A/N: Call it... my holdiay special? Early? XD I dunno, it happens to be holiday-themed, so I'm not going to wait until Christmas to post it. Good heavens, no.

Rated for language and lemon. (It's so weird... I never use foul language myself, so it feels awkward to write it... but I've got to remember, this is Braig talking. He says bad words all the time. XD)

This is set in the storyverse of Kingdom Academy. All the backstory that matters, however, is that Braig and Xehanort are roomies. (They've got a pretty big room because they're both on awesome scholarships.) Enjoy!

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Braig was still shaking snow out of his jacket when he stomped into the room. It had been falling hard since noon, maybe before, but that was when he’d glanced out the mall windows from all his Christmas shopping. (Everyone called him crazy. He didn’t know what they were talking about—the best deals came to the last-minute shoppers.) Everything was beautiful surrounded by white. It reminded him of his roommate, and he had been dying to tell Xehanort so all day.

He dropped his bags on the table next to a pile of haphazardly-wrapped packages and lazily stuffed gift bags, followed by the pizza box. The girl working at the counter had given him an odd look. Honestly, who had pizza on Christmas Eve? Apparently starving students staying at school over the holidays when even the cooks have gone home. But the Academy felt like home to them. No way was Braig gonna spend his holiday in the goddamn orphanage he’d outgrown anyway.

The genius was on the couch doing whatever work some crazy or overenthusiastic or whatever professor had assigned him over the break. Probably Ansem. He was smart enough to know that Xehanort was the sort who needed work to take him mind off… other stuff. Like parents. And lawyers.

Braig got halfway through a call of, “Hey, Xeha—” before he remembered that they weren’t talking. From the way Xehanort looked up hopefully, then stopped, frowned, and went back to work, he just remembered too.

“…there’s pizza,” Braig muttered, as though he’d been going to say that in the first place.

“Yeah,” Xehanort said vaguely, not looking back up.

Braig sighed, glancing over at the clock with his hands stuck in the pockets of his jeans. It was getting late… really late. He had spent a while shopping. His budget was pretty low at the moment, so he’d tried to catch the best bargains. Wasn’t there some Christmas special at ten? Probably trash, but it was five ‘til, and there was nothing else to do. Only problem was that watching TV would require that he sit on the couch.

Man. Christmas Eve, and I’m fighting with my boyfriend, he groused inwardly. God, is he really? We haven’t exactly known each other too long, but I still thought…

Stupid Deym and his optimism would have been useful right now, but he’d gone home. So had Jack, and Elaeus, and Ienzo, and almost everyone else. He knew what Deym would say: “Don’t worry! You’ll be patched up by Christmas!”

All right then, Deym, work your magic. It’s two hours until Christmas, and not a word.

“Stop being stubborn! Just apologize, already! Gosh, Braig, you’re hopeless!”

Yeah, well, it wasn’t his fault. It was stupid fucking Xehanort and his stupid fucking family and his bad fucking habit of staying up late and working himself to the bone until he passed out and didn’t fucking eat and drove Braig to pieces with worry…

No. No, he was not feeling sorry for Xehanort. He’d done nothing but worry about him and they were fighting, so he shouldn’t. Never worry about someone you’re mad at. Right. Mad.

He threw himself down on the couch as far away from his roommate as physically possible, grabbing the remote and turning the TV on. This was childish, but damnit, it was a matter of pride.

Braig studiously ignored Xehanort, fixing his eyes on the brain-sucking machine, as Ansem liked to call it. So let him slave away trying to be good enough for his parents. Hah. All they wanted was a normal kid. Nice and average. Doing extra work over the break was genius material, not suitable for parents who already hated his guts. Let him spend Christmas depressed because all his family gave him was a nickel. Maybe a card. And maybe some candy cans loaded with cyanide. What did Braig care?

So there.

Xehanort eventually got up to get the pizza. Braig accepted a plate without looking at him.

“Hot chocolate?”

“Whatever.”

A peace offering? No, not with the way Xehanort set the mug stiffly on the table in front of Braig. Just common courtesy acting.

“This bother you?” Braig asked, waving a hand at the TV.

