Limerence (Famous Young Things #2)

Fourteen

Fourteen

Nico

I t shouldn’t surprise me—seeing Felix with his hand wrapped possessively around Charlie de Vere’s neck, his mouth on his. I’m beginning to suspect I’m the only man in the company (maybe London) who Felix hasn’t fucked or sucked: a small but very select circle.

I look at Benedict to check his reaction—unimpressed—and then I wonder if Felix has fucked him too.

Charlie looks embarrassed at being caught by his director, shifting away from Felix and turning his back to us. Felix has a very odd look on his face as he eyes the back of Charlie’s head.

“ Now, Felix ,” Benedict says more firmly.

“Yeah, okay.” He stands.

Ben turns and charges down the corridor, shaking his head and muttering something unintelligible. I watch as Felix turns back to Charlie. His face is caked in powder, but I can almost see the blush underneath it.

Gently, Felix says, “We’ll talk later, okay?”

Charlie nods but doesn’t look at him.

I wait until we’re halfway down the corridor before speaking.

“You making your way through the entire company? Who’s next?”

He throws a look over his shoulder. “Well, it sure as fuck isn’t you, so you don’t have to worry about it.”

We walk the rest of the way in heated silence. His ass looks incredible from this angle. From any angle, really, but being behind him is always a very particular sort of torture for me. I’ve spent too long imagining what that ass looks like uncovered, how fucking tight it is, how it tastes and feels. I tug down the hem of my tunic to cover the reaction that line of thought does.

In the main foyer are some important people Felix and I are directed to pose with. Ava is there, too, looking regally beautiful in full Aurora costume. I’m introduced to them quickly, their names a string of words I’ve forgotten as soon as Benedict says them. I smile and nod and say very complimentary things about Ben, my colleagues, and the company as a whole.

“I knew Sergio,” someone says without warning. Well, not completely; we’d been discussing Romasco, so I suppose I should have been prepared for it. I glance up at the guy; he is around 60, tall and slim, with small, round eyes that remind me of a rodent’s. My body’s reaction is automatic: sweat licks up the back of my neck and dampens my palms. He says, “Very tragic what happened. You must have been devastated.”

Not at all, actually. Watching him be lowered into the ground was the best day of my life.

Politeness urges that I say something, but my mouth feels like it’s been sewn shut as I try to breathe slowly through my nose. It’s Felix who rescues me, sidling up close and throwing a friendly arm around my shoulder. “Apologies, gentlemen, I’m afraid I have to steal this guy, we have a stage to light up.” He gives them a friendly wink and steers me off toward backstage again while the men and their wives go to take their seats.

“Have you actually met a person before?” he says, dropping his arm the instant we’re alone. “These people donate a lot of money to the company and all they want is a smile and a bit of conversation with some stars. Didn’t you have to do that in Rome?”

“I was smiling,” I say.

“Yeah like a fucking psycho.” He does something with his face which appears to be an impression of me smiling like a mannequin.

“Well, we aren’t all blessed with a winning personality like yours,” I manage to say lightly, though I’m still on edge.

“No, some people got a whole vacuum for a personality and it’s tragic. That’s why I volunteer at the Personality Vacuum charity once a month. Those people deserve to have a normal life too.” He forces a sombre look onto his face which pulls a stupid laugh out of me.

He blinks in surprise and then his mouth softens almost into a smile. It transforms his entire face, beautiful in the stage make-up, gold highlighting his lids and temples. His hair is slicked back away from his face which makes him look older and more serious. Breathtaking.

We’re at the door to the stage entrance when he stops and turns to me. People are rushing past us at speed, but for a few slowed-down seconds, it’s just us there—two gladiators at the peak of their power, about to enter the arena.

“Look,” he says. “I was a dick about Ava.”

I frown, confused. I’d expected him to say something like ‘Let the best man win’ or ‘Hope you break something that isn’t a leg’. Something combative at least.

“If you like her then… well, fine, go for it. I promise not to growl and hiss at you both anymore, but if you’re not interested then tell her, don’t be a fucking dick about it. Because if you hurt her, then I absolutely will castrate you.” Then, he gives me the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen, his stage smile, and disappears up the stairs and through the door toward the stage.

