by Beth Bolden
Landon leans over and nudges Quentin, careful not to disturb his cleaver-wielding. “Hey,” he murmurs into Quentin’s ear after he bends down, “I think we screwed up.” Landon pointedly glances over to where future Martha is carefully twisting and folding a large length of foil into a very credible impersonation of a spoon. Landon wants to cry.
To his credit, Quentin isn’t even phased. “It doesn’t matter,” he says staunchly. “Whatever we make will taste better anyway.”
It isn’t that Landon doesn’t trust Quentin. He does. But there’s a level of competency in Diego and Reed’s movements that he never saw before and now that he has, he can’t seem to un-see it.
Before Landon can go into a full-fledged panic over how Diego and Reed are real competition even though they’ve been saddled with no actual pots or pans or utensils, only a roll of foil, Quentin beckons him over to the cutting board he’s set up with the chicken.
“Small pieces,” Quentin instructs him, making sure to demonstrate clearly and carefully with the big knife—though it is far smaller than the cleaver he had been using.
Landon spends the next ten tedious minutes cutting the chicken, being careful and thorough, both happy and unhappy that instead of the camera capturing how horribly boring prep is, it’s focused on Quentin. He’s moving through their station like a whirlwind, seeming to do about ten thousand things at once.
Even if Quentin was the one assigned to tedious tasks, it makes sense to Landon that the camera would eat him up. He’s beautiful and charismatic and charming. He can hardly blame the camera for following him all the time—he does it himself, only forcing himself to pay attention to the task at hand because he knows how important this is.
When Landon finally finishes with the chicken, he looks up to see what whirlwind Quentin has managed to accomplish. There’s a pan of rice on the stove, there’s an entire garden of vegetables in neat, chopped piles. Quentin’s whisking the contents of several foreign-looking bottles into a bowl, his bicep flexing as his hand moves briskly. Landon swallows hard.
“All done?” Quentin asks brightly, as if Landon’s task hadn’t taken him an eternity.
“All done,” Landon confirms.
“Perfect. The wok’s all heated up, and there’s about ten minutes left, so it’s about time to start cooking.”
Landon doesn’t know where the time went. Ten minutes left? Is that even enough time? They’ve barely even interacted since the countdown started, both very absorbed in their own tasks, with almost no time for flirting or the sly, witty banter that Landon is already sure will be a very prominent feature of their edit on the show. They need to stick out with personality, not just with their flavors; if they’re boring, they’ll no doubt be shown the door in the next few weeks and Landon isn’t ready to give this up yet. So he goes with his gut, which contrary to popular belief, has steered him wrong plenty of times. All he can hope is that his current run of luck will hold.
“Show me,” he demands with a bright, crinkly-eyed smile that he knows gets him most things he wants.
Quentin looks surprised for a moment. This definitely isn’t the plan. Landon begs with his eyes to trust him, and so Quentin, beautifully trusting Quentin, does. Even beckons Landon over with a saucy grin and a quip about things getting spicy.
Landon really hopes the cameras caught that one because it’s suggestive enough, especially considering what they’ll surely get up to after filming is over, to bring a blush to his cheeks.
He’s asked Quentin to show him; Landon doesn’t actually expect Quentin to beckon him over to where the giant wok is smoking on the stove, and stick a long, thin-handled ladle into his hand.
“Come on, let’s cook,” Quentin says breezily, as if Landon isn’t staring with something close to abject terror at the wok in front of him. Before Landon can stop him, Quentin’s tossing the chicken into the pan and there’s a wall of sound and smell and steam as the raw meat hits the hot metal.
“Come on, stir it,” Quentin directs, and Landon hesitantly sticks the tool in, flinching a bit at the sheer heat radiating from the wok.
“No,” Quentin corrects after Landon half-heartedly moves the chicken around. He can see it beginning to stick and he’s terrified that he’s going to fuck up their dish because he was stupid enough to try to create some sort of moment for them. “Like this.” Quentin’s arm winds around Landon and Quentin’s hand grips where Landon is holding the kitchen implement.
