by Beth Bolden
It hurts, a little, Quentin claiming the reason he knows him is because he watched him on TV a few years ago. Parts of that Landon were real, but the real Landon wants Quentin to love him for who he is now.
The hurt feels fair, after the awkwardness with the song earlier, and so Landon hooks a thumb under the waistband of the loose sweatpants Quentin’s wearing, nearly pushing them right off his hips. Landon knows just how little Quentin is wearing under those—exactly nothing—and he doesn’t need much encouragement to drop to his knees and begin mouthing at the fabric covering Quentin’s already hardening cock.
A blowjob and an embarrassingly quick hand job later, they’re tucked back in bed, Landon collapsed across Quentin’s chest, Quentin’s hand gently untangling the strands of Landon’s hair. They’re drifting in that space between wakefulness and sleep, and Landon can’t even remember the last time he felt as relaxed as he does right now.
It’s the perfect moment for confessions, and Landon has one he desperately wants to make. But the words are thankfully stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he finally drifts off, the litany of them repeating in his head.
His last conscious thought is, thank god I don’t talk in my sleep.
Quentin doesn’t have to work in the morning, but Landon is supposed to be at the studio by noon. He takes a shower, borrows Quentin’s clothes that conspicuously do not fit him, and is at the studio by 12:15. Ian just shakes his head, completely unsurprised, but Landon does see a hint of a smile on his face—and if Ian knew where he spent the last night, he makes no mention of it as they walk into the recording studio.
The next few days pass in a bit of a blur.
This time it’s not aimless fooling around with shit new lyrics or re-tooling old songs.
Landon is signed and contracted and working on his new album with Julian, his real live producer.
Julian was brought in by the label based on the ongoing discussions about Landon’s new serious singer-songwriter vibe. It’s to everyone’s surprise that Landon announces he wants something completely different.
“I want to write an album about falling in love,” he announces midway through the afternoon on the first day.
“I thought we were going in a new direction,” Julian suggests, not unkindly. And Landon did say he wanted to do that, but it’s hard to write something angsty and profound when he feels lit up from within, like the world’s largest neon sign that reads “I’ve got a huge fat crush on Quentin Maxwell.”
Or, you know, something a little shorter that could actually fit on his body.
Julian furrows his brow and Landon shifts uncomfortably from side to side.
“Okay, explain to me how this fits into your vision.”
“New vision,” Landon says. “I wanna do some retro Madonna-esque pop. Like real eightees shit. A story about falling in love.”
“I thought we were gonna go the singer-songwriter route,” Julian points out.
It hadn’t been a bad idea, really, but the idea had never sat comfortably on Landon. He’d wanted to be taken seriously, but he wasn’t sure he could pull off that sort of Ed Sheeran gravitas.
“Fuck being serious,” Landon says, and finds he actually means it—way more than he ever meant that he wanted to go the singer-songwriter route. Sitting on a stage by himself with a guitar and a plaid shirt just isn’t for him. “I wanna make fun music that I can dance to in my kitchen.”
“I didn’t know you used your kitchen.”
“Ian told you,” Landon groans.
“Ian told me,” Julian confirms with a sly smile. “And that you’ve got a massive crush on your partner. He said it was embarrassing. And he was right.”
“It’s not embarrassing,” Landon argues. “It’s inspirational.”
And it turns out to be absolutely inspirational.
On the fourth day, Landon is pacing around the studio, ranting about how Quentin is his new favorite color, and they need to work that into a song. Julian is nodding along, writing notes, actually acting like Landon is onto something big, instead of just being a huge asshole in love.
Landon loves Julian.
Actually, Landon loves Quentin. With that thought, his phone buzzes.
It’s Quentin. Of course, it’s Quentin.
Rory is throwing a cast party next week after filming. You in, superstar?
Landon has been doing so much thinking and writing and singing about Quentin that he really hasn’t had an opportunity to miss him. But the text brings it all crashing back. How springy Quentin’s hair is, how he purrs when Landon rubs his hands through it, the wistfulness in his clear blue eyes as they’d said goodbye on his front step only a few days ago.
It’s a no brainer for Landon to reply: Of course. When and where?
He sends the text and then instantly thinks of something else. Be my date?
Quentin texts back the location of the restaurant Rory works at and the time. And a second message too: Thought I already was. I’m a sure thing.
Quentin might think he’s a sure thing, but there’s no surer thing than Landon at this point. He’s flush with love and is far gone enough to be writing songs about it.
“Just a suggestion,” Julian points out, “but you might want to tone down the starry eyes a bit when you see him next.”
Landon just isn’t sure if he can. He’s been constructing daydreams in the sky for the last three days. It’s gonna be a bit tough to return to the hard, solid ground.
He practices his most neutral expression and Julian just laughs.
“When are you going to play him these, anyway? Because you are, right?”
Landon’s throat gets tight. “When the time is right.” He doesn’t know when that is, but he knows it exists.
“They’re a bit . . . well . . . obvious,” Julian points out. Again, not unkindly. Julian is a great sounding board because he will absolutely tell you if something is shit.
“I want to work on the color song,” Landon says, changing the subject. “I think I was onto something.”
Julian rolls his eyes a little, but picks his pad right back up. Landon takes that as a good sign.
By the time they leave the studio at ten that night, the song is mostly done and even Julian looks surprised at how good it turned out. “Honestly,” he confesses as they drag their coats on. “I thought the whole idea was terrible. Waited to see if you could make anything coherent out of that ranting, and you did. More than coherent, actually.”
Landon flushes with pride. “You really think so?”
Julian pats him on the shoulder reassuringly. “Landon, I’m not kidding. It’s a gorgeous song. Any guy would be thrilled to have a song like that written about him.” He pauses. “You know, if you feel this strongly about him, maybe you should think about telling him. He probably feels the same, at least if what you’ve told me is true.”
