Limerence (Famous Young Things): Chapter 21

It’s not as though I can’t see the vision. What Ben is doing here transcends ballet.

Any time there’s a ballet which deviates from the norm, headlines are made. And this? This is going to be unlike anything the dance world has seen before. The two most talented ballerinos in the world starring opposite each other in a brand-new ballet directed by Julien Aubert and Choreographed by Benedict Wells. It’s fucking iconic. My father is going to be incandescent. It’s going to be the greatest moment of my life when the curtain rises on this. My name will never be forgotten.

It’s just… does it have to be with Savini?

It’s already impossible to hear any kind of commentary on me or my talent without his name being mentioned right after.

Felix and Nico.

Now it’ll be Achilles and Patroclus.

Rivalry isn’t usually something that exists between the two leads of a show because people don’t tend to compare male and female dancers like that. Or if they do, it’s using a very different matrix. A show with two male leads will result in us being compared side by side in a way we’ve never been before. Both of us in our prime, directed by the same person, choreographed by the same person.

It’s as pure a measure as there will ever be to settle who’s the best.

Look, some people will prefer him. Some people will prefer me. We have different styles, different body shapes, different stage presences. But, since it’s rarely debated that we are both the best at what we do, I suppose there’s no one else who could match me out there, no one else who could carry this show alongside me.

Fucking Benedict.

I twist off the shower and grab the towel, stepping out into the en suite to dry myself off. As I bend forward, I feel that echo of a twinge in my arse. I never feel Christian for as long as this after, so I know this is Nico’s doing. That beautiful fucking dick that matches his beautiful fucking body that matches his beautiful fucking talent.

“Prick…” I mutter at my reflection.

After doing my skincare, I wander back into my bedroom, wondering if Ava is home yet. We haven’t spoken since this afternoon. Since the announcement. And while I can see why she’d be unhappy about the casting, it’s not a lead role for her—there are no lead ballerina spots in the production—I’m still curious to hear her take on it. Dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, I make my way down the hall to her room and knock.

“Yeah?”

“You decent?” I ask.

“Never.”

When I poke my head in, she’s on her back in the middle of her bed staring at the ceiling. I sit at the foot of the bed.

“Are you mourning the fact that you’ve no balls right now?”

“I’m always mourning that; my life would be so much easier.”

“I mean, I was talking about the show but yeah, for real.”

“Nico broke up with me,” she announces with a dramatic sigh.

My heart lurches in my chest. “He what?”

“Yeah, said it wasn’t me, it was him. You know, the usual bullshit.”

“What a dick.” Perfect, beautiful dick. I stand and move up to sit by her head, settling my hand in her hair and stroking gently. “Sorry, babes.”

“Meh, it’s fine. I told you he wasn’t into me.”

“You’re too good for him anyway.”

She turns her gaze to meet mine. “You’re gonna have to pretend to be in love with him for months now, and I for one think that’s beautiful.” She’s grinning, face tickled with schadenfreude.

“I hate my life.”

She cackles and rolls onto her side, hooking her arm through mine. “Wanna get pizza and drink red wine with me?”

I am supposed to be going to Christian’s. He’s flying out on Thursday for New York and then he’s going straight to Tel Aviv and then it’s Christmas, which he always spends in Devon with his ailing parents. I likely won’t see him until January if I don’t go over tonight.

Ava sees the moment’s hesitation and nods, pulling herself up.

“You’ve an appointment with the foreign minister. I get it.”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll call him and cancel. I saw him yesterday, for Christ’s sake. He can’t have my tight boy pussy every bloody night.”

She smiles but then realises what I’ve said and screws her face up. “Do not ever say those three words again in my presence.”

“For Christ’s sake?”

“I’m going to shower.”

“I’ll order pizza. Hawaiian for the sociopath is it?”

“Yes, but with green pepper too.”

I stand and head for the door. “Do we have wine, or do I need to nip out?”

“There’s some red in the crisp cupboard.”



In my room, I send a text to Christian to say Ava needs me and I can’t make it over tonight. I don’t think he’ll be too pissed. Last night was… odd. As we fucked, my mind wandered to Savini far too often for my liking, and whenever Christian asked me what was wrong, I found myself lying to him. We don’t usually lie to each other. We’d actually made a pact a long time ago that we’d never lie to each other—lies implied distrust, and we trusted each other. It’s why I always told him who I slept with. It’s why he’d told me about his date (boring and absolutely no chemistry) and so this Savini thing was sitting like a rot between us.

After Christmas. When I see him after Christmas, I’ll tell him.

I’m opening the bottle of red when Ava comes in. She fetches two glasses and sets them next to me before sliding up onto the bar stool across from me.

“I find it weird that you’re not saying ‘I told you so,’” she says. “You told me he was a bad idea, and I told you to mind your own fucking business, and now, when usually you’d be gloating, you’re not.”

I slide her glass across to her and lift my own. “I told you so.”

“Once more with feeling.”

