the other bent beside his head. His chest rose and fell, rapid enough that Braig wondered if he should bring up building a ventilator in his next paper plane of bull. Each inhale was a click, each exhale a shot: little bullets. But who's the one taking the hit? Braig ground his fingers against him, played with the hood of his clit, thumbed the head, then pulled back, returned to those teasing motions that had the old man letting out a long, agonized groan. Hips up, and begging, over and over.

At which point Braig stopped, hooked his thumbs in Ansem's waistband, and dragged it down to reveal his cunt.

Huh... Usually, Ansem wore a bush; patchy, graying, but with enough volume overall to earn the title. Recently, however, he'd been trimming, and tonight it seemed that his intensifying daydreams about Xehanort—intensified in part due to his nightly visits from 'Xehanort'—had driven him to shave. He was naked, red, and sopping, clit erect, folds twitching in time with his hole.

Another twinge. Braig wasn't sure why. He wasn't someone who cared much about body hair, could take it or leave it, albeit in part because he could take or leave whoever it was or wasn't attached to. He was fascinated by the fact Ansem thought Xehanort couldn't handle a bush, though.

As if. That man's the sort of pervert who'd rumble in any jungle.

Whatever. It didn't matter.

He was never especially delicate about this part. Ansem had never let him down, after all, when it came to being ready for a round with his imaginary boyfriend, and he didn't disappoint tonight as Braig set three gloved fingers at his hole and shoved them in.

Ansem's body went rigid, mouth falling open. "Oh! Xeha..." His voice trailed off. Maybe the name made it out in his dreams.

Braig fucked him rapidly, fingers held stiff, hard. He was never particularly careful; the old man's body was a tool during this, albeit Braig doubted he knew what for. If he didn't know better, he'd assume the squelch could be heard in the corridors, slick gushing out as he swirled his thumb against his clit, applied pressure. He curved his fingers, angled up, found his target in a couple of thrusts. The reaction was almost immediate. After all that teasing, Ansem was a whimpering mess, trapped in the bondage of his pajamas. Braig wondered if, given the opportunity, he'd turn out to be a real spreader, although he imagined his muscles would complain.

But even if he can't spread, he'll beg. For this, for mercy, for revenge, for the end.

Braig never spoke—would ruin the illusion—and he never kissed. But as he fucked his fingers up into that spot inside Ansem and ground the meat of his hand against his clit, he did lean over and brush the corner of his lips against his cheek. Right at the edge, dreaming of loves beyond his knowing, Ansem's breath shifted from quick to bordering on hyperventilation. The muscles of his cunt squeezed tight, and then, with a final lift of his hips, he came hard, squirting against Braig's waiting palm.

Look at you go, old man. Even after all these years, you've still got it.

"Xehanort..." Ansem sighed, hips dropping back to the bed. His thighs were dripping with slick and squirt—and piss, it seemed, though not too much. He is a senior citizen, after all. Braig pulled back, took a quick glance at his gaping cunt, then promptly snatched a handkerchief from the bedside table and scrubbed his gloves. He gave the old man a quick wipe—there was no point in being thorough, not when incontinence could be blamed as much as nocturnal emissions for the stains—and tossed it in with the rest of Ansem's laundry.

He never noticed, funnily enough. Sometimes he saw the forest, sometimes just the tree, but either way, Ansem's brain always managed to make an excuse for the handkerchief's absence. He can always blame himself. Suppose it's for the best if he gets used to doing that.

He took a moment to stare at 'His Majesty's' wash basket, breathed through his nose, then turned back to the old man. He put him back together; pants in place, buttons done up, blankets wrapped securely under his arms and over his chest. Ansem slept peacefully throughout. Maybe he was still dreaming of a Xehanort who would want to do this; tend to his body, his clothes, snuggle up nice and close in the afterglow and hold him tenderly all night long.

One final wretched twinge.

As if. Braig snorted. Keep this up, and pretty soon you'll be having his portrait painted so you can hang it on your study wall. Then you'll be a real goner.

He rose from the bed with a stretch and made his way across the room, pausing at the door to give the place a once over. Clothes, bedsheets, laundry, paper plane, Ansem; all ticks on his to-do list. The metaphorical fire was banked, only ashes left in its wake, and pleasure was revealed to be mere palliative care for the dying man before his end. Poison and potion, both. 

He was a poet, really. Maybe he had picked up a hobby.

"Everything in its place," he muttered, with a grin, "including you. Well, that's that. Goodnight, old man."

He shut the door and whistled his way back to his own quarters. Not to rest, oh no. There was none of that for him. His work was never done, after all. Let the old men dream, Braig thought, but us ancients know we've miles to go before we sleep.