Limerence (Famous Young Things): Chapter 22

Along with the announcement of the spring/summer ballet is the news that there will be no Christmas show performed by the company this year. The under school is going to be doing the Christmas show for the first time. The ticket prices will be lower and the shows shorter, but Benedict has sold it to the board as a perfect opportunity to showcase some of the up-and-coming talent and the leads and soloists of the future. They’re doing a four-week run from mid-December to mid-January.

What it means for us, is an extended Christmas break. A gift, given it will lead into four months of solid and intense rehearsal before the show opens on May 1st. The show will initially run for four months. If the reviews are good and tickets sell, then there is talk of a tour. My contract doesn’t extend as far as that, but we will cross that bridge when we get there.

Producing a brand-new ballet is different from choreographing an existing one. There is a skeleton in a reproduction, and the dancers and choreographers only need weave the new show’s body around that. This—creating an original—is like conjuring something from thin air, a magic trick, and it’s exciting to be a part of. I’ve never done an original show before, and nothing even remotely gay. I want to talk about it with someone, someone who understands ballet and what it means to have Felix and me together, leading this thing; the first of its kind.

I want to talk to Felix about it.

Instead, I talk to Hana. Hana who is smiling a huge warm smile from her chair and could not be happier about how this has turned out.

“Perhaps this move here, throwing off the shackles of Rome, is exactly what you needed. Perhaps it was the next part of your healing journey. Now you are dancing in this cultural phenomenon, with Felix, and it is on your own terms.”

I smile, feeling lighter than I have in months. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You talked a little about feeling constrained there, in Rome. That you felt almost like an outsider when you returned from America, your Italian had faded, your accent different. How does that compare with how you feel here in London.”

“I mean, I’m still an outsider here. I think I’m destined to be an outsider wherever I go.” I run a hand through my hair and turn to look out the window. Outside, the night sky is a deep black velvet, bright amber diamonds of the city sparkling. “I was an outsider in San Francisco when I went there. I’m an outsider when I go home to my family’s for Christmas.” I look at her. “That’s weird, right? How I feel like an outsider in my own family.”

She gives me a kind, patient sort of look. “Not at all. Many people feel like outsiders within their families, Nico, for all sorts of reasons. Sexuality, politics, inter-family grievances. All of it is valid.”

“I resent them,” I say, harshly. “Because if I didn’t go, I’d be accused of not caring, of creating distance, but when I’m there it’s like they don’t even see me. I’m this odd, out-of-place thing that doesn’t belong. Not even there.”

She sighs and sits forward, closing the distance between us in the room.

“And this is a valid feeling for someone who went through what you did at such a young age. Carrying this trauma with you that you don’t feel ready to share with them isn’t helping the disassociation you feel when you’re around your family. Do you feel like because they don’t know this part of you, this part that has shaped you so… intrinsically… it is as though they don’t know you at all?”

“Yes. But it’s because they don’t know me that I can’t share it with them. There’s no one except you that I can even talk to about this.”

“We spoke last time about Porzia being the one you felt would most likely listen, would hear you if you talked to her about this. Do you still feel that way?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Por would listen. But she would… she’d be upset.”

“That you never told her sooner?”

I shake my head. “No. That it happened. I think she’d find some way to blame herself, to feel guilty about it. I don’t want that.”

Hana nods. “I think she would be upset that it happened to you, yes. That is a normal, empathetic reaction. But I also think the support it would give you, that she could give you, would be invaluable.”

I think about this. Por had always seen herself as my protector. We were the closest in age, less than a year between us, but she’d always acted like the gap was far wider. She’d listen and then she’d cry and then she’d want to kill him. As he was already dead, I no longer had to worry about that.

“I’ll think about it. I’ll see her at Christmas, so I’ll think about talking to her.” It’s partly a lie; I would never talk to her about it at Christmas. But I will see her, and I will think about it, so I don’t feel too badly about it.

Hana nods, pleased. “Good, Nico. Really good.”



When I get back to the apartment, I almost jump out of my skin when I see Felix sitting on the floor outside my front door. Cross-legged and wearing over-ear headphones, he’s watching something avidly on his phone, so doesn’t notice me. I watch him a moment while I can, drinking in that perfect profile of his: high cheekbones, long, straight nose, full lips, sharp jaw. I can only imagine he’s here to try his luck at asking me to pull out of the show again, but as I walk closer and he turns his head, eyes lighting up appreciatively, I wonder if maybe that’s not it at all. He rises, graceful and fluid, to his feet.

“Where were you?” he asks, tugging off his headphones so they sit around his neck.

His tone makes me smile, so I decide to be entirely honest.

“I had an appointment with my therapist.”

This, I can tell, surprises him. A brief flicker of shock moves over his eyes. Then he says, “I knew you were fucked up in the head.”

“Oh, you’ve no idea, princess.” I slide my key into the lock and turn it, pushing open the front door. I hold it open for him, but he hesitates a moment before stepping over the entrance into my apartment. He doesn’t look happy as he follows me into the living room and dumps his bag on the floor by the couch.

