Bacon N Eggs
folder
Kingdom Hearts › Slash/Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
2,598
Reviews:
8
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Kingdom Hearts › Slash/Yaoi - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
6
Views:
2,598
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.
Bacon N Eggs
*Hey! This is my first published fic...so let me know how it goes. aka reviews are very much appreciated! Thanks be to you!*
FYI *text* is thoughts/dreams. :D
*I kept running. I begged my legs to stop but they continued. Through dark, wet streets my legs were bringing me somewhere. I could feel my lungs burning as polluted oxygen passed in and out of my body. My brain screamed for my legs to stop, but they wouldn’t. Suddenly, the street came to an end and I ran right over it. I can feel a heavy trench coat fill with air as I fall to the ground; ending my life.*
Roxas’ eyes flashed open and he surveyed his surroundings. He wasn’t dead; he was lying in his dirt encrusted apartment. He sat up on his lumpy mattress, reached to the right and grabbed his last pack of cigarettes. Patting the last cigarette out on his knee, he reached for his lighter. He put the stick to his lips, lighted and inhaled. Nicotine filled his lungs, calming his brain. Roxas ran his hand through his hair, blonde and wild; it never stayed down.
As he finished his cigarette, Roxas swung his legs over the bed and looked at himself in the mirror that sat propped against the wall. Ribs protruded from his shirtless front, his skin still pale and drenched in a cold sweat from the dream. Dark circles encased his blue eyes.
He stood up, the rotting wood beneath his feet creaked as he traveled to the sink in his one room apartment. As he turned on the faucet he hit the spout twice to get clear water out. He gathered a cupful in his hands and splashed it in his face. The water was liquid ice and stung at the first touch of skin. Roxas gasped at the chill and walked back to his bed to get his shirt and supplies.
He pulled his shirt over his head. Holes riddled through the thinning material and he put the one sweatshirt he owned on. He slipped into his torn shoes and grabbed his easel, canvas, paints and paintings. Roxas’ only prized possessions, the only thing he spent most of his money on: art supplies. He was the prime example of a “starving artist”.
Roxas stepped out of the room. Bitter cold bit his lungs as he walked to the nearest subway entrance. Dawn had just barely begun to break as he walked down the steps to the train. He was one of three people waiting on this side of town. Cold air was trapped in the station and his breath continued to create a cloud in front of his face. Finally, the south-east line two train arrived with only two people on it.
Roxas stepped onto the train; warm air filled his lungs and thawed his skin. He sat on a plastic orange seat and pulled out a sketch pad. Roxas sat quietly, gently sketching the boarding passengers in pencil. A business woman with her hair tightly pulled back, sitting upright with ear buds connected to her head; a homeless man with a beard that could house assorted animals looking at the business woman in lust, his eyes begging for something he could not have. Roxas intensely studied the people he drew, portraying the emotions he saw in his subjects.
“Arriving at Allerton Avenue,” a woman’s cool voice came over the intercom, “please stand clear of the doors.” The doors opened in one swift movement and six more people climbed in.
“Thank you for your patience,” the woman’s voice chimed in again, “please stand clear of the doors.” In the same motion, the doors shut and the train jerked on. “Next stop: Pelham Parkway.”
*Thirteen more stops*, Roxas thought as he continued to sketch the maze of people.
*Twelve.*
*Eleven.*
*Ten.*
*Nine.*
*Eight.*
*Seven.*
*Six.*
*Five.*
*Four.*
*Three.*
*Two.*
*One more*, Roxas thought again as he gently put his sketch book back in his art supply portfolio bag. As he stood up, seven people eyed his seat before one person took action and sat in the empty seat. Roxas squeezed through the now thick crowd towards the doors. The woman’s cool voice came over the intercom again as the train came to a slow halt, “Central Park North, 110th street, please stand clear of the doors.”
Roxas exited the train, traveled up the steps and out of the station to a stand. The stand held newspapers, magazines, trinkets, souvenirs and most importantly: cigarettes. Roxas approached the disheveled man, “Hey Hank, any news today?”