Even though there’s a full cast section in the middle, I’m not in it. Benedict wanted my debut in front of the sponsors and board to be a solo, so I’m last. It means I get to watch the entire show from the wings. Charlie, who’d passed me to go on, had given me a brief, tight smile before springing out onto the stage in pas de chat. He’s good, precise and neat with his movements, but he lacks any real stage presence or charisma—something Felix has in spades. Felix commands a stage like no one else. When he’s with anyone else, it’s hard to look away from him; he shines and flits like a firefly—delicate, light, and full of airy grace. His solo is just at the halfway point; the corps moving into stationary positions around the stage to observe, as though guests at the prince’s birthday ball. As soon as he begins, I understand why he chose it: the Siegfried Variation was made for Felix. It’s youthful and filled with elegance, and he perfectly embodies the young, spirited prince he’s playing.

I glance out to see the crowd smiling wide, their fondness for the dancer and the dance clear. He springs softly across the stage in a series of sharp, crisp movements which are infused with melancholy. Elegant arabesques accentuate his power, but he displays with it a tenderness, expression faltering between joy and something deeper. Longing. A sense of loneliness amidst the grandeur of his surroundings. The music shifts, turning introspective, and Siegfried’s movements turn gentle and more reflective. He pauses, glancing outwards as though contemplating something just beyond the lights of the stage.

Still as water, he stares out, perfectly capturing the hope, the yearning for a love beyond duty and expectation.

The music shifts a final time, and he moves through the next combinations with a burst of renewed energy; grand pirouette en attitude into tour jeté, a fouetté saute and grand assemblé into the final coda . His footwork is exhilarating to watch, his stamina and power secondary to his precision. I’ve not seen him dance in person for many years, and he’s only gotten better with age and time. He’s stronger than he’s ever been, he fills out the stage better than he ever has, and the bravado he had as a teenager is completely eclipsed now by stage presence.

He’s fucking magnificent, and I can’t help the smile that settles over my face.

He takes the applause and does a short réverence before he springs off stage in the opposite direction from where I’m standing.

The crowd are still on their feet when the corps moves back into position. They sit down and the performance carries on. Ten minutes later is my cue, and I move onto the stage to enthusiastic applause.

I haven’t danced in front of a theatre audience in more than two years, and I feel it then. Their gazes a thousand spotlights pointed at me, waiting for me to falter or fall, trying to peel back the layers of costume to find out why I left, why I’m back, why I’m here. It’s a difficult variation. One of the most difficult. But I was trained to master it young, trained never to make a single error, trained to be the best. I don’t know how to falter or fall. I’m not sure what that would feel like, and as I complete ballonné after ballonné, the thought spills into my head. Intrusive.

If I falter… then perhaps he’d see. Perhaps he’d stop hating me. Perhaps we could be… something other than what we are to each other.

If I falter… no one would care. No one would punish me for it. I am free to make mistakes and fuck up and miss my timing and combinations. And this is a solo, there is no ballerina to worry about, no apologies to make.

If I falter… life will go on.

And then it’s over. I’m done without a single error.

The crowd rises and I lower my body, smiling out into the sea of bodies. I’m not sure if Felix watched me as I’d watched him, though when I glance over to the wings, I see the rest of the corps clapping loudly, genuine smiles of relief and maybe awe on their faces.

The curtain drops, and I move off the stage and let the others take their applause. Felix is on the opposite wing now with Ava, who moves out, takes her bow, and steps back into line. He and I are ordered to go out together, so we do.

With the crowd cheering me, he gives me a look and a small nod before bringing his hands up to applaud me enthusiastically. Politely, I do the same.

We both turn to take the ovation for a few minutes more before the curtain drops a final time. Almost immediately, the line disperses, dancers rushing off both sides in a flurry of tulle and Lycra.

“Good job,” I say before inwardly cringing. Good job? What am I, his dad?

Felix only stares. I think he might be about to say something but then Ava appears by his side, flushed and damp from the performance.