“You hungry?” I ask, setting the grocery bag on the kitchen counter.

“I’m not here for dinner, Savini.”

“Okay. What are you here for?” I turn to settle back against the counter, folding my arms as I wait for him to elaborate. Like every other time we’re alone together, I feel alight with anticipation, my heart beating quicker in my chest. “Wait, let me guess, you missed me,” I try.

“You wish.”

“Okay, you’re here to beg me to pull out of the show and go back to Rome?”

“I wouldn’t beg you for anything.”

“Funny, because I remember you begging quite convincingly the other night…” I let my gaze wander across the room towards the bedroom.

“That’s going to get boring really bloody quick, you know? Reminding me of things I’m not in the slightest bit embarrassed about. I like being fucked. I like taking cock. And I will beg for it in the moment, yes.” He shrugs. “It doesn’t mean you’re special. Ask anyone I’ve slept with; it’s who I am in bed.” This causes a hot spit of jealousy to hiss in the pit of me, nostrils flaring as I glare at him.

“What are you doing here, Felix?”

His mouth quirks in amusement, as though he knows he’s gotten to me, far easier than I got to him, too.

“I think we should fuck again,” he says nonchalantly, as though he’s picking out which filling he wants on his sub.

I blink. “Pardon?”

He removes his headphones and sets them down on the coffee table, then reaches for his hoodie and pulls it over his head.

“You heard me. I think now with the production, and in order for us to work together the way we’re going to have to, I need to get to a point where I’m not constantly thinking about your cock.” He flicks his eyes to mine, a little panicked, as though he’s just realised what he said. “That’s not to say I’m thinking about it all the time. I mean, right this second I am because it’s literally right there and we’re talking about it, but generally, I am not thinking about it.”

“You literally just said you want to get to a point where you’re not constantly thinking about it.”

His cheeks flush a delectable rose pink. “Yeah, well, whatever. Friday was weird and unexpected and because of that, I’ve not been able to properly process what happened. What? Stop fucking looking at me like that.”

I try and bite back my smile but it’s impossible. He’s still pink, cheeks and ears and a little on his nose. “Were you thinking about my cock in practice today?”

“Well, yes, because you were wearing tights and it’s always worse when you’re in tights, and also because I knew I was gonna come here tonight and suggest this. So, yeah, I was thinking about it.”

For some stupid as shit reason, I ask, “Where’s Christian tonight?”

He reacts as though I’ve tossed a glass of cold water over his face.

“What?”

I shrug but I feel anything but blasé about it. I’m not even sure why I’m asking. Okay, that’s a lie, I know why I’m asking. I’m just not sure if I’m going to enjoy the answer when it comes. “Your… lover. Can’t he help you process what happened? Or is it specifically me you need for this?”

A dangerous smile spreads over Felix’s mouth. “Oh, please. Not you fishing for fucking compliments? Not Nico Savini?” He covers his mouth with his hand, stifling a laugh. “This is too good. This is beautiful actually.” When he stalks toward me, he has a look of pure menace on his face. He stops about an inch away. We’re not touching, but I can feel the warmth of his body and smell the scent of his shower gel, like a forest heavy with rain. “He’s in New York. But don’t worry, he doesn’t have to know,” Felix says softly. My eyes watch his lips as they move. “No one does.”

“Oh, so you want me to be your dirty little secret the way you’re his?”

Something almost vulnerable flickers in his eyes and then he shrugs, showing me his teeth as he scrapes them over his lower lip. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be, baby.” It rings faintly hollow, like this is an act he’s used to putting on. It probably works too. It is working. This is Felix, and this is me. And he’s just admitted he hasn’t stopped thinking about me. Okay, about my cock, specifically, but I’m not about to squander that sort of opportunity. I reach out and take hold of his chin, keeping his head in place as I bring my mouth to his.

“Whatever I want?” I whisper.

His pupils dilate and I see his throat hitch. “Yeah. I’ll even call you daddy if you want.”

“Not necessary.”

“Spoilsport.”

“You know what I want, Felix?”

He’s panting a little. “What?”

Our mouths are almost touching now, when I lick my tongue over his upper lip. Felix’s lips part and he tries, unsuccessfully, to kiss me.

“I want you to sit down on the couch and let me make you some dinner.” My hand drops away, and I leave him breathing hard as I turn back to the groceries. “Pasta okay? It’s gluten-free.”

When I glance over my shoulder, I see him glaring at me, furious. Then, like a petulant teenager, he huffs loudly and stomps back into the living room. Over the half wall, I watch him throw himself onto the couch, lift the remote, and point it at the TV.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask as I set the water on to boil.

“Yeah, a colour-changing sunset margarita. Heavy on the pea-infused tequila.”

“A what?”

“Water is fine. Unless you have a light Australian rosé.”

