Upon meeting Axel, my first impression was that he was either incredibly direct or he had no sense of restraint. It was in a jazz club about three years ago, and its one of those occasions that your mind won't allow you to push to the back of your subconscious, no matter how hard you try.

I was what one might refer to as an "up and coming" musician. I dabbled a little in the art world. I was a normal kid (and, for the record, still am), and for some reason Axel noticed me.

Well anyway, it was at a jazz club about three years ago. The owner, the father of a friend of a friend, had been introduced to me. I had been offered one chance to impress the important critic who would be there on a specific night. I had been told that I probably didn't have a chance and that said important critic probably wouldn't even be aware of my existence.

I played the piano. I had been taking lessons since I was eight, continued until I was fifteen, and was then offered a scholarship to Manhattan Conservatory of Music. I graduated high school early, enrolled in the conservatory early, and graduated at age 20 with a degree in music and a reputation as one of the most gifted pianists of my time. Unfortunately, that was hardly enough.

Axel Russo was (and still is) the most famous musical critic in Manhattan. No Upper East Side, nothing like that. In Manhattan, if Mr. Russo gave you a good review, your career took off. In Manhattan, if Mr. Russo gave you a bad review, you sunk. Its as simple as that.

The piece I chose to play was the piano part of Milonga del Angel by Astor Piazzolla. It really is a beautiful piece, but there's a catch. It was written for the accordion. I had played this piece for my scholarship audition, and I had played this piece for my graduating test. Obviously, both had been successes. And I wasn't really concerned with what the big, hot shot critic thought of my playing.

Still, I was nervous. I was very nervous. Not for myself, so much as this father of a friend of a friend had told me that if I messed up and made his club look bad, then he personally would make sure that every music critic in the city sunk me. And, knowing this man, that was entirely possible.

When I walked up on that small stage and set out my sheet music, I noticed a few things. First, there were a lot of people in the club. I chalked that up to the presence of one of the most famous men in New York. Second, the stage was dimly lit. I could see my music, but I had practiced in a room with adequate lighting. I doubted this would affect my playing, but one never knows when they're so nervous that their eyes are nearly watering. Third, Mr. Axel Russo looked absolutely nothing like I had pictured him.

In my mind, this man would be average height. He would had ashy brown hair, close cropped, would wear square, modern looking glasses, and have depthless brown eyes. He would look something like an IRS agent. The Axel Russo that sat in front of me, however, was nothing like that. He was abnormally tall, having about six inches sitting down on everyone else in the club. His hair was a mess of red spikes, and it looked as though there wasn't any particular style to any of them. And then there were his eyes. His eyes were not eyes, but rather two emeralds set into a perfect, porcelain face. He had odd, teardrop tattoos on his cheeks, and he was wearing dark rinse skinny jeans and a band t-shirt.

Tearing my eyes away from the crowd, I took a deep breath and began playing. Naturally, my fingers danced along the keys in a pattern that I had memorized long ago, yet I followed the music with my eyes anyway. Being on stage, instead of making things feel like they were going far too slow, made things feel like they were going far too fast. I finished the piece in what seemed like half the time it had taken me when I practiced it, stood up, bowed, and walked away from a pleasantly surprised crowd of people I didn't know.

I got a slap on the back from the father of the friend of the friend, I got congratulations from my friends. However, I seemed to be functioning in a daze. I nodded my thanks and walked slowly to the back room that had been set aside for me. In that room was a couch, a large vanity, a coffee table, and a rack of clothes for me too choose from. I sat down on the couch, staring blindly at the wall.

It was only about ten minutes after I walked off the stage that things really came into focus and I remember with clarity what happened. First, there was a knock on my door.

"Come in." I called, and it opened to reveal the father of the friend of the friend.

"Roxas. There's someone who would like to speak to you." He sounded…bitter? I couldn't think of anything that would make him bitter. Then Mr. Axel Russo, music critic walked in my room and smiled. The door was aptly slammed behind him.

