Head thick with fog, mouth tasting like old milk and whiskey, clothes half removed and body sprawled across his ruffled bed, Bastiaan awoke only because the sun decided to make her presence known through his eyelids. Usually, he was coherent enough to remember to shut his black-out curtains after depositing himself in his bed- but last night had been open mic night and Bastiaan had not made it back to his room till the sun had already began to rise.
The grogginess of a night spent under the influence of cigars and whiskey made movement feel like the tipping of a ship, but Bastiaan forced his body off the sweaty sheets in order to remove his half unbuttoned shirt. It looked as if he tried to take care of himself last night- his shoes were off, pants discarded by the door, but one sock and shirt had been too much of a hassle for his whiskey-melted brain. A quick check to his phone revealed that it was nearing two in the afternoon, generally Bass's wake-up time in his new routine at Luna Brilla.
He arrived her three months ago, dark suit and sunglasses making him stick out like a sore thumb in the crazy colors and patchwork furniture of the hostel. Bastiaan had no idea why this was where his publisher had stuck him- all he received was an email with tickets and directions to the prepaid hostel. He was meant to stay here until he finished his second book- which he had not even begin to think about writing, as he was enjoying living off the publishers dime and getting away from the hectic life he lived back in the city. Luna Brilla allowed him to live his life on his own time- he woke hours past noon, stayed up till the sun rose, drank enough whiskey that forced the bar to keep a stock just for him, and payed no attention to his editors emails and letters. It was a wonder that hadn't kick him to the curb and let him dwindle away- Bastiaan figured it had something to do with the massive following that had not let up since his book release. Some how his fame out surpassed the success of his book, creating a following of deranged fans, paparazzi, and general assholes of the celebrity world. Bastiaans ability to consume massive amounts of whiskey and tendency to find a fight wherever he went meant that he was constantly being plastered across celebrity shit-magazines and websites. All these things made life miserable for him, but the fame brought enough book sales that left his publishers salivating for more.
Here in Budapest, Bastiaan flew under the radar. There were fans here and there, but generally people did not approach him nearly as much as back home. It was a relief to finally be somewhere where the success of his book was more popular then his personal fame. He was content to live out the rest of his life here- he could keep up this second-book-limbo for years without even contemplating sitting down to write. Bastiaan loved that he had gone back to his original form of writing, back before he knew how to string together sentences properly. The people that came and went from Luna Brilla had already allowed him to fill up six journals since he arrived. But writing, actually bringing together all these jumbled thoughts in a cohesive structured story, was something Bastiaan had not attempted since the big book release. He would say he had a severe case of writers block, but that was just an excuse writers used in order to get away with not doing their job. No, Bastiaan's choice to not write was purely his own- maybe it had to do with his divorce, maybe it had to do with the shock of fame he reluctantly had to accept. Either way, Bastiaan had no interest in releasing another book anytime soon. But his publisher insisted, so here he was, basking in the afternoon sunlight of Budapest, wearing boxers, one sock, a half buttoned shirt, and a nasty hang over.
The warm water of the shower did wonders for his muddled mind- he was able to actually move about without tripping on all the shit lying around his room. Thankfully, his publisher had nabbed him one of the larger suits in Luna Brilla. Seeing as he was staying an inevitably long time, the larger space was something he greatly appareciated. Bastion had never been good at keeping himself tidy, so most of the contents of his suitcase were discarded in piles across the room or hanging out of the small dresser. He nabbed a clean black polo from his laundry pile, pulled on a pair of khaki colored slacks, and dug about for his brown leather loafers he had been wearing last night. He stopped back into the bathroom quickly to brush his teeth and run his usual product in his wet hair before grabbing his journal and keys and exiting the room.
Luna Brilla was usually in an afternoon lull when he finally roused himself, employees either on break or busy with work other then customers, so he quickly exited the hostel in order to find himself some lunch. He tracked down his usual cafe, ordered an espresso, sandwich, and salad, and settled in a small table on their street side seating area. Bastion spent the next few hours lost in his writing- recording the tourists, native Hungarians, conversations, and antics of the busy street. At around 4 he switched over to whiskey and settled back in his seat, still watching but more interested in his thoughts then words. He knew that Luna Brilla would be warming up soon- most of the employees would be moving to the bar, which was exactly where Bastiaan planned to spend his evening yet again.
So he packed up and headed from one bar to the next.
Usually Bastiaan arrived early enough that he could settled into the same seat on the far side of the bar, a place that allowed him easy access to the bartenders and a good view of the room. Perched on the barstool, Bastiaan waved down one of the bartenders and signaled for a drink- they knew that he lived on a straight diet of pure whiskey by now. While he waited he let his eyes graze over the gathered travelers, his mind conjuring up where each of them might have come from and what there story could be. Generally, Bastiaan played this game with everyone he met- he actually had a difficult time separating his made up versions with the real people. But why actually know someone when you could create a far more interesting character for them in your own head? Charlotte used to tell him that was why he never had any friends other then her, but Bastiaan couldn't help his minds natural fixations.
Light blue eyes flickered back to the bartender as he returned with his drink, a nod of thanks his only acknowledgement to the boy. Bastiaan knew most the bartenders- Max, the lively blue eyed brat, was one of those people Bastiaan could only handle with a drink in hand. He found his loud brashness annoying, though oddly charming. While Bastiaan had a tendency to ignore those that made his jaw twitch with irritation, he found that Max's ability to talk none stop about himself was actually the kind of person that he enjoyed sitting across the bar from. He had dozens of pages filled with notes about to overzealous dog-like personality, though Bastiaan had no idea what he would ever do with a character like that. Perhaps kill him off, something heart wrenching and pathetic that made people cry out of pity. Max looked like someone that had a more interesting story then the average young hostel worker, though Bastiaan had yet to pry more then surface deep.
"Max, I don't think you ever told me where you are from" He in his crisp dutch accented english, before taking a healthy gulp of the spicy brown liquid, critical eyes hungry in their appraisal of the other.