I sigh. “Look, I get it. He’s new. He’s hot. And he’s waving his cock around every fucking day in our faces. You’re only human.”

She arches an eyebrow. “He’s hot?”

“Objectively, yes. And he’s not the worst person on the planet, I suppose.”

“Wait, what’s going on here? Are you in love with him or something?”

I give her a fake smile. “Yes, irrevocably. He’s my soulmate.”

“But why are you saying nice things about Savini? It’s weird.”

I’m certain then that there’s a bright neon sign on my face that reads: because he fucked my brains out and I want him to do it again.

“Is it?”

“Absolutely, even more so now that he broke my heart. You should hate him more than you ever have.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, come on. You liked him for all of three weeks, Aves. You’ll be over him by Friday.” She takes a moment to decide whether to consider this an insult or not before her expression relaxes and she shrugs.

“Yeah, fine, but admit it: you calling him hot and talking about staring at his cock is weird.”

I lift my glass and make my way to the sofa. I’m certain my ears are bright red.

“Objectively hot, I said. And I’m a gay man, staring at cocks is a professional hazard for me.”

She follows me over to the sofa. “So, what’s it like then? His cock.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve seen it in the showers, I presume? How is it? Disappointing? Please tell me it is.”

Thick. Perfect. Tastes incredible.

“Average.”



When I get into bed later, I’m still thinking about Nico Savini’s average cock. I’m hard and frustrated and extremely confused about how much I want it; it hums under my skin like a low-level craving.

I scroll Grindr in an attempt to knock my brain onto another track. One going in a completely different direction to tall, lean, and peppered with dark hair. But then I realise, startlingly, that my type—my fucking type—is tall, lean, dark, and athletic.

Nico Savini is my type.

To check this, I scroll through all my favourite porn sites and browse my favourited videos to find that every top in them is a replica of that Italian-American prick, and I wonder how I’ve never noticed it before, never made the connection. Have I always been attracted to him? Is he—fucking hell—the reason I like men? Was it some formative epiphany I had as I watched him dance all those years ago? What if, deep down in my subconscious, that’s the reason I hate him? Because he made me realise I was gay?

Christ, what if I’m internally homophobic?

No. Wait. I love being gay. I’ve never once wondered what it would be like to be straight. No. I’m the least homophobic person I know. There’s a scale somewhere with me on one end and my dad on the other, I’m sure of it.

Spiraling still, I pull up YouTube and type in Nico’s name. Then I type in solo. Because I’ll be fucked if I have a wank to him and his ex-girlfriend. I wonder if she knew he liked men and if maybe that was the reason they split up. Then I decide I don’t care and scroll until I find a clip of him in a dance studio in what looks like New York. Manhattan skyline visible outside. He’s bare-chested and wearing grey tights, and his hair is so long that it should be tied up, but it’s not. It sits loose and sweat-soaked on his head as he jumps and leaps around the room to a modern pop song.

I’d intended to have a wank, but as always, I become transfixed in watching him dance. He emotes better than any dancer I’ve ever seen. Every single breath he takes seems to be wrought with something. Pain. Heartache. Fierce determination. Like every step is a battle to be fought and won. And he wins. He wins every single time—grace and power and strength unlike anyone else. He’s the greatest there’s ever been.

And then I remember: that’s why I fucking hate him.

But almost the same moment that thought enters my head, is the other, stunning realisation.

It’s the very reason I want him now. That line so easily crossed in the rain on Friday night.

It’s the talent. The easy arrogance. The cool, calm assuredness he exerts just breathing. If he’s battling when he’s dancing, then he’s a big cat at rest when he’s not, and it’s the hottest fucking thing I can imagine.

I toss my phone across the bed and get my lube out of the bedside drawer and coat my dick and my fingers with it. As I slide my fingers between my legs to play with my hole, I think about Friday night. But not the fucking. Not yet. The part in the street before we got to his place.

That’s what you see when I look at you, Felix?

The look in his eye, all ferocious determination. That fucking kiss. No one’s ever kissed me like that, like they might fucking die if I stopped them.

I slide a finger into my hole and groan.

What do you see now?

I wrap my other hand around my cock and begin to stroke the head. Imagining it’s him, wishing it was him. Wishing Nico Savini’s tongue was in my mouth and his fingers in my ass and his perfect, lean, athletic body pressing me into the mattress.

Stay still.

The memories flicker past my frontal lobe like one of those old silent films. Him eating me out. Him calling me princess. Him biting and massaging my foot.

I come frighteningly quick; so quick that if I’d been in company, I’d have been embarrassed. My stretched hole tightens around the three fingers I’d shoved in there, spasming wantonly. And then, because I’m not ashamed enough, I moan his name like a little whore.

After, satiated and floating on a cloud of orgasmic bliss, I resolve that letting him fuck me one more time is hardly going to end the world as we know it. As long as no one finds out. No one can ever know.

And yes, I know that only makes the whole thing hotter. It’s likely the main reason I’ve been fucking Christian in secret for years.

Fuck, I really should try therapy.