[fieldbox="Sebastían Abelló; The Forgotten Artist, #485d7d, solid, 0, dk hasty tasty"]
Sebastían Abelló
"Just when I think I have learned how to live, life changes."
The air was crisp as it swept the streets of Rome. It wasn't too chilly as the month of October neared its close, but it did cool down a bit around nightfall. It was enough to chill Sebastían's bones though, for he wasn't wearing sufficient layers for the occasion. A worn down white t-shirt, an old vest, and some jeans that were slowly forming holes around the knees weren't nearly enough to maintain his body heat. Going from the comfortable 70s to the lower 50s wasn't a welcome surprise in this state, but it was what the man had to deal with.
The streets were his only home now.
Just another day in paradise, he thought to himself with a bitter smirk as he looked up to the sky. His irises were coated in dark chocolate, the stars above reflected inside them. Though they provided his eyes with some youthful shine as he gazed upon them, alone they appeared rather dull and empty. Their dark brown hue almost appeared black sometimes with how faded their light was.
Who can press any blame, though?
All they ever see is nothingness to begin with.
Sebastían was once a man of pride and a passion for art and knowledge. If you met him while he was still attending school, you'd wonder just how he became a man living off the lonesome and merciless streets. Academic achievements, paintings placed in Museums by his teachers each time he won a competition, and a friendly and outgoing personality to match; he was easily considered one of the most talented and well-liked people of his class. He can still distinctly remember when his art teacher, Mrs. Alescio, told him with such certainty that he'd be the next Michelangelo or Raphael.
For a while, he actually found himself believing it.
Let's just say those days are long gone.
Reminiscing the past made Sebastían feel incredibly bitter, and he found himself wishing to drown his sorrows. Passing pubs made resisting incredibly difficult, but the man didn't have any money to spend on a comforting drink anyways. He got by on nearly-empty bottles that most of the bars would throw out, but most didn't have enough to grant him the slightest buzz. He's developed quite the tolerance with how much he's indulged in hard liquor over the years, so a shot or two wasn't nearly enough to give him a satisfying fix.
Better than nothing, though, he thought to himself as he roamed around behind a pub. He could hear the music and chatter coming from inside the building, but the alley behind it was desolate. Not a soul to be seen—
Until he heard shouting.
"Lasciar andare di me!"* He heard a feminine voice call out, dragging his attention from the abandoned bottles, most of which didn't have a drop left anyways, to the source of the cries.
There was a young woman, most likely not a day over twenty three. Cowering over her was a much older man, seeming to be in his forties or so. His cheeks were rosy, probably due to a sufficient amount of alcohol he consumed over the course of the night. He was speaking to her in drunken slurs, but she didn't appear to be enjoying herself at all. Sebastían looked at them with his brows furrowed in pity, but he normally wasn't the type to get involved in a situation like that.
Perhaps it was the half full bottle of Grappa in the man's hand that changed his mind.
"Hey!" Sebastían called out, speaking in Italian so the man could clearly understand him. As the man turned hazily to face him, his face twisted in displeasure, Sebastían gave him a quick jab to the face. The two were about the same height, but it was clear that the drunkard weighed much more with that beer gut of his. Still, with the force of Sebastían's sober punch, and with the man already being off balance and not in his right mind to begin with, he knocked out quite easy. The impact did leave Sebastían's hand feeling sore, though. He shook it off.
"Grazie, grazie!"* The woman thanked Sebastían frantically, tears filling her bright green eyes. Not wanting to get involved more than he already was, he simply put up a hand and forced a smile across his lips.
"Prego,"* he spoke as he leaned over the unconscious man's torso. He gently pried the bottle from his hands, giving the girl he just saved a small wink.
"He's had enough, anyways. I'll take this off his hands."
Sebastían continued wandering the streets for a few more hours after that, feeling nice after downing the bottle he took from the drunkard behind the pub. His cheeks were developing a small red hue, and his eyes looked glossier than before. He had a carefree grin on his face, for the alcohol he consumed helped him forget all about the nostalgia that came with remembering his past.
Such potential you had.
All wasted.
Now since that thought decided to invade his mind, he went from chuckling to himself in intoxicated glee to brooding in silence. His brows furrowed with a mixture of anger and sadness, but the most prominent feeling of all wasn't exactly a feeling.
It was the lack of them.
He let out a deep sigh as he continued to roam around the city, but he knew now that it was nearing midnight that he had to find a place to stay for the night.
His dark irises roamed about the place in search for a comfortable and accessible sanctuary, but most of the doors he tried to open were locked tight. He only ever approached older, more desolate looking buildings, with hope that nobody was present within them. Eventually, he came across what looked to be a bookshop. He looked through the windows, and there wasn't a soul to be seen.
Must be closed up, he thought to himself as he began to search for a way inside. He knew he'd be gone before the sun rose again, so he wasn't afraid of getting caught spending the night there.
He began fiddling with the windows, but most were locked. However, as he went towards the back alleyway, he found another entrance.
This is probably locked, too—, he thought to himself, but to his pleasant surprise, the door opened.
Maybe there is a God after all.
He walked into the rather cramped, stuffy shop. There were books stacked very tightly on shelves, though some still didn't seem to fit. Some more were stacked on desks and the window sill. His guess was that maybe some visitors didn't put the book back where it belonged once they were done reading, or maybe the owner of the shop just didn't have time to tidy things up completely. It didn't matter to Sebastían, though. He just wanted to sleep.
His thoughts kept him awake, though.
Wanting to distract himself from them, he decided to pick up a book. The first one he found was The Count of Monte Cristo, the original French version. Sebastían was a man of many languages, contrary to his situation and appearance, so he picked it up and began reading with ease. It brought back memories of his school days, since he could recall having assignments related to this book. However, he was starting to feel less bitter. Instead, he decided to focus on how he felt whenever he first read the book—free, nothing to worry about but simple things like grades and getting your projects finished.
Those were the days, he thought as his world slowly fell to black.
His peace didn't last long, though.
BARK! BARK!
He could hear a ruckus erupting right in front of him. Being awakened from a deep slumber, he wasn't prepared for the sudden howling being thrown his way. The book in his hand fell off his lap as he shook back to life, and he completely fell out of the chair he had passed out in.
"W-What on Ear—" he began to say as he toppled over onto the floor. His speech was interrupted, though, as the dog that appeared to be interrogating him for a moment, came up and began licking his face instead.
For reasons Sebastían didn't understand, the bloodhound before him decided to trade the barking for affection instead. He rubbed his nose under Sebastían's wrist, bringing Sebastían's hand onto his head. Sebastían's gaze flickered back and forth in confusion for a moment, but he figured that, if the dog wasn't barking anymore, he just might be in the clear.
"Good boy," he spoke to the dog in a gentle murmur as he sat up on his knees and patted his head, fluffing his floppy ears up as he brought his hands around the affectionate creature's face. For the first time in a long time, a genuine, sober smile spread across Sebastían's lips as the hound panted contently. Maybe it was because he was feeling pure, innocent affection for the first time in forever?
Who knew a dog could bring more comfort than a bottle of Grappa or Wine.
Or, at least, he came pretty damn close.
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