Limerence (Famous Young Things #2)

Nineteen

Nineteen

Felix

T he walk from Savini’s place to mine is around 30 minutes, but the streets are dark and slick and there’s a chill in the air typical for November in London. Since I’d run out of the party after him without my jacket, I don’t fancy the journey on foot. The underground gates are closed when I get there, not due to open for another half hour, so I keep walking and flag down the first black cab that passes.

I try to shift my thoughts in any direction other than letting them linger over what’s just transpired over the last six hours. The gala, what I’m going to tell Christian, Ava, Charlie. The conversations I need to have, most likely today. I deliberately don’t think about Nico Savini’s cock, or how it felt in me, or how hard he made me come. (Like a fucking steam train, since you asked).

We should absolutely do this again.

I don’t hate you. I never have.

Manipulative prick.

Sexy, manipulative prick.

The house is dead quiet when I let myself in and toe off my shoes. In the kitchen, I pour myself a large glass of water, drain it, and then refill it. I’m at the top of the stairs when Ava’s bedroom door creaks open. She’s in her shorts and long-sleeved pyjama top, hair knotted above her head and face clean of make-up.

“Hey,” she says. “You’re alive then.”

“What are you doing awake, go back to sleep.”

“You go home with Christian?”

It’s not the first lie I’ve ever told her, and I suspect it won’t be the last. “I did.” I take a deep gulp of water. “How was Flo’s.”

“Kinda dead. Stayed for an hour.”

“Charlie go?”

She nods. There’s a pause before she says, “He told me what happened.”

“He did?”

Another nod. “He’s a mess, Felix.”

“I know. I’ll talk to him.”

“You going to bed?”

“Yeah, I’m shattered.”

“Fancy a cuddle?”

Guilt rolls over me, and I’m glad I showered at Savini’s place. Then I’m thinking about him in there, wet and hard, his fingers shoved into my ass as he fucked his tongue into my mouth. The way he dropped to his knees to eat me out like a man having his last bloody supper.

Fucking hell, what have I done?

“Sure,” I say in a weirdly upbeat voice.



When I wake up later on Saturday, Ava is still fast asleep next to me, passed out on her side. We’d stuck on an old episode of Drag Race on her laptop and nodded off after half an episode. I leave her there and climb out of bed. Downstairs, I pull up Christian’s number on my phone and he answers after two rings.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say in that same weird voice I used on Ava earlier. Was this my voice now? Had Savini fucked my old one out of me?

“Afternoon,” he says with a measure of disapproval. “I thought you’d have called me back before now.”

“Sorry, I should have.”

“I’ve been worried.”

“About me or your career?” I’m not sure where it comes from, but I immediately regret it.

There’s a pause, and I can’t tell if it is due to shock or anger. “Can’t I worry about both?”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“No? Well, it was your idea to drag me into that room and it was you that begged me to let you suck my cock, so perhaps I should worry about your judgement at least.”

This makes my cheeks heat because it’s far, far too close to the bone. My judgement was definitely something worth worrying about. “Yeah, well, you’re a grown man so how about taking some responsibility for your own actions?”

I can’t remember the last time we spoke to each other like this, and I hate it. His disappointment looms down the phone and it reminds me too much of my dad.

In the short silence that follows, I decide that it’s Nico’s fault.

“I’m sorry,” I say sheepishly. “I spoke with Savini, and he isn’t going to say a word.”

“And you believe him?” Christian’s voice is still hard-edged.

“Yeah, I do.”

He’s silent again, then he says, “Fine, then I suppose there’s nothing more we can do then other than trust him.” Trust Savini. Well, there was a concept.

“He won’t say anything, I promise.”

“Alright.”

“Should I… will I come over later?”

Another pause. “No. I have a date this evening.”

I blink at this. “ A what ?”

“A blind date. A friend of a friend arranged it. It wasn’t… easy to get out of.”

“With a woman?”

He lets out a small sigh of irritation. “Yes, Felix. With a woman.”

To my complete surprise, a flurry of contempt rises up in me.

“Well, enjoy the invigorating conversation then, I guess,” I say bitterly.

“Stop it, Felix.”

“Stop what, daddy ?”