Hank, the potbellied, leathered skin, balding man looked up from his newspaper, “Oh, Roxas, nope nothing new. Only one pack?” he asked as Roxas put a pack of Lucky Strikes in front of the man.
“Yep, that’ll be all.” Roxas replied as he sat down his portfolio bag to search his pockets for the required amount of money.
“That’ll be ten bucks, kid.” Hank spat, looking disappointed as Roxas returned from his search empty handed.
“Listen Hank, cover me on this one and I swear by the end of the day, I’ll get you the money. Please, I need a smoke.” Roxas begged the man.
Hank didn’t look fazed, just disappointed at Roxas begging the man again, “No not today Rox, I need you to pay for it now, no promises.” Hank got off his rusted stool to put the pack back when a crisp 50 dollar bill was shoved underneath his nose.
“Here, give him five, my treat.” The stranger said, smiling.
“Yeah, sure man whatever you want.” Hank said as he greedily grabbed the fresh bill.
Roxas stared in amazement at his “savior”. But his looks took him off guard, he wasn’t like any person Roxas had ever seen before. Long bright red hair shaped his face; his head looked like it was on fire. He was in a black business suit with shining buckles hanging off of one side and connecting to the other; it was a strange look for a man of such wealth. Roxas continued to stare at the other; suddenly, the man turned to Roxas. Roxas gasped at the sight of his eyes: vivid emerald jewels stared back at him. The man wore tiny tattoos beneath his eyes.
The man chuckled to himself, “You know,” he stated, “cigarettes have been known to kill people.”
“Ye—ah,” Roxas stammered as he tried to avert his own eyes as he felt blood rushing into his cheeks, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” the man said as he reached in his pocket and pulled out another two 50 dollar bills, “here get yourself some new clothes, and some bacon n’ eggs.” He shoved the money into Roxas’ hand with a smile.
Roxas was at a loss for words. The man turned and continued down the block. Roxas instinctively began to follow when Hank broke his trance, “Hey kid, you want your smokes or what?”
Roxas shook his head and went back to the stand, grabbed his five packs of cigarettes and shoved them into his portfolio bag. He rushed but by the time he had gathered all of his belongings, the sidewalk had filled. There was no sight of the man with licks of flames for hair.
FYI *text* is thoughts/dreams. :D
*I kept running. I begged my legs to stop but they continued. Through dark, wet streets my legs were bringing me somewhere. I could feel my lungs burning as polluted oxygen passed in and out of my body. My brain screamed for my legs to stop, but they wouldn’t. Suddenly, the street came to an end and I ran right over it. I can feel a heavy trench coat fill with air as I fall to the ground; ending my life.*
Roxas’ eyes flashed open and he surveyed his surroundings. He wasn’t dead; he was lying in his dirt encrusted apartment. He sat up on his lumpy mattress, reached to the right and grabbed his last pack of cigarettes. Patting the last cigarette out on his knee, he reached for his lighter. He put the stick to his lips, lighted and inhaled. Nicotine filled his lungs, calming his brain. Roxas ran his hand through his hair, blonde and wild; it never stayed down.
As he finished his cigarette, Roxas swung his legs over the bed and looked at himself in the mirror that sat propped against the wall. Ribs protruded from his shirtless front, his skin still pale and drenched in a cold sweat from the dream. Dark circles encased his blue eyes.
He stood up, the rotting wood beneath his feet creaked as he traveled to the sink in his one room apartment. As he turned on the faucet he hit the spout twice to get clear water out. He gathered a cupful in his hands and splashed it in his face. The water was liquid ice and stung at the first touch of skin. Roxas gasped at the chill and walked back to his bed to get his shirt and supplies.
He pulled his shirt over his head. Holes riddled through the thinning material and he put the one sweatshirt he owned on. He slipped into his torn shoes and grabbed his easel, canvas, paints and paintings. Roxas’ only prized possessions, the only thing he spent most of his money on: art supplies. He was the prime example of a “starving artist”.
