Limerence (Famous Young Things): Chapter 9

“

ow, you look like death warmed up,” Ava remarks as she practically pirouettes into the kitchen. “What time are the cleaners getting here?”

“In an hour. Are you going out?”

“Just for a walk to clear my head.”

From where I’m sitting, her head looks remarkably clear. In fact, her whole mood is far too light and breezy. I raise an eyebrow, suspicious.

“Why aren’t you hungover?”

“Because, my darling, my water-to-alcohol ratio was in the sensible zone. And I ate.”

I’m not buying it.

“Did you get laid?” I study her carefully. There’s a literal skip in her step as she moves across the kitchen to get out the blender.

“Not yet, but I’m hopeful. Always hopeful.”

“Did you get off with someone last night? Did I miss that?”

She’s tipping blueberries into the receptacle.

“I had a date.”

I blink in confusion. “When? This morning? It’s 10am.” I’m so confused, and my brain feels like candy floss, spun out and wispy.

“Last night.” She’s smiling, and even that makes me feel faintly ill. Jealousy, resentment, and regret at how much I drank last night bubbles up in my gut, joining the general nausea.

“I don’t get it.”

“We left your party and went and got some food.”

“You did what?”

“Oh, come on. You didn’t notice. You were too busy shoving your tongue down Damen’s throat. Or was it Rufus? Or Samuel?”

“It was my birthday,” I defend. “Anyway, there were all of four straight men here last night and two, technically, three of them are married so who the hell are you sneaking away from my party to eat out?”

She’s pouring coconut water into the blender now and I only have a split second of warning before she hits the button. I stick my fingers into my ears. Ava is saying something but I can’t hear it over the noise.

I shake my head. The noise stops.

“… be weird about it but I feel like since I haven’t been laid in so long and you love me and want me to be happy, and sexually fulfilled, then you should remember that.”

My brain is barely functioning let alone processing a word she’s saying. I lift my water and drink.

“What are you talking about?” I say when I’ve drained the glass. “Why would I be weird about it? Unless it’s Tim. Because he’s literally caring for his dying wife right now and that would be a level of desperation never before seen, even for you.”

“Christ, you don’t think much of me, do you?” She looks horrified. “You think I’d fuck Tim? He’s a fucking accountant, Felix. Give me some credit please.”

I can’t help but laugh. But even that fucking hurts.

“Okay, fine, you have some taste and decency. So, who is it then?”

She hits the blender button again without warning, her mouth moving in the shape of a name I can’t hear. I can’t even bring myself to shout over the noise, so I just wait until it goes blissfully silent.

“It’s Nico,” she says. His name swims into the space about as welcome as the sound of the blender.

“You are joking?” I say. “Because a second ago we just established that you had some taste and decency and now you’re hitting me with this?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“That’s not news, Ava. This is. You fucking Nicoló Savini IS.”

“I’m not fucking him,” she says, then, “not yet at least.”

There’s a weird note of tension in my gut, nausea too, but that’s unrelated. I don’t like this. Because I don’t like him. I really don’t like him. I hate him.

I point out, because clearly she’s forgotten, “You’ve said for years you don’t even find him hot.”

“Well, that’s because you hated him, and it didn’t seem like a big lie to tell.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Now, he’s here, and well, you don’t seem to hate him quite as much as you used to and so…”

“Oh, I still hate him. The reason I’m playing nice is because Ben asked me to, and it will hurt more when I fuck him over and get lead.” Okay, it’s partly a lie. I’m not sure I still hate Nico. Yesterday, during that interview, I’d seen something, some crack in that cunty, arrogant exterior and it had been soft inside. Warm, too, maybe. It’s what pushed me to invite him last night. But now, this, him and Ava. Fucking. In the house I live in. Through the fucking wall. No. Absolutely not.

“Well, when he comes over you can play nice to him here too.”

“Are you doing this just to piss me off?”

She gives me a look. “I know this is hard for you to understand. I know you live every day with the burden and pressure of being the main character in everyone’s life, but, and I do mean this with love, but not everything is about you, Felix.” She packs away the blender and fastens the lid onto her smoothie. Then she comes to sit across from me at the table. “Look, we went on a single date. It’s really early and might go absolutely nowhere. At the very least, I’ll get a decent shag out of it, and that will be that. Or, it could be terrible, worst sex of my life, and then we can laugh about it.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like the fact that you’ve been getting yourself pounded by your dad’s friend every week for the last three years, who keeps you as his dirty little secret, but I say nothing about that.”