“Amazing, babe, you were incredible,” she tells Felix before looking at me. “You too, Nico, that was spectacular.”

“Thank you.”

Felix loops a hand around her and pulls her into him, kissing her on the top of her head. “Eh, same, you were a queen, babe.” With a final look in my direction, he steers her away from me, towards the changing rooms.

Showered, changed, and having been slapped on the back and congratulated more times than I can count, I contemplate slipping out and heading home. The reception is mandatory for soloists and above, so I’m unsure what the consequences of bailing would be, but after hiding in my dressing room for thirty minutes, I decide to get it over with.

My plan is to avoid the guy who knew Sergio entirely, and thankfully, Benedict spots me the instant I walk through the door and waves me over to a group of older, glamorously dressed women.

“Gosh, you’re really quite dashing up close aren’t you,” one of them gasps, eyes widening almost hungrily.

“Hideous from afar,” I joke, and she giggles like a much younger girl. I grab a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and listen as she tells me about how she once saw Artem Zolonov perform Bluebird in Paris and how it wasn’t half as good as I performed it tonight. After I thank her, Ben steers me to a few other groups of people, none of which include the guy who knew Sergio.

The last group he steers me to contains a face I do recognise though—Felix’s father. He’s with the same elegant woman I saw him with at the Grand Prix, and a few other older white men who all look strangely alike. Except for a younger, handsome one in glasses on the far end who Ben introduces as Sir Christian Darling, the foreign secretary. I know this has to be a governmental position, but I know (and care) very little about the politics of the countries I hold citizenship to, so my knowledge of British politics begins and ends with the fact that they have a prime minister, not a president.

“Nice to meet you,” I say to all of them. “Hope you enjoyed the show.”

“Oh, it was truly wonderful, you and Felix shone, just gorgeous,” the woman holding onto Felix’s father’s arm says. She’s handsome in the way rich British women often are; long neck and demure make-up. Felix’s father is curiously studying me, no doubt wondering if he’s remembering me correctly as the ‘new one’ from Felix’s kitchen last week.

I decide to let him remain confused.

“How are you and Felix getting on together here?” this from the good-looking guy. “He can be terribly territorial, I imagine that could be a bit of a challenge. For you, too, Benedict.” Ben laughs at this, though I’m wondering how this guy knows that about Felix. It implies some kind of… relationship.

It hits me directly in the face an instant later. He normally goes straight to rehearsal when he stays over at Christian’s. I might have been paying less attention had Ava been talking about anyone BUT Felix . Depends how good the sex was last night.

He is fucking Felix. This is Christian. I take in the handsome politician again. Older, in good shape, dark brown hair and dark, oval eyes. Nothing at all like Charlie de Vere or Rufus from his party. Felix does not have a type, that much is clear.

“It’s been manageable,” says Ben. “Felix has been very well-behaved.”

“Doubt that very much,” snorts his father derisively.

“You’re too hard on him, Ade,” Christian says kindly.

Ben turns to me. “Christian has known Felix since he was a child; Adrian and he work together.” He gestures toward Felix’s father.

“I see.” And I did. Felix was fucking his father’s friend. His colleague. In secret, too, I’d guess. Christian has known Felix since he was a child…

Across the room, I can see him talking animatedly with the group of women whom I’d spoken to earlier. The one who’d said I was dashing up close is stroking his arm as though he’s a cat. As I’m witnessing this, he glances over in my direction, brow furrowed. He turns his charm back on the women.

“So, have you made your decision on who’s getting lead, then?” his father says to Ben directly.

“And I think that’s my cue. Nice to meet you all.” I offer a polite smile and move off and leave them to it, scanning the room for the lesser evil. I’m not a natural networker. It doesn’t come easy to me the way it does some—Felix, for example—and as the new guy, I feel each stare acutely as I move through the space. I want to leave. These sorts of things are torture for me, pretending to be as passionate about ballet as the people watching it are. Felix saw right through my attempt earlier.

