Bacon N Eggs
folder
Kingdom Hearts › Slash/Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
2,607
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Kingdom Hearts › Slash/Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
2,607
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Kingdom Hearts I or II or any other Kingdome Hearts charactors or videogames. I do not make any money, what-so-ever (unfortunatley) from these writtings.
chapter 2
THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU! To all of those who have read my first chapter! I really appreciate everyone! As I said last chapter, this is my first published fic. Reviews are always welcome and gladly taken! :D
Roxas, still baffled by the incident at the stand, continued to cross the street in a daze to central park. After all, he had five packs of cigarettes and 100 dollars in his pocket. Once Roxas considered it, he was off to a pretty good day.
He enjoyed getting to the park when the joggers were out and the families were still sleeping. He entered the park from 110th street, and began his trek to his usual spot. He walked south for about 20 min until he came to the west 94th bridge. This “gothic bridge” was his favorite in all of Central Park. The cast iron was swirled and twisted in such a way it looked like something straight out of someone’s imagination. The contrast between the black pavement and the silver of the cast iron was, without a doubt, magnificent.
Roxas climbed the hill and came across the bridge to the center. Reaching in his portfolio bag, he grabbed a fresh pack of Luckies. Delicately, he pulled out the first drag. Thin white paper clung around the addicting tobacco. God, he needed this like none other. He lighted and deeply inhaled the smoke, holding it in for as long as he could before blowing it all out. He sighed and pulled out a collapsible tri-legged stool out of his vast portfolio bag. Sitting and leaning on the bridge, he looked over to 94th street. High rise buildings surrounded the area he looked towards, but at the same time, the beauty of the assorted gold, red and brown leaves that fell captivated the 21 year old’s artist heart.
The strong nicotine seemed to clear his mind, but then only to be fogged again by questions. Who was that man? Why would a seemingly wealthy man want to help a poor skinny kid begging for cigarettes? Roxas couldn’t figure anything out, but still continued to think about it as his smoke wore down to the filter.
Roxas flicked his finished drag off the bridge and picked up his portfolio bag. It was a rather large bag; it could fit a sketch pad, paints, one easel, three of his completed paintings and one blank canvas on which to paint on that day. He set up his easel and retrieved his paintings, carefully placing them against the swirling gates of the railing. Roxas was lucky to sell one of his paintings, let alone all three of them, yet he had a collection of which to bring everyday to sell. He would paint anything and everything, from landscaping (which sold the best) to people to gods and goddesses.
Roxas slid back into his bag and rummaged around for his oil paints. Once he set up his paints, he looked at the blank canvas; he tried to think of landscapes, of flowers, of meadows, but his thoughts just lead him back to that man who helped that morning. All he could see in the blank canvas were emerald eyes staring back at him.
By the time Roxas had finished with the center of his painting, he washed his brush and took a stretching break. Two older ladies had come over to his area and were looking at his paintings.
“How are you fine ladies doing today?” Roxas asked in his sweetest tone as he wiped his hands off on a paint encrusted rag. He was trying to possibly play an “I’m-like-your-grandson-so-buy-my-painting-please” card. The duo looked up, observed Roxas head to toe, nodded and walked away. Roxas sighed, sat down on his stool and dipped his brush in another color. *Maybe I should get a look*…Roxas thought looking down at his ragged clothing.
Midday came and went with corporate workers finding spots to eat in the park for lunch. Roxas’ insides craved for the food when the aromas licked his nose. Each time Roxas would look up to see someone looking at his paintings they would just walk away. The smell of food kept enticing Roxas.
*No*, Roxas thought as he focused on his painting, *no food, I have to pay my rent with this money. I can make it one more day without food.*
The day continued to drag on and Roxas continued to work, finally finishing around 4 o’clock. He stood up and stepped back to look at it. Bright green mysterious eyes stared back at him, but they were engulfed in a torrent of flames. They were eyes of a gypsy.
*No*, Roxas thought, contradicting himself. He tilted his head left, and then right, *they were the eyes of that man.* Roxas stood up and continued to look at his painting from different angles.
“What’d you paint?” A voice from behind Roxas startled him. Roxas spun on his heels to see that very man from the morning staring at him with a smile. “Well, I asked you what you painted, are you going to answer me? It would be the courteous thing to do, you know?”
Roxas’ cheeks flushed as he opened his mouth to answer. He really didn’t want to tell the man that he just finished painting his eyes, which would be just creepy.
“Well?” the man continued to smile and crossed his arms in anticipation.
“Uh-uh,” Roxas began looking away from the other, “they’re…they’re eyes. G-Gypsy’s eyes.” Roxas managed to stutter out rather roughly, now completely looking away from the taller man.
“And did you paint all the rest of these?” the man asked Roxas, unfolding his arms to point to the paintings leaning up against the railings.
