Forbidden (BoyxBoy)

Chapter II: Repeating History

Alaric.

"You're seriously going back to that dump this year?" Kathleen asked from where she was lounging on my sofa, sipping at a her short glass of sloe gin. Leaning back in my armchair and tucking a bookmark between the pages of Wuthering Heights, I snapped the book shut and gave her an impatient look. 

"I have a couple more years here before my cover runs out, and I plan on graduating high school." I retorted flippantly. She raised her eyebrows at me and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. The judgement in her eyes was palpable. 

"Because you totally haven't done that before." She mused sarcastically, hazarding another long sip of her drink. I shook my head at her and returned my attention to the pages, eager to move on from this conversation. In split seconds Kathleen was in front of me, snatching the book from my hands and spreading it open in one hand elegantly, the other not spilling a drop of alcohol.

"Whatever souls are made of, his and mine are the same...Wuthering Heights? When will high schools start being a little bit more original with their choice of literature?" She crooned, her dilated pupils darting across the pages. 

"It's a classic, Kathleen." I argued, crossing my arms over my chest. In truth, I had read it cover to cover a dozen times over the last century, but I found it an intriguing story and I liked to stay on top of school work. 

"Ugh. The Brontë's were boring." She scoffed, flipping the book over to read the author's name. "Emily... was she shy one or the weirdo?"

"I quite liked the Brontë sisters, they were very ahead of their time. And Emily was not a 'weirdo', she was just an eccentric." I argued, fondly remembering the few years I'd spent in Yorkshire in the 19th century. Kathleen had visited me only briefly in that lifetime, leaving rather abruptly after discovering that her fur coats were built more for fashion than warmth. She couldn't bear to stay and wear an actually functional jacket, and left their countryside manor for the bustling streets of London. I smiled at the memory.

"Whatever, I still don't get why you're reading it again, or why you even bother going back to school." She shrugged, tossing the book back to me. She twisted a strand of her pale, silvery-blonde hair around her finger, her cavernously black eyes studying me intently. 

Kathleen and I met in London, in 1476, through our mutual friend Geoffrey Chaucer, and we'd remained friends ever since. We separated and reunited regularly throughout the centuries, and every time we did, we usually ended up having the same points of disagreement. I wanted to learn, to keep up with humanity and it's endeavours, and to observe people my own corporeal age. Kathleen wanted to party and drink and indulge in the fineries of life. She could get away with it too, having been turned at the age of twenty-three. With the body of a eighteen year-old, I was somewhat limited without a fake I.D. and tailored clothes. 

Although Geoffrey Chaucer was a high-profile kind of guy, I rarely associated with his sort. Kathleen liked to collect people she deemed important or fantastically unique. I'd made friends with the occasional writer or artist, but they were mostly loners like me who were only appreciated posthumously. Kathleen, on the other hand, had a history with kings and queens (including an affair with Louis XIV), infamous artists and politicians. 

"As I said, I like it." I insisted, smoothing the ruffled pages where the book had landed haphazardly on my lap. She rolled her eyes and sped back to her spot on the couch, her body becoming a smudge in my vision as she moved. Over the centuries, I had grown accustomed to moving at the leisurely pace of humans, and I liked the calm serenity of moving at the slower speed. Kathleen saw it as inefficient, and almost always moved with vampire speed when not in public. 

"You're a peculiar old bugger." She huffed, finishing her drink and setting the crystal glass on the coffee table in front of her. She looked around for a few minutes, clearly disapproving of my choice of residence in this town. Kathleen's own house for the next few years was a luxury warehouse loft in Manhattan, complete with it's own original Jackson Pollock. I prefered to purchase small spaces wherever I travelled, although I kept a permanent home in the Welsh countryside where I was born. 

This little flat was the second story of a subdivided house, with lead-paned windows that looked directly out onto the street below, and creaky hardwood floors that hadn't been varnished in years. I rented it from the lady that lived downstairs and who often made a point of telling me that she liked seeing "a young man behave so wonderfully on his own". Of course, she believed that my absent parents were the ones paying the rent and sending their teenage son cheques to make do. 

The furniture was a mish-mash of my favourite things I'd collected over the years, including a mid-century modern leather sofa I'd bought in the 1970's, a writing desk from 16th century england and a pot plant from IKEA. 

"And yet you still come to visit me every couple of years." I teased back at her. Clearly beaten, she threw her head back onto the couch, her near-white hair pooling around her head. In this lifetime she'd taken to wearing leather jackets and lots of crystal necklaces, which made her hair look like moonlight against the darkness. 

"I guess I'm a sucker for punishment. Which would make two of us, seeing as I can't persuade you dropout of school and come with me on an impromptu vacation?" She raised her eyebrows at me in suggestion, but her face collapsed when I laughed and shook my head. 

"My answer remains a no." I replied defiantly. 

"Fuck. I hear that Cuba is nice this time of year." She sighed wistfully, crossing her arms behind her head leisurely. I wondered how long it would take before she got bored of my life in Virginia and rushed back to Manhattan. 

"I'm sure Cuba will still be there next year." I assured her gently, picking up on the disappointment in her face. She nodded her head curtly and flashed a dazzling smile in my direction, clearly appeased. She didn't wait for me to say anything more, instead reaching for the television remote on the coffee table putting on a movie. 

"I love this one." I grinned as Twilight started playing on the screen.

"I know right, it's hilarious." She snorted in reply, nestling her body further down into the sofa. "I love being a vampire in the 21st century."