“You say everything about that. Anyway, they’re not friends…”

She snorts. “Oh, well, that makes it okay then.”

“Anyway, it’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“No, it’s not. Do you even know why you go there and let him use you as his personal little fuck toy?”

“Because it feels fucking wonderful, Ava. I’ve told you to stop trying to psychoanalyse me over this,” I bite. “How’d this become about me and Christian when it’s about you and Savini?”

She sits back in her chair with a sigh. “I don’t want to fight with you about this.”

“Yeah, well, here we are.” I take in her casual Sunday afternoon outfit. “Are you meeting him now? Is that where you’re going?”

She has the decency to look a little guilty. But says, “What if I am?”

I stand, the chair scraping back noisily as I do. “I’m too hungover for this. I’m going back to bed. Leave the door unlocked when you go, please.” I text the cleaning company and tell them just to come in and do what they need to do and leave after.

“You’re being really immature about this, you know?” she says after me. “He’s a decent guy, and if you’d drop this stupid competitive nonsense and get to know him, you’d see that.”

“I actually think he might be a homophobe, but whatever,” I mutter as I stride out of the kitchen. I’d seen the look on his face when Rufus and I had come out of the bathroom together. I’d seen the looks he snuck at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, too—deep, penetrating stares like he was trying to figure me out. By the time I’m in bed, any and all of the goodwill I’d felt toward Nico Savini yesterday, that slight thawing of our decade-long animosity, rolls back over me like a malaise.



I arrive early for class on Monday, taking the opportunity to head to one of the practice studios to work on my solo for the gala.

I hadn’t wanted to speak to Ava this morning, so I’d gotten up super early (I’d slept most of yesterday, too, managing to avoid her entirely) and left before she was even up.

I feel a little less angry with her than I did on Sunday morning, but I’m sure I don’t want to apologise for overreacting either. I’m not sure I even did. I know it’s absolutely none of my business who she sleeps with. Just like it’s none of hers who I sleep with. But we’re friends, and she’s always given her full, frank, and forthright opinion on my fuck buddies, so I should, rightfully, be able to give mine on hers. It’s the right of a best friend.

And in my book, best friends should absolutely not be sleeping with their best friend’s mortal enemies. That would be like me sleeping with Tara Velasquez from the Paris Ballet, which okay, is downright ridiculous, but so is the very idea of Ava sleeping with Nico fucking Savini.

I’m moving through the combination when I lock my gaze on my own reflection, leg grounded as I command my strength up through my other. It’s one of my favourite moves—it’s the reason I chose this variation for the gala—because I’m exceptionally good at it. Maybe even the best in the world at it. My own power propels me into a tight spin, my arms snapping inward to my chest, body coiled tight as a spring as I whirl, balanced perfectly on the tip of my grounded foot. As the rotation nears completion, my working leg draws in, a neat passé, before lashing out again. The trick is to make it look effortless but seem unyielding, never-ending. Each fouetté adds a new surge of energy to the sequence so that it self-propels in a blur of rapid movement. Round and round without end. I feel weightless and yet utterly in control and it’s the reason I love dance.

I’m keeping my gaze locked in place on myself in the mirror when movement by the door catches my focus. I’m going too fast to make out who it is, but they don’t seem to be leaving, so I draw my body up and out of the move and land on both feet.

Savini is standing just inside the door. He’s wearing the black Nike running top he always wears as he arrives or leaves. Running shorts over running tights. Rucksack on his shoulders, and cheeks pinked from his run.

“Hey. Sorry. Hoped I’d be early enough to grab the room.” He’s looking at me with this soft look on his face, like we’re friends or something. Panting from the dance, I turn and go to where my stuff is and lift my water bottle.

“Yeah, well, you’re not.”

He still hasn’t moved by the time I’m done drinking. I lift my eyebrows, a wordless command for him to piss off. One he doesn’t seem to get.

He says, “When do you think you’ll be done?”

“When I’m done.”

That gets his attention. A glimmer of confusion shuffles over his face. “Everything alright?” he asks.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He shrugs and comes fully into the room instead of reading my face and fucking all the way off.

“I don’t know, you seem… off.”

“Off?” I repeat, incredulous. “How the fuck would you know if I’m off?”

“Well, I don’t. That’s why I asked.”

