[C] Stray Dog

It was a normal spring evening in Genoa Italy. One that would be overlooked by many. For one boy though, this would be a day he remembered for the rest of his life.

The streets of the city were busy, and most would overlook the young teenager hidden in the shadows of an alley way. The alley was in between a restaurant, and the boy was digging in the dumpster for leftovers that people often left behind on their plate.

It was shameful, and he looked like a disgrace. His poofy brunette hair was messy and frazzled. He had dark circles under his pale blue eyes, and he looked thin. He wore a ratty pair of jeans, an old pair of sneakers, and a blue oversized jacket, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he searched for food.

One wouldn’t have been able to guess that this young man actually had a home to go back to. Not just any home either, but a mansion at that. At many times he was tempted to return to his home, to his mother and his sisters. But the man that lived there, his step-father, made him shove such temptations away.

No, he was never going back to that man’s home. He wasn’t wanted there by his mother’s husband, and even though she had pleaded with him to not go, he did. And even though he was reduced to searching the dumpsters for food, it was better than having to live with that man.

He’d been homeless for about a month now, and was starting to get used to hiding away and living like a stray dog. He’d seen his face on multiple missing person’s ads, and made a point to try and stay more in the background of things.

It helped that in the posters, he was bright eyed and clean, nothing like how he looked now.  One wouldn't see the clean cut boy in the pictures and think it was the same grubby street rat lurking near alleyway dumpsters.  

Finally he found a breadstick that someone had tossed out. It wasn’t even eaten off of! A big smile came to the teen's lips as he took it, padding back and leaning against the wall. He slid down into a sitting position and then sunk his teeth into the crumbling bread. It was cold by now but still decently fresh, and the young man felt like it was his lucky night to have been able to find it.

Italy was a very different country to his homeland. Even in early spring, the Wolf could feel himself overheating. The ice and snow he'd lived in for centuries was nothing like the overbearing sun that Italy boasted.

Irritated and a little sweaty after a morning out wandering the town, finding some reprieve from the heat in a gelato vendor, Zakhar ambled over streets.

It was well into the riposo period, and the streets were almost empty.

They were empty enough that, as he was strolling past an alley, he could distinctly hear the scuffling from within the alley. A sound quiet enough that, had there been others on the street, he perhaps wouldn't have registered the noise.

His head raised in milk interest as his pace slowed on his approach. His feet scuffed the pavement, kicking a stray cent coin and sending it skidding across the concrete.

His head tipped and the flowing locks of his dark hair followed the movements as his single seeing eye took in the sight in front of him. Thin lips pressed together, shifting his puckered scarred skin over a sharp cheekbone.

With his normal human senses he was oblivious that someone was watching him.

He tried to eat the bread stick slowly, to savor it. Even though he had found it in a dumpster, the fact that he was the only one to take a bite out of made it all the more special.

But soon it was gone and all the boy could do was sit alone again in the back alley way. He brought his knees up to his chest and pulled an mp3 player out of his jean pocket.

He put the small headphones in his ears and flicked the mp3 on, letting his music engulf him. It was his only possession other than the clothes on his back, the only thing he knew he truly couldn't live without. He was sure he'd go mad without the ability to disconnect from his surroundings and let himself be whisked away by the songs it contained.

His stomach rumbled, still hungry and now feeling teased at having had bit of something to eat, but not near enough for a young man of his size.

He furrowed his brow but tried to ignore his hunger as he let the music push away all physical senses and take him into a world far different than his own.

It didn't take long for Zakhar's sharp eye to capture the situation.

The boy was homeless. He knew that dejected slump of shoulders, the way the boy curled in on himself, tried to block out the world. Centuries ago that had been him, moving onto a new city, alone and with little more than what his pockets could hold.

The polished leather of a thick boot, a bad choice of footwear in a place so hot but not something Zakhar would ever compromise on no matter how uncomfortable he felt, tapped against the concrete once, twice.

A deep grunt sounded in the back of the broad man's throat as he twisted on the ball of his foot and took two long strides into the alley, stopping just as the edge of his shadow cast over Lino's curled up body.

Lino furrowed his brow, his head leaned back against the wall of the building. The music was turned out loud in his ears as he tried to block everything out, making it so he couldn't hear a thing.

When Zakhar approached, he didn't see it or hear it. He had no idea what it was, but the atmosphere around them shifted. Without really thinking about it, he let out a soft sigh and peaked his eyes open to reassess his surroundings.

He froze when he saw the man watching him.

In a second he stood up, pulling the headphones out of his ears.

"Mi dispiace se questo è il vostro ristorante, non stavo cercando di disturbarla."He rambled, and while his voice was smooth and tenor, there was an air of nervousness to it as well. He didn't want this man to call the police on him for being suspicious.

___________________________________________

"I'm sorry if this is your restaurant, I wasn't trying to bother you."

((Because I'm lazy, all speech from now on is going to be Italian, unless otherwise stated))

Zakhar followed the boy's movements and tipped his head to the side in a faintly canine way when he spoke. He took a long moment to translate the nervous babble, and when he replied his speech was broken. Clearly he wasn't fluent, though he knew enough of the language to convey the point he was trying to make.

"You are homeless." His voice was deep and it carried with it a lilt favouring and weighing down the vowels in his words. "Streets make man strong, but no place for anyone."