“ Christ. I’m hanging up now. I’ll see you tomorrow; come over at 6pm sharp. Wear the plug.” And then he hangs up.

I throw my mobile down on the couch resolutely, certain that I’m not going to go over there at all. Mainly because if I do, then I’d need to tell him about Nico, about what I did with Nico, and I’m not sure I want to tell anyone that. No. I’m certain that I don’t.

But that’s not our agreement. Our agreement is I tell him about the people I fuck who aren’t him, and he tells me when he does—which he hasn’t, ever. He hasn’t even been on a date. Not once in five years, not since his wife died. So, what, now he was ready to date again? And he never thought to mention that to me? Yes, I know he just did, but surely it was something worth bringing up in conversation before now? In my mind, I stretch and contort it so that it’s just as bad as my not telling him about Savini.

And what did this mean for us exactly? Because he isn’t going to date a woman and still fuck me, which means this is potentially over. How do I feel about that?

He hadn’t sounded particularly excited by the idea of this date, he sounds like he does when he has to go on a work trip he isn’t looking forward to or take a meeting with someone he doesn’t like. But the fact that he’s doing it, that he still feels the need to keep up those heterosexual appearances, only reinforces the fact that he and I aren’t going anywhere beyond fucking at his flat and food on the couch.

Which makes me think of Savini, again. Who’d fucked me at his flat and made me food which I’d eaten on the couch—arguably the best packet noodles and the best fuck I’ve ever had, but that’s neither here nor there. Maybe I’m just a person people bang on couches; no good for anything else. Okay, I need to go outside and touch some grass because what I’m not going to do is spend the day questioning my own worth, or thinking about Nico Savini’s bed prowess for that matter.



Later, I pull on my trainers, grab my jacket, shout goodbye to Ava—who’s in the bath—and head out into a soggy Saturday afternoon.

Charlie’s place is in Camden. A modern block with a lift, an underground garage, and a Starbucks and Waitrose built into the ground floor. It’s not somewhere I come a lot and it’s two tubes away from the academy, so normally Charlie will crash at ours rather than the other way around. He’d moved here a year ago after his residency contract ran out (LBC pays for all out-of-town/city/country dancers for the first year).

I had texted first, so he’s expecting me when I ring the buzzer for his place with my knuckle. I’d stopped in a Starbucks to get some gluten-free chocolate cake, an oat milk cappuccino, and a pumpkin spiced latte, in the hope of making this feel a lot less serious.

I take the stairs to the third floor where he’s already opened the front door for me. I can hear the TV on from the living room as I step inside, the soft scent of a vanilla candle burning somewhere in the flat.

He’s on the couch dressed in plaid pyjama bottoms and a hoodie, thick socks on and a duvet about his legs. The place is so cold I think he might have the balcony doors open. But no, it’s just fucking cold.

“It’s like a fucking fridge in here,” I say as I set the coffees down. The place is clean and tidy but utterly soulless.

“There’s an issue with the boiler,” he says, half looking at the TV.

“Have you phoned the landlord?”

“Twice. He’s a prick.”

“Well, yeah, but you’re paying him for a flat with heating.”

“He’s doing it on purpose because I was late with the rent.”

“Give me your phone, I’ll fucking phone him. It’s November and you’ve no heating?” I hand him the pumpkin spiced latte.

He looks at me, a soft grateful look in his eye. “It’s fine,” he says. “I barely even feel it.”

“Have you got hot water?”

A shrug. “I’ve been showering at the academy.”

“Give me your phone, Charlie.” I’m going to tear that prick a new one.

“It’s not charged, but I’ll call him. Can I borrow yours?”

I face unlock it, hand it to him, and wander into the kitchen to check his actual fridge. It’s a pathetic display of out-of-date veg and pre-cooked protein. How he has the energy to train, I’ll never know. We eat for free and well at the academy but if we didn’t…

“I’m going downstairs to pick you up something for dinner.”

“Felix, don’t. I’ve stuff in the freezer.”

“Which will be processed muck or still frozen by dinner time. Call that prick, or I will. I’ll be back in a minute.”