Roxas stepped out of the room. Bitter cold bit his lungs as he walked to the nearest subway entrance. Dawn had just barely begun to break as he walked down the steps to the train. He was one of three people waiting on this side of town. Cold air was trapped in the station and his breath continued to create a cloud in front of his face. Finally, the south-east line two train arrived with only two people on it.
Roxas stepped onto the train; warm air filled his lungs and thawed his skin. He sat on a plastic orange seat and pulled out a sketch pad. Roxas sat quietly, gently sketching the boarding passengers in pencil. A business woman with her hair tightly pulled back, sitting upright with ear buds connected to her head; a homeless man with a beard that could house assorted animals looking at the business woman in lust, his eyes begging for something he could not have. Roxas intensely studied the people he drew, portraying the emotions he saw in his subjects.
“Arriving at Allerton Avenue,” a woman’s cool voice came over the intercom, “please stand clear of the doors.” The doors opened in one swift movement and six more people climbed in.
“Thank you for your patience,” the woman’s voice chimed in again, “please stand clear of the doors.” In the same motion, the doors shut and the train jerked on. “Next stop: Pelham Parkway.”
*Thirteen more stops*, Roxas thought as he continued to sketch the maze of people.
*Twelve.*
*Eleven.*
*Ten.*
*Nine.*
*Eight.*
*Seven.*
*Six.*
*Five.*
*Four.*
*Three.*
*Two.*
*One more*, Roxas thought again as he gently put his sketch book back in his art supply portfolio bag. As he stood up, seven people eyed his seat before one person took action and sat in the empty seat. Roxas squeezed through the now thick crowd towards the doors. The woman’s cool voice came over the intercom again as the train came to a slow halt, “Central Park North, 110th street, please stand clear of the doors.”
Roxas exited the train, traveled up the steps and out of the station to a stand. The stand held newspapers, magazines, trinkets, souvenirs and most importantly: cigarettes. Roxas approached the disheveled man, “Hey Hank, any news today?”
Hank, the potbellied, leathered skin, balding man looked up from his newspaper, “Oh, Roxas, nope nothing new. Only one pack?” he asked as Roxas put a pack of Lucky Strikes in front of the man.
“Yep, that’ll be all.” Roxas replied as he sat down his portfolio bag to search his pockets for the required amount of money.
“That’ll be ten bucks, kid.” Hank spat, looking disappointed as Roxas returned from his search empty handed.
“Listen Hank, cover me on this one and I swear by the end of the day, I’ll get you the money. Please, I need a smoke.” Roxas begged the man.
Hank didn’t look fazed, just disappointed at Roxas begging the man again, “No not today Rox, I need you to pay for it now, no promises.” Hank got off his rusted stool to put the pack back when a crisp 50 dollar bill was shoved underneath his nose.
“Here, give him five, my treat.” The stranger said, smiling.
“Yeah, sure man whatever you want.” Hank said as he greedily grabbed the fresh bill.
Roxas stared in amazement at his “savior”. But his looks took him off guard, he wasn’t like any person Roxas had ever seen before. Long bright red hair shaped his face; his head looked like it was on fire. He was in a black business suit with shining buckles hanging off of one side and connecting to the other; it was a strange look for a man of such wealth. Roxas continued to stare at the other; suddenly, the man turned to Roxas. Roxas gasped at the sight of his eyes: vivid emerald jewels stared back at him. The man wore tiny tattoos beneath his eyes.
The man chuckled to himself, “You know,” he stated, “cigarettes have been known to kill people.”
“Ye—ah,” Roxas stammered as he tried to avert his own eyes as he felt blood rushing into his cheeks, “Thanks.”
“No problem,” the man said as he reached in his pocket and pulled out another two 50 dollar bills, “here get yourself some new clothes, and some bacon n’ eggs.” He shoved the money into Roxas’ hand with a smile.
Roxas was at a loss for words. The man turned and continued down the block. Roxas instinctively began to follow when Hank broke his trance, “Hey kid, you want your smokes or what?”
Roxas shook his head and went back to the stand, grabbed his five packs of cigarettes and shoved them into his portfolio bag. He rushed but by the time he had gathered all of his belongings, the sidewalk had filled. There was no sight of the man with licks of flames for hair.