Limerence (Famous Young Things): Chapter 30

I’d lied. He hadn’t been good today; he’d been mediocre at best and amateur at worst. And from the altercation by the vending machine, he’d somehow decided I was to blame.

Being Felix’s least favourite person is a role I’m used to, I can work with that. What I can’t work with is the idea of him still sleeping with the politician. Up until now, I’d been trying to forget he existed, and it had been working. Though, it was easy to forget he existed when Felix and I had barely been apart for the last ten days.

Sleeping alone the last few nights had been a nice rest—Felix was a sprawler. He also twitched while he slept, as though he were executing a series of cabriole’s while out cold. It woke me up, and then, awake, I’d look at him and want him and it would take until my cock softened and my mind cleared until I’d be able to fall asleep again. Only to be woken again with another kick a short time later.

If I wanted to dance, I needed to sleep, and if I wanted to sleep, I needed to not be sharing a bed with Felix Taylor-Brooke.

Given his performance the last few days, I can only assume he isn’t sleeping either. And so, the politician has been on my mind more than I like.

I google him as I eat dinner. Christian Fraser Darling was the second youngest politician to ever be appointed to the British Cabinet. He’d been given the post at 38 (he’s 42 now) and had held it longer than anyone in the post-war era. I scroll past all the stuff relating to his schooling and voting record until I get to the section on his personal life. He’d been married to his wife, Stella, a human rights lawyer, for fourteen years before she’d died in a skiing accident. He has a son, aged 21, who also works in politics. There was not a single word relating to him liking men. Felix’s terror at the idea I might tell someone about what I saw makes a lot more sense now. He cares about Christian. Did he want a relationship with him? A proper one? Was all this with me just something to tide him over until his older, straight lover grew the balls enough to come out? Not that I could judge anyone on that front.

There was an added complication with Felix’s father. I look him up next. Adrian Brooke, Chief Whip of the Conservative Party. From what I can tell, he’s sort of an enforcer, ensuring members vote the way the prime minister wants. From what little I’ve seen of him blowing in and pouring bluster over Felix’s life, the role’s a good fit for him. But he’s powerful, and likely able to make Christian Darling’s life a misery if this got out. It would also be highly embarrassing for Adrian and maybe even for the party itself.

But I’ll admit, there’s something amusing and very fucking apt about the idea of Felix being in the centre of a sex scandal that could bring down an entire government. My research is interrupted by my screen lighting up with an image of Princess Peach from Mario.

“Hi,” he says, slightly out of breath. “So, I was a dick earlier.”

“You’re always a dick, Felix. It’s part of your charm.”

“Right. So, are you alone?”

“Always.”

“Saddo. Well, I’m round the corner, I was going to come up.”

“Are you going to apologise again on your knees?”

“I was planning on going to my knees anyway, so yeah, sure.”

“See you soon then.”

He hangs up and I go back to reading about his father until the sound of the intercom announces his arrival.



The following day is our first with the intimacy coordinator. I’ve actually worked with her before, on Sofia and I’s first turn at Sleeping Beauty together back at Romasco. Lillian Arnold is a compact little thing from Australia and is considered one of the best in the business. After we get reacquainted, she sits us both down—it’s just Felix and I in a small room, which reminds me a lot of Gretchen’s office—and talks us through the five pillars of intimacy direction in dance. Context, communication, consent, choreography, and closure.

“It works very much the same in dance as it does on TV and film, and I’ve worked on both,” she explains. “How would you categorise your relationship now?”

Felix and I look at each other. I get an image of him on his knees last night, his mouth stretched around my cock as he brings himself off, and I have to look away quickly.

“A work in progress,” I’d say.

“He’s fucking impossible to work with, but I’m challenging myself,” says Felix. “I’ve become quite the master of non-violent acts of aggression.”

I can’t help but smile. Lillian looks horrified for a moment before she picks up on his tone, my expression, and relaxes. “Benedict did say this would be a complex one, which is, I admit, sort of why I took the job.”

“I’ll be real with you, Lillian, you’re here mainly to make sure we don’t kill each other,” Felix states.

“And to make us look like we’re deeply in love,” I add.

He looks at me. “Honestly not sure which of those you’ll have the hardest time with.”

“Okay,” she says with an enthusiastic smile. “Why don’t we start with the first pillar: Context.”



It’s deep into the fifth week of rehearsal by the time I realise that Benedict Wells is a creative genius. This show is going to be a massive hit, an iconic cultural moment that will make him extremely fucking rich. A new zeitgeist for ballet, even. It’ll make even bigger stars out of Felix and me.

That is, if Felix can get his fucking act together.

I don’t know what’s wrong with him. He’s had, perhaps, a single good day since we started, but he’s now been so consistently off his game that everyone is beginning to panic. Just when he has his jumps down, his spins are off, and just when he nails his allegro his adagio collapses. He’s going to hurt himself, which, at this point, might not be the worst thing for the production. His behaviour seems to be linked to his form, because it, too, starts to tumble into the toilet. He’s been late every day this week, and Fen has let him have it twice. Julien is unimpressed and Benedict has pulled him aside already today.

I need to talk to him. But any time we’ve been together, alone (only twice this week) and I’ve tried to bring it up, he distracts me with his mouth or his hole, and I’m definitely not close to strong enough to resist either of those things.

For the first two weeks, he appeared to be anxious about the mammoth task ahead, which I’d understood. Pressure impacts his form, but now he looked bored, like he’d rather be sunning himself on a beach than doing this. When Fen calls lunch and Felix is the first to leave the room, she glares in his direction and marches immediately into a conflab with Julien and Ben as the rest of us file out. I rush to catch up with Ava, who’s talking with Charlie by the lockers.