Quentin’s breath is even hotter on his neck than the smoking pan in front of him. But after a few false starts and stuttered movements, their arms begin to move in sync, and Landon finally begins to understand how to prevent the meat from sticking or burning—you move it very quickly, turning and turning it, so it only has a split second on the sides of the pan.
There’s still some chicken remnants stuck to the wok when Quentin scoops it out and gently retrieves the ladle from Landon’s hand. His eyes are bright with mischief as he tosses the vegetables in. “See?” Quentin says as he works the vegetables with a much defter hand than Landon had even with Quentin’s assistance. “Not that scary.”
Landon eyes the leaping flame underneath the wok and how the vegetables sizzle as they barely brush the high sides. “I don’t much like the idea of my flesh melting off,” Landon says.
“I’d never let that happen.” Quentin sounds very certain. Landon sees out of the corner of his eye that the camera has caught this entire exchange and despite the risk, he’s almost certain his gamble was worth the potential cost.
Quentin tosses the chicken in to mix with the sauce and vegetables and though Landon is nervously eyeing the clock, which is rapidly ticking down, it’s only a few seconds before Quentin is plating their stir fry on a bed of rice and sprinkling it with the peanuts he’s already toasted.
“Done,” Quentin exclaims with a dramatic wave of his hand.
Landon lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. They’re about to put a delicious (if the scented steam rising from the plate is any indication) plate in front of the judges with about seven seconds to spare. They got some good camera time in. As long as nothing disastrous happens during judging, they should be safe again this week.
Jasper, Simone and Zach carefully and deliberately work their way down the row of plates. Their faces are annoyingly impassive, and they seem to dole out less criticism, but even less praise, than the week before. Landon doesn’t really know where they stand. And even worse they go first.
He knows they enjoy their dish of kung pao chicken, though Zach claims to prefer a more traditional sauce. Landon wonders—but can’t ask—if it’s his fault; after all, he’s the one who did the shopping in the pantry and it’s highly likely that he ended up forgetting some vital ingredient. But Zach loves the crunch of the peanuts and Jasper and Simone both remark on the flawlessly cooked vegetables. Simone points out that the chicken itself is a bit ragged in spots, and Landon narrowly avoids blushing.
Rory and Kimber are up next.
“Sushi,” Zach says thoughtfully as he neatly captures a piece of sashimi with his chopsticks. “A bit of an easy way out, yes?”
Simone sniffs. She looks like she came out of the womb with that disdainful sniff. Landon wishes he could reproduce it. “Most definitely.”
Turns out a microwave-only cooking method makes unpalatable rice and all the judges are unhappy that Rory and Kimber didn’t really attempt to cook anything of substance. Rory seems unconcerned though, smiling sunnily through the entire critique as if he could care less.
Landon wishes he could steal a bit of Rory’s laissez-faire flair. He cares a little too much—not just about the show—and he’s afraid it’s beginning to show. But the good news is that Rory and Kimber, no matter how unconcerned they appear on the surface, aren’t a judge favorite today. Landon takes heart that he and Quentin almost certainly won’t finish last.
Jeff and Jessa prepared a fairly simple bento box with rice, teriyaki chicken and some delici
ous-looking tempura-fried vegetables. They’re light and flaky and Zach demolishes his portion, poking around for another portion of zucchini as Simone gives her bite of teriyaki chicken an unimpressed glance.
“Still very simple,” she points out. “And this chicken is overcooked.”
Landon is beginning to discover that lack of execution is just as harmful as a lack of flavor. He thanks his lucky stars that he and Quentin haven’t managed to stumble into either of those issues yet.
The trio of judges move on to Oliver and Nora and their plate of noodles and shrimp.
“This is really good pad Thai,” Zach enthuses, as he deftly wraps noodles around his chopsticks.
Simone agrees, and Landon can’t help the worry that thrums through him.
“Nora,” Oliver insists as he defers to the beautiful brunette. “She lived in Thailand for several years. This was mostly her.”
