Ghosts
He had been in love with Ansem once. Maybe he had even worshipped him, and for good reason. At the time, he hadn't seen any reason not to worship the man… his dreams became visions of bronzed skin, rippling muscles and a killer smile. He would wake up to the taste of salt on his lips and the echo of that voice echoing in his ears, like too many waves of words made of sweet nothings. He would lie back in the bed Maleficent had given him to crimson eyes filling his vision, and his hand would be doing things to himself before he knew it and beyond his own understanding.
Nothing in all the worlds that were sullied and sundered by the Heartless could have prepared him for their first encounter. One second they had stood on opposite ends of the room and in the next Ansem had him against the wall, wrists held fast above head and mouth hungrily devouring his own. The phantom's touch was solid. The feel of him, real.
There was no love in their fucking and what connected them was as good as rape. Ansem stripped him of everything: he was broken in by the creature he worshipped, physically, mentally and emotionally. He was under Ansem's thrall before he even realized it, and by the time he did it didn't really matter. It was easy to succumb. The abuse he endured was a small setback to the closeness he received in return.
He did not know what brought him to his senses. The only thing he really bothered to consider was the bitterness in his mouth and the teasing reminder of crooked love and hopeless devotion. He soon fell out of the habit of sleeping following their separation. That way, he'd never have to see those eyes in his head again.