Roxas dared to look up at the man who was staring intently at his paintings, “Yes. I’ve painted them all, and I have more at my apartment.” Roxas rushed over to the paintings, almost pushing the man over. Roxas bent down and looked at the one on the far right, “This one I painted the first day I moved to New York,” the painting showed a huge bird caught in flames soaring through the air claiming the forest that surrounded it, “I was listening to the Firebird Suite by Leopold Stokowski. And this painting was done after I listened to the blues from New Orleans, my neighbor was playing it during Marti Gras; my walls aren’t that thick.” The painting was abstract but calm, with many straight lines and random circles representing Marti Gras well. “This painting,” Roxas continued to the one on the left, “is of this very park, but if no one were here, if I was the sole person in the city. See,” Roxas pointed to the base of a tree in front of the picture, “that’s me, painting this picture, without a care in the world, without having to worry about money or life.”
Roxas stood up, glowing from his explanations and looked at the man whom was still staring intently at the paintings. It seemed like hours before he spoke again. Roxas had managed to pack up his easel and paints.
“You said you have more paintings?” The man finally spoke, looking at Roxas.
“Yeah, I have at least 30 more at my apartment.” Roxas answered surprised.
“I have a proposition for you,” the man began, “I would like all of your paintings. And in return, I will pay you 7000 dollars.” The man looked at Roxas.
Roxas gaped at the man, “7000 dollars?! Uh-uh, yeah sure that’d be great!” Roxas relished about getting his debt repaid for his apartment and actually getting some food in his stomach.
“Great, can you get these four to me by tomorrow?,” the man said, gesturing to the ones Roxas had in the park, “I can get your address from there and have my guys pick them up for me. Here’s my card.” The red haired man handed Roxas a completely black card with silver writing that he had to tilt in the fading sun to read. It read:
Axel Kullhem
Kullhem Piano Inc.
14367 94th Ave. Suite #6583
New York City, New York 10015
*The Axel Kullhem*, Roxas thought as he eyed Axel head to toe, *of Kullhem pianos? That’s impossible; he’s supposed to be this old crusty guy who spent his retirement money in creating one of the greatest piano companies in the world. Axel Kullhem isn’t supposed to be this twenty-something guy with taste in fashion.*
“So I’ll see you tomorrow,” Axel continued when Roxas looked up, “…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Oh, uh…” Roxas stammered, still puzzled by the man who stood in front of him.
Axel chuckled, “Forgot your own name, huh?”
“…Roxas.” He finally managed, “Roxas McCoy.”
“Well, Roxas McCoy,” Axel smiled and shot out his hand, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Roxas took Axel’s hand and shook it, “tomorrow.”
Roxas, still baffled by the incident at the stand, continued to cross the street in a daze to central park. After all, he had five packs of cigarettes and 100 dollars in his pocket. Once Roxas considered it, he was off to a pretty good day.
He enjoyed getting to the park when the joggers were out and the families were still sleeping. He entered the park from 110th street, and began his trek to his usual spot. He walked south for about 20 min until he came to the west 94th bridge. This “gothic bridge” was his favorite in all of Central Park. The cast iron was swirled and twisted in such a way it looked like something straight out of someone’s imagination. The contrast between the black pavement and the silver of the cast iron was, without a doubt, magnificent.
Roxas climbed the hill and came across the bridge to the center. Reaching in his portfolio bag, he grabbed a fresh pack of Luckies. Delicately, he pulled out the first drag. Thin white paper clung around the addicting tobacco. God, he needed this like none other. He lighted and deeply inhaled the smoke, holding it in for as long as he could before blowing it all out. He sighed and pulled out a collapsible tri-legged stool out of his vast portfolio bag. Sitting and leaning on the bridge, he looked over to 94th street. High rise buildings surrounded the area he looked towards, but at the same time, the beauty of the assorted gold, red and brown leaves that fell captivated the 21 year old’s artist heart.
The strong nicotine seemed to clear his mind, but then only to be fogged again by questions. Who was that man? Why would a seemingly wealthy man want to help a poor skinny kid begging for cigarettes? Roxas couldn’t figure anything out, but still continued to think about it as his smoke wore down to the filter.
Roxas flicked his finished drag off the bridge and picked up his portfolio bag. It was a rather large bag; it could fit a sketch pad, paints, one easel, three of his completed paintings and one blank canvas on which to paint on that day. He set up his easel and retrieved his paintings, carefully placing them against the swirling gates of the railing. Roxas was lucky to sell one of his paintings, let alone all three of them, yet he had a collection of which to bring everyday to sell. He would paint anything and everything, from landscaping (which sold the best) to people to gods and goddesses.
Roxas slid back into his bag and rummaged around for his oil paints. Once he set up his paints, he looked at the blank canvas; he tried to think of landscapes, of flowers, of meadows, but his thoughts just lead him back to that man who helped that morning. All he could see in the blank canvas were emerald eyes staring back at him.