Somehow I make it through three more glasses of champagne, the ache in my back a low roar that’s only going to quieten with some deep tissue. I’d been hooked back in by the shiny pawing women, who I’m sure would take me home and do unspeakable things to me if I let them. Ava has avoided me entirely, which I’m glad about. It’s not a conversation I’m going to have this evening. Though of course I need to have it.

Sorry I pretended I was interested in you. It was just to get close to your roommate. You know, the guy who hates me? Yeah, crazy, I know, but I’m sort of in love with him, is the most ridiculous series of words I’ll ever say out loud, so it will have to be some version of a lie. It’s best that she’s avoided me, honestly. Except, as I’m coming out of the men’s room, she’s coming down the corridor towards me, eyes on her phone. There’s no one else around, and unless a sinkhole opens up beneath my feet, there’s absolutely no way of avoiding what’s about to happen. No way… not unless…

Cowardice forces my hand, and I open the first door on my left quietly and dip inside, closing it soundlessly behind me

I wonder if there’s a way out of the building from here, or back to the dressing rooms at least. It’s some kind of conference room: a large table dominates the space, one of those conference phones in the middle, and a large screen at the far end with the LBC logo dancing around on it. The light from it casts almost nothing against the shadows.

If I stay here ten minutes, I can slip out and back to the changing rooms. That’s a plan. A cowardly, pathetic one, but no one needs to know about it.

Then, I hear it.

I’m not alone. The sound is muffled, like the rustle of clothing, and the gasp of breaths.

Then, “Christ, yes, beautiful. That’s… god. Felix .”

I freeze.

The voice is low and roughened from pleasure, but it doesn’t belong to Charlie de Vere, I know that much. It sounds like Benedict, and I’m not sure what I’ll do if it is. The room has a little alcove, I now realise, there’s the low hum of a refrigerator that I hadn’t heard before, and I move toward it in a fucking trance.

I need to see.

The sound of him choking, that unmistakable sound of a throat being stuffed with cock. The voice groans, gasping.

“Christ, you’re perfect. So… bloody … perfect.”

I catch the sight of his feet first, tucked under his ass, which is arched out. The guy with his dick in his mouth comes into view a second later. Not Benedict, not Charlie, but the politician. Sir Christian Darling has his cock stuffed into a willing Felix Taylor-Brooke’s throat.

He’s coming into Felix’s throat the moment he sees me and his eyes go comically wide. He pulls back, still coming, and Felix turns, a strange look passing over his face as I stare between them.

I’m not sure what look is on my face, but I know what I feel. Rage, jealousy, and contempt. Contempt for this man who has known Felix since he was a child.

“Christ,” says Christian Darling, turning his body into the wall to conceal himself. “Fucking Christ almighty.”

When I look at Felix, he’s still watching me, nostrils flaring ever so slightly. Then, very slowly, he brings a hand up and wipes his mouth, licking his fingers very deliberately. My cock stirs.

He says, “Shows over, Savini, or are you hoping for an encore?”

I glance once again at the politician who’s dabbing his crotch with a napkin, unable to look at Felix, swollen-lipped and flushed, then I turn and leave the conference room.

I go directly to the bar, order a large vodka on the rocks, and knock it back in one. Then I order another, nursing this one as I play over what I just saw.

He’s known Felix since he was a child. I feel ill even considering it. I don’t want to consider it. Because considering it means thinking about other things, things I only think about when I’m sitting in front of Hana. It was never sexual with Sergio, but the power dynamic is the same. If this man touched Felix as a child, I’m frightened about what I might do.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” says a voice I’d recognise anywhere. Felix stands close, so close his arm presses against mine. As the barman goes to pour, he lowers his mouth to my ear.

“We need to talk.”

I lift my drink, resolutely not looking at him. “Is that right?”

“I need to know that you’re not going to tell a soul about what you just saw.”

I’m frightened to look at him, frightened of what I might see in his eyes. I think of the boy I met in Hungary, beautiful and sweet and happy, and I think of someone hurting him. My fist tightens around the glass. The barman sets down Felix’s drink and he takes it without a word of thanks.

“Look at me, Savini.”

I look at him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says.

“I don’t think you do.”

