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Because in all of the realities where I’m better and I’m healed and I’m allowed to have the life I want, it’s him who’s there next to me. It’s Felix Taylor-Brooke holding my fucking hand and looking into my fucking eyes and telling me how I’m his and he’s mine. He’s not getting cream-pied by twinks he meets in Ibiza. He’s mine. And I fucking hate him for it. I hate that I’ll never get to fucking have it. But mostly, I hate myself—for being infatuated with my biggest fucking rival since I was fifteen years old. For being so embarrassingly and stupidly in love with him all these years.
This is, in fact, the truth. I do hate people. I hate Felix, too, it just so happens that I’m in love with him at the same time. Which isn’t something I’d recommend to anyone who likes being sane.
He can hate me all he wants. I’ll fuck him however he wants. Then, when his defences are low and he’s grown complacent, I’ll get him to fall in love with me.
I grin, wolfishly. “Speaking of… I haven’t stopped thinking about yours. When will you let me inside it again?” He doesn’t bite this time; he glares and stands. “I really hope you break your fucking ankle.” He storms off and I can’t help but stare longingly at his perfect ass as he goes.
But still, he is the ideal. In dance, in form, in my deepest desires: he’s the archetype of perfection.
I want you to want me the way I can’t seem to stop myself wanting you. I want you to want something real with me. I want whatever a real relationship looks like with you. I want to go to the ruins of Pompeii and take sickening couple photos with you and post them on Instagram.
He’s the only thing I don’t think I could live without. Fuck. I love him. I love Nico Savini. Fuck.
Nico shoves me against the wall and kisses me stupid. “I want to take you home, strip you naked, and eat your ass until the sun comes up.” “Christ, we really need to get you a sandwich or something,”