"Roxas? Roxas DuPont?" I stared up at him a nodded mutely, and he sat down on the couch next to me.

"Its nice to meet you. I'm Axel Russo. But…I assume you already knew that." He smiled sweetly at me and cocked his head. "That was some very nice playing out there."

"Th-thanks." I muttered, cracking my knuckles nervously.

"You're welcome. Now, I hear that you attended school here in New York. Apparently you have quite the reputation at the Conservatory." That same, sweet smile stayed in place.

"Uh-huh."

"You seem like you're at a loss for words."

"Yep."

He chuckled softly. "Then let me get right down to my point." He shifted closer to me on the couch, and his right hand settled comfortably on my knee. This, naturally, set off about three different red flags in my mind, but I was still trying to recover from the shock that I had endured no more than five minutes ago.

When I glanced up, I was over taken my a mass of red hair which smelled strongly of cinnamon, and I could feel his lips at my ear.

"I was thinking about a good review for tomorrow's paper." He whispered, and his breath ghosted across my cheek. I felt a blush heat the tips of my ears, and he chuckled softy. "What do you think?"

"I think that's…good." I managed, and felt his arms slide around my waist and pull me closer to him, and his head dipped so that his lips touched to my neck.

"That's good." He muttered. He gently stroked my back, purring softly. "Now, what would you say to you, me, and a five-star hotel tonight?"

"Um…"

"There'd probably be a limo involved…maybe some champagne…some desserts…"

I felt my eye lids slide to send my spiraling into a world of black, cinnamon flavored-ness. I was surprisingly relaxed, allowing myself to melt into his embrace. "I would say that you didn't need to bribe me to get me to say yes."

He chuckled again and pulled us both up. I didn't bother opening my eyes; instead I fell into his chest and let my arms hang lazily on his hips, ridiculously content.

"Do you plan on falling asleep on me before we even get to the fun part?" He whispered, pulling me away from him and standing me up.

I opened my eyes and smiled up at him, only one thought running through my mind: I wonder if he really is going to give me a good review. "Let's go."

Walking out of a relatively popular jazz club hand-in-hand with the most famous critic in the second largest city in the world will naturally draw some attention to you. Not only was there paparazzi, but there was the manager, there were fangirls, and there was a limo. A really big, expensive looking stretch limo. There were also lots and lots of question.

"Axel, who is this?"

"Mr. Russo, are you two together?"

"Is that the boy who was on the piano?"

"Hey, kid, are you two together?"

"Where are they going?"

"Mr. Russo, what are you going to do where you're going?"

Axel bent down to whisper in my ear, "Ignore them. It becomes second nature after a while."

"Are you implying that this is something I should get used to?" I whispered back, and he grinned at me.

The next morning, I woke up laying on the bare chest of a man I had only known for about twelve hours. He was slowly stroking my spine, humming Milonga del Angel very softly and reading the paper. I stretched, yawned, and glanced up at him.

"Anything good?"

He smiled softly. "Notorious music critic Axel Russo was seen last night leaving the Belladonna jazz club in the company of a small blonde boy. The owner and manager of the club, Mario Vellarez, claimed that he had no idea Mr. Russo was planning to leave with his "star performer."

"This kid is gold, man. Gold." He stated. "It doesn't surprise me in the least that this Axel guy wanted to nab him while he still could."

Sources say they saw Mr. Russo's limo pulling up in front of the St. Regis New York late last night. So who is this mystery boy? Paparazzi is waiting anxiously outside the hotel's front doors to answer that exact question."

I blinked and buried my face in his shoulder. "You see what you do?"

"I don't know, Rox. Looks like you're pretty famous to me."

I frowned and felt him kiss the top of my head. "Don't worry. We'll be fine."

"'We'll?'"

"Yeah. You know, you and I, me and you…" I looked up and saw him grin. "Did you know that, according to , the St. Regis New York is one of the most romantic, five-star hotels in the city?"

I smiled softly and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "I know now."

"So what do you want to do today, Roxy?"

"Anything you want, Mr. Russo. Anything you want."