In Waitrose, I fill a basket enough for him for the next few days. I’ll do an online shop for him later. I know he hates when I do this, but honestly, if I didn’t, no one fucking would. If I had another bedroom, then he’d live with me, though I know that probably wouldn’t do anything to help his misplaced affections. The ones I do my very best to ignore.

When I get back upstairs and start loading his fridge he comes over, huffing and complaining that I’ve bought too much.

“Just gonna heat this up,” he says as he tips my coffee into a mug and sets it in the microwave.

As we settle on the couch—the cake cut in half between us—we watch the rest of the episode of Heartstopper he’d been watching before I arrived. Before he can press play on another, I turn to him.

“So… you wanna explain what happened Friday in the dressing room?”

I can feel him tense. “Not really.”

“So, you want me just to pretend it never happened, then? Because honestly, whatever makes you feel better, Chaz. I’m fine either way. I just don’t want you to be feeling awkward or upset about it.”

He stares. “You’re fine either way?”

“Yeah. I mean, I was looking hotter than normal, so it’s fair that you weren’t able to control yourself in the moment. But yeah, I’m fine.” I give him an easy smile for emphasis. “So, I wanted to make sure you were too.” I know I’m being flippant and it’s potentially minimising his feelings altogether, but Charlie is skittish as a scared cat sometimes with this stuff, so I try to be easy and gentle as possible. It usually works, but this feels different to the other times he’s come onto me—he’s usually drunk—so it’s possible it won’t work this time. “You can talk to me, Chaz.”

“You’re my best friend,” he blurts. “You know that, right.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“And I just feel… a lot… for you.”

“I know that too.”

He nods, relieved. “Good. Good. And I guess sometimes that gets mixed up in my head and I don’t know, I suppose I don’t always handle it that well.”

“I think you handle it fine.”

He smiles at this. Then, quietly, looks down at his latte. “I know you know how I feel about you, and I know you don’t feel the same way. But that’s my problem, not yours. So I’m sorry for always making it… difficult.”

I sidle closer to him on the sofa. “You don’t make anything difficult, mate.”

I see him react a little at the word. But it was necessary.

“I love you and I love having you in my life, and I’m just sorry I can’t be what you need me to be.” I give him the most sincere look I own. “But if I ever do anything that makes you uncomfortable or hurts you or makes things difficult for you, then I want you to tell me, yeah?”

He laughs a little at this, a soft snort through his nose. “Your whole existence is sort of difficult for me, Lix.”

“Wow, harsh.” I grin. “But I’m sure you could find a few people who could sympathise, maybe start a support group or something: You, my dad, Ben, Savini.”

I don’t hate you, Felix. I never have.

“Another episode?” Charlie says, reaching for the remote.

“Yes. But give me some of that fucking duvet, my balls are freezing off here. Did you call him?”

“Yeah,” Charlie says without looking at me. “Said he’ll send someone round on Monday.”

“Fucking Monday?! You’ll be dead by then.”

“I have another duvet.”



Sunday, I arrive at Christian’s at 5:56pm, according to my Apple Watch. I do wear the plug, but feel weird because I’m nowhere near as hard as I usually am by the time I step inside his flat. He’s sitting on the sofa in dark jeans and a turtleneck in soft grey wool. He has his tortoiseshell glasses on and his laptop on his knees, but closes it as soon as I enter. His entire expression softens at the sight of me, not happy exactly, but something. He pats the sofa next to him and I go sit.

“So… how was your date?” I ask after a too-long silence. “Did she put out?”

His mouth twitches with amusement. “Gentlemen never tell.”

“Is that what you are? A gentleman?”

“I can be.” He reaches out and smooths my hair back, tangling his fingers in it. “I have to go to New York next week; meeting at the UN. I should be gone five days tops.”

“Right.” I angle my head and let him stroke and massage the nape of my neck. Then he curls a hand around and pulls me into his chest.

“I’m sorry I was cross with you yesterday,” he says against my hair. “It was both our faults for taking that risk. But you were correct; I’m a grown man and I can and should take responsibility for my own actions.” He presses a kiss to my hair. “But you are extremely tempting…”

I almost purr at that. “I try my best.”

He lets out a soft groan as I graze my hand over the front of his jeans.

“Did you wear it?” he whispers.

“Yes, daddy.”

Another groan.

“Show me,” he says, and I do.