“Can I have a word?” I ask her.

She looks surprised but not hostile. To Charlie, she says, “I’ll catch up with you in the canteen.” Charlie nods and heads off in the direction of the cafeteria as Ava and I wander towards the open mezzanine level seating area. I’m hoping she knows this is going to be about Felix and doesn’t think it’s about something else.

She sits down on one of the abstract armchairs, which look like space furniture, and lets out a loud sigh. “No, I don’t know what’s going on with him.”

“Is he sleeping alright?”

She shrugs. “When he’s home. But he’s been out a few times this week and not coming back until all hours so…”

I’d seen him on Monday and Wednesday. It makes me unreasonably angry he’s potentially seeing other people, Christian most likely, but I’m even more angry he’s letting it affect his fucking practice. Everyone’s fucking practice.

“Have you spoken to him about it?”

She laughs. “Eh, no. I value my life.”

“You’re his best friend, Ava.”

“Yeah, and I’d like to keep it that way, thanks very much. Look, you can’t talk to him about this, it’s not… not about ballet. He won’t listen.”

“Well, you need to make him listen,” I say, adamantly. “And you need to make sure he turns up on fucking time.” She narrows her eyes at my tone, which I realise was unfairly harsh. “This is important; all of our reputations are on the line here.”

“This is Felix, Nico. This is who he is when he’s under pressure; he’ll pull it out on the night.”

I widen my eyes. “On the night? That’s four months away. You’re telling me he’s going to be like this until then?”

She shrugs again. “I mean, he’s not usually this off his game this early on, but I’m not worried. He has these little blips. He’s still great, even when he’s shit.” That is not comforting.

“He’s not even close to great right now, Ava.”

She sighs and stands. “Okay, well, you tell him that. You want to tell him how badly he’s doing, you go right ahead.” She smirks as if she might enjoy watching that. “But I’m gonna wait it out because I’ve seen this one before and I know the ending. He’s not the best in the world for nothing.” This last part is pointed at me.

She walks off without looking back.

Was this his usual pattern? To make every other dancer in the room suffer until he found his form? I want to support him, not pile on the pressure, but I’m not sure I’m willing to sit here like a cuck for months and wait it out like Ava.

It comes to a head the following day. Felix and I are the only ones in the room with Fen and her two assistants. We’ve been at it for close to four hours with very little that I would call great from the best male ballet dancer in the world. My hair and T-shirt are slick with sweat. His is not; he looks like he’s been for a brisk stroll.

Fen claps her hands, sharp as a whip strike. “From the top. I want to feel the passion this time. This isn’t just movement; it’s a story of deep soul connection. Of love.”

Felix steps forward, expression calm and detached. He’d perfected that over the last couple weeks. For all his worry about having to hide this from the company, he was doing an incredible job at pretending he cared nothing about me, or ballet, or anything else.

“Ready?” I ask him, breathing hard. I’m standing close enough that I catch the faint scent of his sweat, annoyingly subtle and clean. A flicker of something smug crosses his face, barely there, but it’s enough to make my jaw clench.

“Always,” he says.

The music starts, slow and aching. Felix moves first and his lines are clean through the first combination, if a little lethargic. Mirroring his movements, I follow. The sequence is a show of push and pull, of run and chase, until it’s not. Achilles turns, and I move backwards through the movement with him as the pursuant. It still feels off, with none of his normal precision, though I’ve not seen that for so long I wonder if this is the new normal.

“You need to fucking commit,” I hiss when the music softens, low enough that only he can hear. Fen is on the other side of the room anyway.

Felix’s jaw tightens, he blinks, and the anger that should be Achilles’ settles over his face. Into the next combination, his energy looks and feels elevated, and for the first time in weeks he’s engaged in the dance as he should be. I’m almost smiling as we move into the lift, marvelling at the fact it had been that easy to get him to focus, goading him midway through. But the moment I step into his arms, I feel it; an almost imperceptible shift in his grip, a tension in his stance that shouldn’t be there. As he hoists me up, I react on instinct, my muscles tensing as I try to adjust. I’m not sure if his hands slip or his footing falters, but my body pitches sideways, no longer supported.

I hit the floor in an ungraceful heap, which sends pain rocketing up my spine. It’s not serious, I know that, because the pain is gone almost instantly. Fen lets out a shriek and rushes across the studio, calling out for her assistant to fetch Theresa. There’s an expression of shock and guilt on Felix’s face as he reaches a hand out.

Without taking it, I climb to my feet and assess the damage.

“Nicoló! My god, are you alright?” Fen asks, panicked.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Looked worse than it was.”

“You are sure? Theresa will check.” She turns to Felix. “What happened? Your feet were not in line, I could see it from across the studio.”

“I…” he stammers, looking very pale. “I don’t know.”

“Take a break, go,” she says and shoos him away with her hand. He does as he’s told, grabbing his towel and water bottle and shoving his way out of the doors.

I stare after him.

“I do not know what is wrong with him,” she mumbles as she guides me over to one of the benches to sit and wait for the doc.

“He’s always like this before a show?”

“No, not like this. He is impossible but this is… I do not know.” She sounds tired. “Now he is damaging my dancers.”

“It was an accident,” I say. In truth, I’m not sure if it was. I don’t think he threw me on purpose, but I’d riled him up and pissed him off, so maybe he was too angry to be lifting me into the fucking air. It’s a tough ask to begin with. One thing is certain; I can’t avoid it anymore.

I need to talk to him, or this will happen again. He needs a complete reset or this show is going to be a fucking disaster.