Limerence (Famous Young Things): Chapter 27

I hang up with Nico and just lie there, contemplating what exactly the fuck I am doing. I think over Christian’s words, even the ones that sounded insane—especially those—and ask myself the most difficult question I’ve ever had to ask myself in the private refuge of my soul:

Do I actually like Nicoló Savini?

If I do, and it’s a big if, what do I even do about it? He’s not out. His family doesn’t know he likes men, so despite what Christian is telling me I want and deserve, Savini isn’t someone who can give me it either.

And if this tiny, major issue somehow got resolved, what about all the others?

One: he’s at the company—my rival, in fact, at the company.

Two: Ava likes or liked him. Either way, I’m certain if she found out I was fucking him, it would be devastating for her. I lied to her. I’ve lied to her over and over again.

Three was Christian. But I suppose I don’t have to worry about this one since he’s gone and solved it all by himself by being a bloody martyr.

These were top on the list of reasons why I shouldn’t be doing whatever the fuck it is I’m doing with Nico; along with a few others I enjoyed jotting down. (He’s irritating, too quiet, too arrogant, v unfunny, a bit of a nerd.) These are evidently all things that I’m very much able to overcome. Things that I’m starting to actually like about the arsehole. I mean, I’ve always been notoriously unfussy when it comes to those sorts of things, and the fact that I made a list for Savini at all should have been the first bloody red flag.

Fuck.

I do like him.

I like him more than I’ve liked a guy in a long time. I let my mind wander a little farther down Christian’s fantasy land where Nico Savini is who I choose to be with. What had Christian said? I want you to be happy, darling. To be in love.

Well, the last time I was in love I was fourteen, and this feels nothing like that. So I’m pretty sure I’m not in love with Nico. Comforting, since I’ve just admitted to myself that I like him; we’re leagues away from anything even approaching love. But could I? At some point, be in love with that hot, talented, arrogant, nerdy, quiet Italian-American prick? Seems too far-fetched to contemplate, truly beyond my mind’s imagination. I can more easily contemplate the existence of the car from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang than being in love with Nico Savini right at this moment.

Someone who treats you how you deserve, shares you with the world and shares the world with you. Not someone who keeps you a secret from it.

Well, given he’s not even out to his family, and since going back in the closet isn’t something I’m ever going to do, this seems like the biggest issue. Why didn’t I ask him if he wanted to come out to his family? If it was something he was considering or would consider in the future? Oh, that’s right, because I was distracted by the sound of his voice over the phone, coupled with the sight of him looking like some kind of Daddy Dom in the Vogue photoshoot while I all but knelt at his feet. (The one of him in his tights had already been saved to the wank bank for later.)

How on earth am I supposed to get through six months of rehearsal with him that close to me and not snap? Not lose my fucking mind in front of Ben and Julien and the entire company. I’ve never been subtle about a single thing in my life, and pretending I don’t want to jump on Nico Savini’s cock every second of the day is about to be the greatest role I’ve ever done.



I wake up early on Christmas Day and dress warm before heading down to Whitechapel. The mission opens at 6am, but I arrive around eight with most of the other volunteers. It’s mostly the same group of us every year, and after catching up with a quick tea and mince pie (the latter I refrain from because I’d eaten almost an entire box of Celebrations last night and I’m going to the gym after this as penance) we filter out to where they need us. Homeless shelters on Christmas Day, despite what most people might think, aren’t depressing. In fact, they’re probably one of the most joyous, festive places you can visit. The gratitude, solidarity, and kindness on show in these places beats sitting around my father’s 15 ft Christmas tree opening gifts he had his secretary buy for me and Miranda. The first time I’d come here was sort of by accident. I’m not proud of it. But I was 18 and trying to impress a guy; a guy who was convinced that my name and parentage meant I was a very particular sort of person with a very particular sort of privilege. It meant I was the sort of person he wouldn’t be caught dead fucking. (He had fucked me. Twice. And I tend to think now that my own values were—are—far more authentic than his.)

I’d had a sort of epiphany the first time I’d come here; I saw what it looked like when people cared about others. I’d turn up here on volunteer days and people would look happy and grateful I was there. I’d liked the feeling of being useful, being needed. It wasn’t something I’d ever felt before. And yes, maybe that’s contrary to all the reasons why a person does volunteer work, but I’m asking you to give me a break on that one. It’s Christmas.