“Delicious,” Simone observes. “Kudos to you for working to your team’s strengths.”
Reed and Diego also apparently worked to their team’s strengths, presenting a dish of deep yellow coconut curry. “My favorite recipe,” Diego points out as the judges each dig in a spoon to the vivid sauce.
Jasper turns to Diego in astonishment as he licks the spoon clean. “You’re a genius,” he says, and it’s far and away the best praise that any team has gotten today. Up until Nora’s pad Thai and Diego’s curry, Landon thought he and Quentin might finally have a chance to take first place.
Landon is peeved that all that foil seemed to make no difference. He’s annoyed with himself for judging the situation so badly and for wasting their money. Maybe he should have Quentin make all the auction decisions going forward, he’s just no good at it. It’s hard to stand in front of the cameras and pretend not to care.
Alice and Blair are next up and while Quentin has had nothing but praise for the latter as a pastry chef, it’s beginning to be clear that’s where her talent really lies.
The judges are unimpressed and downright disgusted at points by their Korean barbecue. They don’t like the flavor—“This is unlike any Korean barbecue I’ve ever had,” Simone points out rather bluntly—and they don’t like the execution either. “Tough and dry,” Jasper remarks. “You cooked it until it was dead twice over.”
They don’t have a single positive comment to say and Blair looks bereft as the judges move on to Paul and Carson, who have prepared a selection of dumplings.
There’s several different flavor pairings, which Landon thinks seems like a lot of work, and it shows because while nothing is terrible, nothing is particularly good either. “Perhaps less is more?” Jasper offers as a parting shot.
It’s almost certainly a much less stressful judging session than last week, and Landon feels confident that he and Quentin are sure bets to move on to the next round. So much so that his heart barely races as Alexis announces that the team in last place is unsurprisingly Blair and Alice.
Even more unsurprisingly, first goes to Diego and Reed. Second to Oliver and Nora. And again, Quentin and Landon are announced for third. It’s definitely an achievement worth celebrating over, but Landon is still a bit annoyed as they pack up to leave the studio.
“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride,” he grumbles as he zips up his jacket.
“It’s fine,” Quentin soothes. “Really. It’s better to be underestimated by the others at this stage anyway. We’re competition, but just barely. We’re not doing enough to lose, but not really enough to win either.”
Landon scrunches his nose. “Don’t tell me that’s on purpose.”
“Not exactly on purpose? But I don’t mind flying under the radar. Nobody’s given us a sabotage yet, have they?” Quentin’s eyes twinkle a bit diabolically.
“Quen!” Landon shrieks. “You’ve been holding out on me!”
Quentin just chuckles and wraps his arms around Landon, holding him tight. Burying his nose into the warm curve of Quentin’s neck, Landon feels the tension of the day finally leave him completely.
“Sorry about earlier,” he whispers so quietly that because he’s afraid both that Quentin will and won’t hear him.
But Quentin must have supernatural hearing, because he pulls back a little and looks seriously straight into Landon’s eyes. Landon thinks he must be seeing straight to his slightly tarnished soul and reading all the secrets he tries so hard to hide.
“You were right to do it,” Quentin says softly.
“I messed up so much today,” Landon can’t help but admit. “First buying that sabotage that did nothing to hurt Diego and Reed, and then springing that on you about the cooking. I could have really messed up our chances.” He doesn’t bring up the song he wouldn’t let Quentin listen to, because that goes deeper than making a bad logistical decision on the show that didn’t end up impacting their placement today. He’s also ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he doesn’t bring it up because he’s hoping Quentin’s forgotten about it.
“You’re wrong. You saved us. I got so caught up in cooking and doing everything perfectly I forgot about everything else. You reminded me. You lightened the atmosphere and gave the camera something great to capture. As for Diego and Reed, well, I think they just got lucky.”
Quentin must see a shadow of doubt in his eyes, because he just gives a sad, bewildered shake of his head—almost as if he can’t believe Landon doesn’t see how wonderful he was—and kisses him.
