Alexandria’s Genesis – 2; Elixir Bayne

Wilkinson didn’t have much to do except ramble on in some language. Romanian I think. Despite my inability to speak or remember any of it, Elixir was parlaying the words perfectly, sometimes even before they left the tutor’s mouth. Maybe I got his accent wrong? I’ve never met an English person. I’ve seen them on TV and everything but this is the real deal. And he was so handsome.

Like those Grecian statues you see, towering in neatly mowed lawns, every inch of them perfect. And I mean, every inch, which left little to my imagination. It was impossible not to steal a glance at his crotch, and I immediately regretted it as my attire for that day was a pair of very revealing black jeans littered with chain and buckles. The slight bulge beneath Elixir’s belt buckle sent my mind into madness, and the tiny voice of my conscience screamed at me not to fuck things up by being irrational.

As I had expected, Wilkinson was finally summoned from the room in that ‘duty calls’ fashion, and the whole room let out a sigh of relief.

Elixir seemed to want to make me as nervous as sin, by striking up a conversation immediately,
“So where are you from originally?” That accent was driving me crazy, and I had to take a long breath to relax. As calmly as possible, I replied, “Montana.” I didn’t want to say anymore than that out of awkwardness, but I soon kicked myself inside, shouting at my conscience to fuck off, that staying silent would get me nowhere.

“How about you? How do you speak Romanian so well when you’re English?”, I questioned. Idly, he leant back onto the chair, one elbow rested on the corner of mine. Avoiding contact would’ve been ideal for me, however, I didn’t want him to think me as a freak or something.

“Tricks of the trade, my friend.”, he soothed, the voice derived of enthusiasm, but strangely enthralling, “Most of my family are from Romania.”

“Where the vampires come from?”, I asked, trying to continue a casual conversation, but the comment made Elixir’s lips crack into a wide smile, and he chuckled quietly through his nose. He rather reminded me of the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland; different, peculiar, but aristocratically charming with the all but faux smile.

I hated smiling; my braces made me look about six, but the cute dimples in my cheeks evened them out. Still, if no braces meant no dimples, I wouldn’t care as long as I didn’t have two fucking rail roads in my mouth…

“What’s your story?”, he suddenly asked, attempting to delve deeper inside me, theoretically that is.