“I’m fine,” I snap, moving back into position to begin the variation again. In the mirror, I stare at him over my shoulder. “Can you piss off now, please? I’ve work to do.”

He looks torn, clearly debating something. Then he says, “Would you mind if I watched? I’ll be quiet.” He points to the corner. “I’ll sit there and not say a word unless you ask me to.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why the fuck would you want to watch?”

“Because I like watching you dance? Why else?”

Fuck. I hate the little surge of something that sends through me. Which, for the record, has absolutely nothing to do with the person who’s saying it and everything to do with my exhibitionist nature. I like being watched. Of course I do, I’m a ballet dancer. I like seeing the look of desire and want on men’s faces when they look at me, the look of admiration and awe on people’s faces when they see me dance. Nico definitely doesn’t want or desire me, but if he likes watching me dance—and a lot of people do—then who am I to stop him?

I give him a half-shrug and begin the variation again from the first assemblé. He moves to the corner, sets his bag down, and then sits with his legs crossed at the ankles and his back against the wall, and watches.

I feel his stare track me all over the studio. On my thighs and my arse and my feet, on every extension of my arms and fingers, every line and shape. I make no mistakes. I complete the sequence with the exact precision I always do. When I move to take a drink, he tracks that too. Then I go again.

I feel his presence louder and more attentive than I’ve ever felt any audience. It feels intense in a way no other performance ever has. I feel exposed in a way I never have. Perhaps it’s because it’s just the two of us and I respect the dancer that he is more than I do any other, and that he’s being so fucking quiet, and that his eyes haven’t wandered from me once. It feels, entirely, like he’s watching me do something far more intimate than dance.

I go again. And then again. And then once more.

He keeps his word and says nothing. Not a single word of praise or critique and by the end of my seventh go, I can’t take anymore.

Panting hard and sweating, I come to a careful stop.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I snap, turning to him.

He blinks as though coming out of a trance. “My problem?”

“Yeah, your problem! Why are you just sitting there… watching me?”

He sits back on his hands, a flicker of amusement on his face. “I told you, I like watching you dance. I always have.”

He says this like it’s the most normal, most obvious thing in the world.

“Yeah, well, it’s weird.”

He laughs at this. All teeth and charm. “Is it?”

“Yeah, it is.”

“You dance on stage for a living, I fail to see why it’s weird.”

“I’m not on stage, though.”

“Oh? I thought your whole life was a stage, Felix?”

I frown. What’s he talking about? Then I get it; it’s my Instagram bio.

“Oh, I have myself an Instagram stalker, I see.”

He doesn’t even look embarrassed. I walk to the corner and swipe up my stuff.

“Studio’s all yours.” I smirk. He’ll need to be in class in fifteen minutes. I sling my towel, and head for the door.

“You should have chosen Paquito,” he says when my hand is on the handle.

I stop and turn to find him stretching out.

“Yeah, well, I never asked,” I say, furious and confused.

“Then, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“You’re not going to get lead with that.”

I’m this close to charging over and punching him right in the face, which is weird since I’ve never hit anyone in my life before. I’m not even sure I know how to.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Okay.” He stands and starts pulling off his top. Beneath it, he wears a grey tank, loose around his lean frame. He’s leaner than me, taller too, but wide shoulders and a long wingspan give him an imposing look. Nico, sadly, has the perfect ballet dancer physique.

“We’re not all arrogant enough to think we can pull ‘Bluebird’ off,” I snort.

“It’s not arrogance,” he says, meeting my eye. “It’s talent, and you know it.”

The low way he says it makes something horribly warm rush toward my dick. When he launches into the variation, I can only stand stock-still and stare. He moves as he always does, with an almost ethereal elegance, his movement so light it defies gravity. Swift and buoyant, as if lifted by an unseen wind. It looks like he’s the very essence of the mythical creature he’s portraying. His jumps are sharp and airy, each brisé and entrechat seeming to hover mid-air for just a moment longer than possible, embodying the fluttering of delicate wings. His arms extend in soft, feathery arcs, framing the sculpted lines of his torso as he launches into soaring grand jetés, his legs stretched in a perfect split each fucking time. A bird soaring through the heavens. Between each leap, he flits, shimmering ballonnés, as if perching lightly on the wind, only to spring into flight again. I can’t breathe. It’s vibrant. Dynamic. Effortless.

It’s going to get him lead.

I’m utterly fucked.