It’s heated almost immediately and Landon would hate the fact that Quentin distracted him from feeling sorry for himself, except that Quentin’s tongue is in his mouth and his enormous hands are on his ass and he can’t even remember why he was upset.
“Let’s go home,” Quentin says when he finally lifts his mouth off Landon’s.
Landon knew it was coming; he’d seen it barreling down the road from about ten miles away, from practically the first moment they met and Quentin, big and strong and handsome, blushed like a schoolboy with a crush.
He’s still taken completely by surprise when his heart literally tumbles out of his chest and falls right at Quentin Maxwell’s feet.
His voice trembles a little and he knows his hand is shaking as he reaches out to take Quentin’s. He’s in love. It isn’t like he never thought he’d fall in love again. It’s more like Landon believed he’d be logical and smart about it and allow it to happen, rather than him blundering into it without rhyme or reason again. But clearly love isn’t something that he can control, that much is becoming abundantly clear. Landon is just going to have to trust that this time is different. That Quentin is different.
“Okay,” he says, like Quentin casually talking about going home together is nothing. Like it hasn’t just sent Landon careening right off the cliff of good sense. Like it hasn’t made him fall in love. “Let’s go home.”
By the time they reach Quentin’s apartment in their separate cars, Landon’s heart has finally stopped pounding from his recent revelation, and is now pounding with what must be nerves.
It’s not that they haven’t had sex before—they have, even though it was only once—it’s more that Landon has never had sex with Quentin while he’s been in love with him.
This is a huge problem because Landon knows what he’s like when he’s in love. He’s sappy and cheesy and likes staring deep into his lover’s eyes and talking to him about ten thousand times a day, even if it’s just silly emojis sent back and forth, or dozens of snapchats. Sure, Quentin liked Landon a lot when Landon was himself. But now he’s in love Landon and he’s afraid in love Landon is going to push Quentin away.
Realistically, Landon knows it’s stupid; knows he’s being silly and that his feelings are likely reciprocated. But logic doesn’t help make his heart beat any slower as he climbs the stairs.
Landon taps hesitantly on the door, and Quentin calls out, “It’s open!”
Landon walks in and nearly walks right back out. Except that he’s actually stuck in place, glued to the floor by the scene in front of
him.
The entryway into the living room is dark, the only light a few scattered candles. There’s a faint smell of vanilla and lemon in the air and it takes Landon a moment to realize what it reminds him of—it’s the scent of Quentin’s hair. The earthy perfume of Quentin’s bed when he woke up that one wonderful morning next to him.
Landon scrubs a hand over his face. He is so, so fucked. How is he supposed to rein in all the embarrassingly sappy bits of himself when it feels like Quentin is trying to lure them out one candle at a time?
Landon gingerly takes another step inside, hoping against hope that he doesn’t spot any rose petals haphazardly sprinkled over the hardwood. Candles he can maybe handle; rose petals would turn him into a sappy mess and he won’t be able to keep Quentin from seeing all of it.
“I’m in the bedroom,” Quentin calls out and Landon rolls his eyes a bit. Of course he is. Landon resumes his prayer that there are no rose petals.
Except that there are. Landon pauses at the doorway to the bedroom, the visual laid out in front of him stopping him in his tracks for the second time in the last minute.
At least they aren’t on the bed. They’re clustered around the bed, vases overflowing with not just roses, but other flowers too. The scent they’re throwing off isn’t as sickly sweet as Landon might have imagined, not with the sheer amount clustered in the room. Instead, it’s delicate and floral and lovely.
“It’s too much, isn’t it?” Quentin asks, and there’s chagrin in his voice and if Landon listens hard enough, he can hear the narrowest, sharpest edge of embarrassment there too. And while Landon might feel scared enough of his own tendency towards romance, there is no universe in which he will ever let Quentin feel bad about his.
In a way it’s a blessing, because sudden fear that Quentin might regret this beautiful statement and wish he’d never done it powers Landon right over the threshold. He wraps his arms around Quen and holds him as tightly as he can.