By the time Roxas had finished with the center of his painting, he washed his brush and took a stretching break. Two older ladies had come over to his area and were looking at his paintings.
“How are you fine ladies doing today?” Roxas asked in his sweetest tone as he wiped his hands off on a paint encrusted rag. He was trying to possibly play an “I’m-like-your-grandson-so-buy-my-painting-please” card. The duo looked up, observed Roxas head to toe, nodded and walked away. Roxas sighed, sat down on his stool and dipped his brush in another color. *Maybe I should get a look*…Roxas thought looking down at his ragged clothing.
Midday came and went with corporate workers finding spots to eat in the park for lunch. Roxas’ insides craved for the food when the aromas licked his nose. Each time Roxas would look up to see someone looking at his paintings they would just walk away. The smell of food kept enticing Roxas.
*No*, Roxas thought as he focused on his painting, *no food, I have to pay my rent with this money. I can make it one more day without food.*
The day continued to drag on and Roxas continued to work, finally finishing around 4 o’clock. He stood up and stepped back to look at it. Bright green mysterious eyes stared back at him, but they were engulfed in a torrent of flames. They were eyes of a gypsy.
*No*, Roxas thought, contradicting himself. He tilted his head left, and then right, *they were the eyes of that man.* Roxas stood up and continued to look at his painting from different angles.
“What’d you paint?” A voice from behind Roxas startled him. Roxas spun on his heels to see that very man from the morning staring at him with a smile. “Well, I asked you what you painted, are you going to answer me? It would be the courteous thing to do, you know?”
Roxas’ cheeks flushed as he opened his mouth to answer. He really didn’t want to tell the man that he just finished painting his eyes, which would be just creepy.
“Well?” the man continued to smile and crossed his arms in anticipation.
“Uh-uh,” Roxas began looking away from the other, “they’re…they’re eyes. G-Gypsy’s eyes.” Roxas managed to stutter out rather roughly, now completely looking away from the taller man.
“And did you paint all the rest of these?” the man asked Roxas, unfolding his arms to point to the paintings leaning up against the railings.
Roxas dared to look up at the man who was staring intently at his paintings, “Yes. I’ve painted them all, and I have more at my apartment.” Roxas rushed over to the paintings, almost pushing the man over. Roxas bent down and looked at the one on the far right, “This one I painted the first day I moved to New York,” the painting showed a huge bird caught in flames soaring through the air claiming the forest that surrounded it, “I was listening to the Firebird Suite by Leopold Stokowski. And this painting was done after I listened to the blues from New Orleans, my neighbor was playing it during Marti Gras; my walls aren’t that thick.” The painting was abstract but calm, with many straight lines and random circles representing Marti Gras well. “This painting,” Roxas continued to the one on the left, “is of this very park, but if no one were here, if I was the sole person in the city. See,” Roxas pointed to the base of a tree in front of the picture, “that’s me, painting this picture, without a care in the world, without having to worry about money or life.”
Roxas stood up, glowing from his explanations and looked at the man whom was still staring intently at the paintings. It seemed like hours before he spoke again. Roxas had managed to pack up his easel and paints.
“You said you have more paintings?” The man finally spoke, looking at Roxas.
“Yeah, I have at least 30 more at my apartment.” Roxas answered surprised.
“I have a proposition for you,” the man began, “I would like all of your paintings. And in return, I will pay you 7000 dollars.” The man looked at Roxas.
Roxas gaped at the man, “7000 dollars?! Uh-uh, yeah sure that’d be great!” Roxas relished about getting his debt repaid for his apartment and actually getting some food in his stomach.
“Great, can you get these four to me by tomorrow?,” the man said, gesturing to the ones Roxas had in the park, “I can get your address from there and have my guys pick them up for me. Here’s my card.” The red haired man handed Roxas a completely black card with silver writing that he had to tilt in the fading sun to read. It read:
Axel Kullhem
Kullhem Piano Inc.
14367 94th Ave. Suite #6583
New York City, New York 10015
*The Axel Kullhem*, Roxas thought as he eyed Axel head to toe, *of Kullhem pianos? That’s impossible; he’s supposed to be this old crusty guy who spent his retirement money in creating one of the greatest piano companies in the world. Axel Kullhem isn’t supposed to be this twenty-something guy with taste in fashion.*
“So I’ll see you tomorrow,” Axel continued when Roxas looked up, “…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Oh, uh…” Roxas stammered, still puzzled by the man who stood in front of him.
Axel chuckled, “Forgot your own name, huh?”
“…Roxas.” He finally managed, “Roxas McCoy.”
“Well, Roxas McCoy,” Axel smiled and shot out his hand, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Roxas took Axel’s hand and shook it, “tomorrow.”