“No. Go for it,” Xehanort said.

For a long while there was just the scratching of the pencil and the soft sounds of some black-and-white film Braig had flipped to. The room was comfortably warm, although the snow still floated by outside the window. Braig was stretched out, his bare feet propped up on the table, his arms stretched across the top of the couch. Xehanort was compressed into a little ball against the opposite armrest, his legs curled under him, feet half-buried under the cushions. From time to time, one of them reached out to take a sip of their hot chocolate. The lamp was on low, just barely enough for Xehanort to work by.

Gradually the silence between them softened, both relaxing as the drink warmed them further. Xehanort’s writing came in fits and starts. There were long pauses, when he snuck a glance at Braig before hastily going back to his papers. Braig stared resolutely at the TV, or at the ceiling, clenching his fingers into fists whenever his eyes tried to wander to his silent roommate.

Xehanort’s pencil had been hovering over the paper for a good five minutes when Braig’s fingers touched his hair, gently stroking. He tilted his head back into the touch, his pencil lowering and staying put with its tip resting on the paper.

No words were spoken. None were required.

“You’ll hurt your eyes trying to work like that,” Braig said softly after a few minutes.

“That’s a myth,” Xehanort replied just as softly, but he set his work aside even so, nudging the mug out of the way. Braig twisted, laying his hand lightly on Xehanort’s thigh, his blue eyes saying everything that words could not. The smallest of forgiving smiles curled the younger man’s lips, and he nodded very slightly. Braig braced his hands on the armrest and leaned forward, and Xehanort closed the last inch, shutting his eyes as Braig kissed him gingerly, almost like he was afraid to push his luck. Xehanort, too, shifted so he wasn’t so uncomfortably twisted. He reached tentatively up to wrap his arms around Braig’s neck, pulling as he leaned back, relaxing against the armrest. The pillow there was a godsend.

They parted with a little sigh of relief.

“We’re okay, right?” Braig asked softly, lowering onto him. Xehanort nodded, stretching himself out under the taller young man.

“Yeah,” he answered, swallowing, tilting his head back to expose his long neck. “Come on. I… I really missed you.”

“I can see that,” Braig said with a little grin. He accepted the gift, nuzzling him, his teeth scraping carefully at Xehanort’s throat. The other student’s fingers gripped a little harder on Braig’s back. Braig’s hand slid between them, and the very slight pressure made him bite his lip. Xehanort rocked once into his hand, swallowing a groan.

“It’s okay to make noise,” Braig murmured. “Dilan and Even won’t care. God, they’re louder than we are… more often, too.”

He was rewarded with a tiny whine as he stroked gently over the half-hardness he could feel through Xehanort's jeans. Braig smirked, teasing some more. Xehanort was really, really hot like this, eyes closed tight, head thrown back, his dark face a bit flushed.

“God!” Xehanort hissed finally, arching as well as he could. “Braig… come on, just…”

“Cool it, Xeha,” Braig said, calm as you please, as though he’s not really fucking hard too. “Let me handle it. I’ll take good care of you. Trust me.”

“Whatever, just… f… Braig!”

It was a good thing that the armrest was cushioned, since Xehanort kept smacking his head against it. Braig popped the button on the smaller young man’s jeans and tugged at the zipper.

“Come on,” Xehanort whispered, pulling at Braig’s shirt. “You’re overdressed.”He gasped as Braig got his hand in his pants, and he lost himself in warm fingers on sensitive skin. Braig’s hand was familiar, and he pushed gladly into his grasp.

“Maaan,” Braig drawled, but there was a tell-tale flush on his face. “You must really have missed this.” He chuckled. “But maybe you’re right, I am a little overdressed…”

Xehanort bit back a disappointed sound, eagerly helping with the removal of annoying barriers. There was a confused jumble of fingers and buttons and sleeves, but eventually socks and sweaters and boxers hit the floor. The rough material of the couch wasn’t too comfortable, but no way were they moving now.