“Yeah, I do actually. You think I’m some slutty queer who’ll spread his legs for anyone, and in some ways, you’re absolutely right.” He lifts his vodka and knocks it back in one. His face scrunches. “Christ, that’s vile, why am I drinking that.” He turns to me, serious. “But no one can know about that. Ever.”

“Is that right?”

“You got anything else in your vocabulary? Aren’t you bi-fucking-lingual? You really are like a robot, and if you hadn’t pulled out the greatest performance of the Bluebird Variation I’ve ever seen, twice in as many weeks, then I’d assume you were. But AI hasn’t yet progressed that far, to my knowledge.” He glares at me at length. “What the fuck were you even doing in there anyway? Jesus fucking Christ, it’s a party. With a free bar.”

He holds up his glass for emphasis.

“Well maybe you should have sucked your dad’s friend off somewhere else if you didn’t want to be walked in on.”

He smirks at this. “Now, where would the fun be in that?”

I look away. He’s silent for a long time before he says, “You know, you’re going to need to do far better at hiding it.”

“Hiding what?” My heart rate has kicked up a little.

“You think I don’t know?” He gives me a mean smile as he turns to face me fully. “I see it every time you fucking look at me, Savini.”

He can’t know. It’s not possible. “What are you talking about?”

There’s a threatening glint in his eye now. “You’re not as good at hiding it as you think you are. I see it clear as fucking day. I always have.”

I swallow. Force my expression into something harder, colder. He knows nothing. No one but my therapist does.

“And what is it you think you see, Felix?” My voice is far calmer than it has any right to be, because, if he knows. If he’s somehow figured it—

“I disgust you.”

I blink in shock. “What?”

He scoffs. “How you look at me, I see it. How you looked at me at my party, and earlier tonight with Charlie. Five minutes ago, in there, your repulsion was so thick I could fucking smell it.”

For some reason this makes me laugh. Relief, irony, who knows?

“What’s so funny?” He glowers.

“You’ve no clue what you’re fucking talking about.”

“Oh really? It’s so bloody obvious. You’re a homophobe, Savini. Your stupid Italian macho bullshit can’t abide the fact that I like being bent over and fucked by men, admit it.”

I laugh emptily, tantalised and tortured by the image he’s just provided. Then I look him straight in the eye.

“Then you’re not looking hard enough.” I down my vodka and head for the stairs, leaving him to stare after me. The reception is on the upper open mezzanine of the academy, and I take the stairs without looking back. I need to get out of here. A pat to my pockets confirms I’ve got my keys, I can get everything else on Monday.

Outside, it’s raining. Thick heavy droplets which can only be found in the middle of a monsoon or in the middle of London. I’m halfway down the street when I hear footsteps behind me, closing in.

I turn.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he says, breathing a little hard. I shake my head and keep walking. “I’m talking to you, asshole. What does that mean?”

“Forget it, Felix. Go back to your politician and your party.”

He scoffs. “You’re a fucking dick.”

“And an asshole and a homophobe, apparently.”

He moves in front of me, squaring off for a fight. He’s shorter but a little wider and the look in his eyes is pure fury. Green-gold shimmering with rage. If he hits me, I won’t hit him back.

“You are all of those things and you know it,” he shouts at me through the rain. “Now tell me what you fucking meant by that. I’m not looking hard enough at what? At you? Tell me !”

“I told you to forget it, Felix.” It’s a warning now, because this is rising like a storm inside me, and I don’t think I have the energy to contain it.

“Yeah, well, you don’t get to tell me what to do , Nicoló .”

“You’re fucking impossible.”

“Yeah, and? Tell me what you meant. I’m not looking hard enough at what?”

I stop walking and stare at him. “You think I’m a homophobe? That’s what you see when you look at me?”

“Yes!”

“You think you disgust me?”

“I fucking know I do!”

Something snaps, and I reach forward and wrap my hand around his neck. His eyes go wide, and I see him thinking about throwing me off. I ask him the question again.

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

His eyes drop to my mouth, then back to my eyes, stunned.

“Yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t sound certain anymore.

Without another thought, I press my mouth hard against his. When he moans, delicious and submissive, I groan.