“Water it is. I’ll make sure I have some of your favourite wine in for the next time you come over.” I wink as I toss him a bottle of water. “Catch.”

He glares at me before twisting off the cap.

I cook while he watches some quiz show in the living room—one that appears to be based around a large coin-pushing machine. He’s mainly silent but occasionally says correct answers aloud and calls the contestants idiots when they’re wrong.

It’s a simple tomato-based sauce, one my mother used to make us four nights a week when we lived in San Francisco, which requires four ingredients and very little skill.

When it’s about ready to plate up, something occurs to me.

“Ah, do you have any allergies I should know about?”

Without looking away from the TV, Felix says, “You want the full list or the abridged version?”

I glance at the pan. “I’ve got tomato, anchovies, garlic, and parmesan here. Any of those going to kill you?”

He shakes his head. “Unfortunately not.”

Chuckling, I heap spaghetti tossed in olive oil onto the plate first and then spoon over the sauce and top with a few shavings of parm. Then I set it on the breakfast bar next to a spoon and fork.

“I won’t get my deposit back if you get this on the couch,” I tell him. Without a word, he stands and comes to slide onto the stool across from me and lifts his fork. He plays with the pasta for a minute, carefully mixing the sauce into the spaghetti, before wrapping a small bundle around his fork. He stares at it a long time before lifting it to his mouth. I hold my breath.

As soon as his mouth closes around it, his eyes flick to mine, widening a little in surprise before he begins to chew in earnest. He’s a few heaped forkfuls in before he speaks.

“So, you’re like a chef or something?”

“No. Where I’m from, they take you aside in second grade and teach you how to make that. It’s right before all the Italian hetero-macho lessons.” He stares at me a moment before he understands I’m being very unserious.

He rolls his eyes. “Dick.”

“Holy shit, you really can’t stop thinking about it.”

He smiles, eyes lightening as the gold bursts through the soft green-brown. His next mouthful has him leaning over the bowl and sucking the string of pasta through pouted lips. I watch, transfixed.

“So, do you really see a therapist?” he asks, lifting his water. There’s genuine curiosity in his gaze. It’s not as though it’s a secret. I mean, it is to my family, but a lot of things are a secret to them. Sofia knew, and Romasco knew. I’m not ashamed of it.

“I do.”

The look of curiosity deepens. “What for?”

“You want the full list or the abridged version?”

He smiles, soft and startlingly sincere.

“Whatever you feel like sharing,” he says with a shrug.

“See, that’s what I see her for. So I can avoid talking about it with the people close to me.”

“Eh, we’re not close, Savini. I fucking hate you.”

“I meant physically.” I reach out and jab my finger into his bicep. “Closest person on Earth to me right now, Taylor-Brooke.”

“Yeah, well, I hate it. Even if you can cook.”

When the mood shifts into easy silence I say, “I started seeing a therapist almost three years ago.”

His eyes narrow a little and I know he’s curious about this timeline as it was before I left Romasco.

“You find it helpful, then?”

I nod, taking a sip of water. “I do. It helps me make sense of a lot of things. Emotions mainly, things men traditionally aren’t very good at. Especially Italian men.” This particular stereotype isn’t actually too far off the mark.

He nods and looks back down at his food.

He’s clearly enjoying the pasta, but his plate is still three-quarters full of spaghetti, while mine is almost cleared. I’ve been watching him scrape up the sauce with his fork and eat that in small kitten licks. It’s a bit of a turn-on.

“I’m enjoying it,” he says when he catches me staring, and then as though to prove this, he loads his fork and shoves the mound into his mouth.

“Maybe next time we can go out somewhere and eat,” I say, causing Felix to choke on his food. When he begins coughing, he lifts his water again to clear his throat.

“We’re not going on a fucking date,” he manages. “That’s not… we’re not doing that.”

“Give me one reason why not,” I say. “And don’t say because you hate me, because that is also getting boring. It’s also not true or you wouldn’t be here having dinner with me.”

He sets down his fork and narrows his eyes at me. “This is a means to an end. I’m not having dinner with you.”

I point at his bowl. “Dinner.” And then at myself. “Me. Sorry, princess, but you’re very much having dinner with me.”

“Yeah, well, newsflash, I had dinner with my father last week and there’s literally no one on Earth I hate more than him. I can eat food next to you and very much hate you at the same time.”

“Wait, you don’t hate me as much as you hate your father?” I grin.

“Oh, it’s a really low fucking bar, babe, I wouldn’t look so delighted about it.” He brings his hand up, palm down, and indicates a height a tad shorter than himself. “We’re talking Hitler, my father, and then you.”

“‘Babe’? Oh, I like that.”

“You’re such a prick.”

“And you’re really cute when you’re pissed. Your cheeks go baby-girl pink, did you know that? Makes your freckles pop.”

“Stop fucking talking.”

I shove my last mouthful of pasta between my lips, smiling even as I chew, watching his cheeks turn even pinker.