Braig’s hand felt so achingly good, and Xehanort really did groan now. Both of them groped blindly between the cushions until the long-lost little bottle was found and copious amounts of slick, hot oil were spilled onto their hands. Xehanort gasped and squirmed as Braig’s fingertips teased between his legs, but the older student was in no hurry. He seemed content to circle with clever fingertips, applying pressure without actually penetrating. Braig was grinning like a madman; he enjoyed being thorough. Xehanort was practically in tears of frustration beneath him. He reached down and managed to get a hold of Braig, putting a handful of oil to good use.

“Shit,” Braig hissed, jerking before he regained control. Xehanort took advantage of his lapse in attention to push back onto Braig’s fingers.

“Okay, okay,” Braig chuckled. “Pushy.”

One fingertip pushed its way inside and Xehanort arched, glowing in pleasure.

“God, yes!” he gasped. “Braig… please…damn…!”

Braig took his time, flexing his finger deeper before adding the second. Xehanort knew the value of being properly prepared, but it felt so excruciatingly good and he wanted something more, now. Their fight seemed to have lasted years, and he had missed this feeling.

Just as he thought he would die from pure frustration, Braig let a groan slip through his teeth.

“Stop it, Xeha,” he gritted out, pushing the other young man’s hand aside. “You’re too fucking good, you know that? Keep that up and I won’t last…”

Xehanort dug his fingers into the cushions instead, writhing. A little cry escaped him as the third finger slipped teasingly in, probing carefully, testing his limits. It was maddening.

“Enough,” Xehanort snapped. It came out less harshly than he would have liked, too much like a plea. “Braig… god… want you!”

“Yeah,” Braig agreed hoarsely, drawing his fingers out. Xehanort spread his legs and forced tense muscles to relax. He was used to the sensation of Braig both around and inside him, but that didn’t make it any less strange or painful or wonderful. He let out the breath he had been holding as Braig sheathed himself fully.

This was what Braig loved. There was heat, and pressure, and friction, but there was also something more than just the physical. This was perfection. This was how it was supposed to be, not the angry silence they had maintained for too long. The moved in perfect synchrony, Braig’s controlled groans harmonizing with Xehanort’s breathless moans.

“Yours,” Xehanort whispered, clutching convulsively at Braig’s shoulders.

Braig was no psychologist, but he knew enough about people and certainly enough about Xehanort to know better than to say some sappy crap about Xehanort not belonging to anyone. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. The younger student wanted to belong to someone, wanted to feel cared for, loved.

“Mine,” he agreed instead, and felt Xehanort shudder in pleasure and gratitude. Braig generously fished a hand between them. Xehanort was so close already… it took almost no time at all before he bucked desperately into Braig’s hand, a cry of satisfaction tearing from him as he finished. That sound just about made the older student climax right there, but he managed to hold on for a few more deep thrusts, making Xehanort writhe and moan freely before giving in to the pleasure. He collapsed rather gracelessly on top of the smaller young man, resting with his ear pressed up against his chest. He smiled, listening to Xehanort’s heartbeat slow as he relaxed.

After a minute or two, Braig shifted.

“Gotta get some milk and cookies,” he muttered. “Santa might wonder what’s up.”

Xehanort chuckled as Braig rolled off of him.

“Toss me my sweater, will you? I think we should sleep out here. We might catch him as he comes in.”

Braig headed into the kitchen, leaving Xehanort to redress in more comfortable pajamas. A few minutes later he returned with a glass and a plate.

“Naminé gave us cookies,” he said. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if we gave a few to Santa.”

He left the treats on the table and returned to pull his own clothes on. The TV was clicked off. Xehanort was already nodding off by the time Braig lay down, and the younger student snuggled up to him as though he were a giant teddy bear.

“Think… we’ll hear reindeer?” the smaller man murmured sleepily.

“Go to sleep or Santa won’t come,” Braig warned, but it was too late—Xehanort was already fast asleep, visions of sugarplums and whatnot dancing in his head. Braig turned the lamp off and pulled a blanket up over them as his eyelids drooped. He had enough sense to lay his head down to save himself a bump before he fell asleep, watching the snow fall outside.

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A/N: At the risk of sounding like I'm trying to be politically correct, happy holidays, everyone:D

Now review or Demyx will ruin your hairstyle. Or something. Because... Demyx breaks things.