After the mission, I go to the smart gym on Kendall Road, let myself inside with the app on my phone, and soon find that I’m not the only sad fucker working out on Christmas Day. There are a couple of gym bros by the weight benches, two girls laughing by the treadmills, and an older guy looking frightened at the rowing machine.

I only stay an hour before heading home. I pour myself a bath, a glass of champagne, and place my order with the Chinese restaurant for later. Ava and Charlie both call to wish me a Merry Christmas and thank me for their gifts. (I’d put a grand in Charlie’s bank and bought him a pair of Burberry gloves. I’d bought Ava a Loewe Tote bag from Harrods she’d wanted, and her favourite perfume.) Charlie’s parents live just outside Chelmsford, and he offered to come to mine after they’ve eaten dinner, but I remind him it’s Christmas and the only way back to London on Christmas Day is to pay an Uber driver almost all of his Christmas money. I wouldn’t mind the company, but it’s unnecessary, I’m enjoying my relaxed and solitary Christmas.

Plus, part of me is scared he’ll turn up drunk and confess his love to me all over again, and things are almost back to normal with us. I don’t need the complication. Not with everything else going on.

And bam, I’m back to thinking about Savini again.

In the bath, I pull out my phone and contemplate sending a text wishing him a Merry Christmas. It doesn’t have to mean anything. And this is another red flag, this right here. Because if this was any other guy on the planet, any other guy I’d fucked and sucked a few days before Christmas, I wouldn’t hesitate to send him a ‘Merry Christmas’ message and even ask if he wants to come over to egg my nog.

But with Savini it has layers. It feels like far more than just a festive greeting. It’s 3:30pm, which means it’s 4:30pm there. Will he have eaten yet? What do they eat for Christmas dinner in Italy? What’s Italian for turkey? What the fuck am I doing?

With a huff, I toss my phone onto the shelf by my head and slip under the water. I don’t make it all the way to three minutes. Probably just over two by my count. If I drowned myself now it would mean this whole Nico thing would cease to be an issue. Maybe it’s the oxygen deprivation, but I grab my towel, wipe my hands on it, and snatch up my phone again. Fuck it.

Me:

Merry Christmas, fuckface I don’t have to wait long.

Fuckface:

We say ‘Buon Natale, fuckface’ here.

Me:

Well, I’m not there Fuckface:

A pity. My father would love you Me:

Well, someone’s father should There’s a delay and I regret making the joke. But then he’s texting.

Fuckface:

Have you had a nice day?

Me:

I went to the gym, had a wank, now I’m in the bath. It’s been perfect Fuckface:

Sounds it Now I really don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I feel a little lightheaded from the heat and the holding of my breath, so I’m going to blame it entirely on that.

Me:

I thought about you when I came There’s nothing for so long that I am sure I’m going to have to change company, maybe go back to Russia, but then:

Fuckface:

…

I take that as a sign he wants me to go on.

Me:

I imagined you were eating me out, and then, just before I came, I thought about you ramming your cock inside me. I came around it There’s another long delay, longer than any of the others. I choose to believe he’s moving somewhere private.

Fuckface:

fuck. wish I was there My cock stirs to life beneath the bathwater. I’d pull on it, but I need both my hands to type.

Me:

Yeah? What would you do if you were?

Fuckface don’t tease. you know I’m not in the country This makes me grin, sending a weird flutter of breathless excitement through my chest.

Me:

Do planes fly on Christmas Day? 😉

Fuckface:

no idea Me:

Well, this has been fun.

Me:

Joke, it’s been the worst sexting experience of my life. My succulent Chinese meal is due and the bath is getting cold. Buon Natale, Savini 

I’m dried and dressed in the pair of Christmas pyjamas Ava’s mum bought me, trying to decide what to watch, when my Chinese arrives. It’s an entire shredded duck, cucumber salad, and pancakes, and I spread it out on the coffee table like an all-you-can-eat buffet along with a bottle of champagne.

To be clear, I only pig out like this at Christmas. Christmas Day specifically. I have a single day a year where I eat whatever the fuck I want and only when I feel like I’m going to throw up do I stop fucking eating.

After downing most of the bottle of champagne and watching half of some terrible Christmas movie I picked at random, I feel myself begin to dose off. It’s not even 8pm, which is sad as fuck, but it’s been a long day, I’ve eaten enough food to sustain a small army, and this body needs to metabolise.

I’m jolted awake some interminable time later by the doorbell. Loud and aggressively persistent. I have drool crusting on my cheek, and my body feels like it’s been run over by a bin truck. My first thought is that Ava has flown home to surprise me and forgotten her keys, but a glance at my phone tells me it’s not. She’d have tried calling. I note it’s almost midnight.

I can barely see straight as I stagger towards it, rubbing grainy sleep sand from my eyes. Looking through the peephole does nothing because I don’t have my contacts in. What I’m not expecting to see when I pull open the door is a slightly blurry 6 foot 2 ballerino who should be in fucking Naples.

He looks as startled as I do, for a moment anyway, until he draws a look over me. His mouth flattens as though he’s trying to hide his smile. There’s a small case next to him and, inexplicably, a notepad under his arm.

I croak, “Am I still asleep right now?”

He seems to remember something and lifts the notepad so he’s holding it in front of his chest. It’s one of those A4 lined spiral ones which flip open.

When he flips open the front page, I almost lose it. In thick black marker, and in freakishly neat handwriting, it says:

Turns out, planes do fly on Christmas Day He turns the page.

And I couldn’t live with being Another page turn.

The worst sexting experience of your life But I think maybe Texting isn’t my medium “You’re fucking ridiculous, I’m closing this door now.” I go to close it, though I think there’s something wrong with me because I feel fucking faint from how endearing this is, how much I want to invite him in, how fucking ecstatic I am to see him. Clearly I’ve eaten too much.

Nico puts his foot gently in the door and turns the page again.

So, when you asked what I’d do if I was here with you…

When he turns the last page, I do lose it, doubling over with uncontrollable childish laughter. It’s a very detailed, very explicit (very good) drawing of me riding him. We both have Santa hats on. When I finally stop laughing, tears streaming down my face, I notice he’s laughing too.

“I fucking knew you’d seen that movie,” I say accusingly as I pull open the door to let him in. He crowds me against it, pushing his body into mine as he lets out a low, breathy sound.

“I watched it on the flight over. You know what? It was pretty romantic.”

I let him kiss me senseless at the door, not even caring how soft I get for him. But then he slides a cold hand up under my top, gloveless, and I yelp. I try to pull away from him, but he tugs me back by the hem. “This is fucking adorable,” he says, looking at the top of the pyjamas. It’s scattered with cats and dogs wearing Christmas hats and scarves.

I cringe, feeling my cheeks turn hot. This time I manage to pull away from him. “Fuck you. No one was supposed to see me in these.” Least of all you.

“I’d much prefer to see you out of them, if I’m honest.”

He follows me into the living room, hovering by the couch as I flit about trying to tidy up a bit. I’d wrapped the leftover duck and put it in the fridge, but there’s a cheese board and grapes and chocolate wrappers everywhere. A festive pigsty.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, glancing at him. “You’re supposed to be in Italy.”

“Do you want to see the drawing again? I thought it was pretty clear.” He makes a show of looking through the pad.

I smile. “I just mean, weren’t your family pissed off that you just… well, pissed off?”

His eyes flick away from mine and he shrugs. “My family are always pissed off. Figured I could at least make it worth my while.” He looks back at me and gives a wolfish smile. “Also, I didn’t like the idea of you alone.”

I frown at this, even though it makes my chest feel strange. “Why not?”

“Because you shouldn’t be. Not you.”

I’m not sure what that means and I don’t think I want to know. There’s a peculiar, intense look on his face.

He adds, “They’ll have a better time without me there anyway.”

“Well, that’s a given,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow playfully, and I can’t help the stupid grin that breaks out over my face. I go to the fridge and pull out another bottle of champagne.

“Drink?” I ask.

He slides out of his coat and lays it over the armchair. He’s wearing a black sweater which hugs his upper body shamelessly. How good this man looks in black should be studied. By Stella McCartney.

“Yes, that’d be nice.”

I’m pouring when I say, “You might need to adjust your expectations regarding the diagram.” He tilts his head thoughtfully as I hand him his glass. “You know I’m always up for it, but it’s just that I ate almost a whole duck, and then half a cheese board, and about a ton of celebrations and there’s no fucking way I can put any more solids inside me tonight.”

He turns his head just in time as he spits champagne all over the kitchen instead of over me.