The last thing Landon needs is anyone helping unstick the words. He’s very okay with the words being stuck. “I’ll think about it.”
He means to forget what Julian said as soon as he closes the studio door, but instead that’s all he can think about. They’re filming tomorrow, and Landon is afraid he’s coming down with an acute case of word vomit.
“I missed you,” Quentin says when Landon walks into their green room the next morning. He wraps his arms firmly around Landon’s middle and kisses him unabashedly.
Landon gave himself a very stern lecture in the mirror this morning. No untoward confessions today, especially before filming and especially when they get to Rory’s party later.
There wasn’t anything in the lecture about this. “I missed you too,” Landon breathes out unsteadily as they finally break apart. “I’m sorry this week turned out so crazy.”
“I lost you to a vortex of music,” Quentin says with a nonchalant shrug. “As long as I get you back, that’s all I care about.”
Landon is still breathless. He’s rather taken with the idea of Quentin wanting him back.
�
�I’m right here,” he insists softly.
“Good.” Quentin pulls him in for an even tighter hug. Maybe that’s why Landon can’t quite catch his breath; he’s had his lungs squished by a giant Quentin. “Ready to kick some ass today?”
“I’m ready to do better than place third,” Landon confesses as Quentin releases him and he turns to check his hair in the mirror.
“Oh, baby,” Quentin says as he nuzzles into the soft hairs at the base of Landon’s neck. Landon shivers. “We’re gonna do a hell of a lot better than third.”
Landon believes him. There’s a cocky restlessness in Quentin’s movements today, a certainty that he hasn’t ever seen before. Or maybe it’s just a week without any sex besides the manual variety. Landon is certainly feeling a bit edgy himself.
He believes him even more when they’re standing in front of Alexis Leavy and she announces the theme of the week.
“It feels so early this morning, I want you to make the judges . . . breakfast.”
Landon’s heart jumps in his chest. Breakfast. They can totally rock breakfast.
“But first,” Alexis continues, the evil edge to her voice returning, “the overall challenge of this episode. The chef will be prepping, the celebrity cooking.”
Landon would have panicked for sure if Quentin hadn’t just taught him how to cook pancakes. This is going to be easy.
He turns his head to meet Quentin’s gaze and discovers that Quentin is definitely smirking back at him. It isn’t much of a stretch at all to imagine that Quentin is also remembering that wonderful evening they spent together, cooking up orgasms and pancakes.
“First, your sixty-second shop. Then we’ll move on to the auction portion of the challenge,” Alexis says.
Quentin picks up their basket and he’s off and running with the rest of the chefs, battling it out in the pantry. Landon watches, not even slightly anxious, as Quentin throws boxes and bottles and containers into their basket with the air of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.
Usually Landon might worry about being over-confident; however, today he just feels like there’s no way they can’t knock this out of the park.
Sixty seconds later, Quentin returns to their station with a full basket of ingredients and a rather triumphant smile. “Nailed it,” he murmurs into Landon’s ear. “Don’t bother bidding. We can do this.”
Exactly what Landon was thinking. He kind of loves how in sync their thinking has become. It’s hard not to imagine that it’s evidence of their growing feelings.
The first auction item is wheeled out. “A campfire stove,” Alexis announces. “Perfect for cooking when Jasper and his kids go camping.”
Landon hates camping. He eyes the jumping flames and the small cooking surface of the stove and prays they aren’t given this item. Nobody looks particularly concerned though. Rory even looks excited at the possibility. Landon hopes that nobody wastes their money and gives the stove to him.
The bidding is brisk, with Carson and Jeff battling it out for the right to hand it over to someone.
Carson wins with a relatively small bid of only $2,500, and like Landon expected, he gives the stove to Jeff and Jessa. The danger, Landon reflects, of driving up the price on an auction item, is the winner is far more likely to have short-term memory and just give it to you.
Landon remembers stupidly bidding for that tin foil challenge and how easy Diego and Reed made it look. It’s certainly made him a more cautious bidder.
Up until when Alexis has her assistants wheel out a rather diabolical-looking prep station, fashioned as a giant lazy Susan, rotating at a steady clip already.
“One word about this fun experience,” Alexis explains. “It never stops. Sometimes it might go slower. Sometimes it might faster. But it won’t ever completely stop.”
Landon knows he blanches and the camera probably catches the fear in his eyes. Even if he doesn’t have to personally deal with this, he does not want Quentin to.
“One thousand dollars,” Rory shouts the instant Alexis opens bidding.
“Fifteen hundred dollars,” Nora chimes in, with her rather silent partner, Oliver, nodding along. Nora’s gorgeous, but rather deadly-looking. Landon would rather not bid against her.
Apparently Quentin has none of Landon’s compunction.
“Seventeen hundred dollars,” Quentin says before Nora’s voice even fades from the air. Shocked, Landon whips his head around to where Quentin is standing. He gives Landon a little disparaging shrug. And honestly, Landon can’t blame him. The thing looks evil.
“Two,” Rory bids again.
“Two five,” Nora says. She sounds perfectly calm and perfectly determined to win this sabotage.
“Three,” Rory responds instantly. Quentin doesn’t chime in this time. Maybe he’s decided to let Rory and Nora battle it out.
“Three three,” Nora answers.
“Three seven,” Rory cries, his features animated and a little bit desperate. Quentin leans over and whispers to Landon that Rory gets dizzy really, really easily. Which definitely explains his desire to win.
Nora demurs and Rory wins the sabotage for $3,700.
Landon almost certainly expects him to saddle Nora and Oliver with the awful contraption. He doesn’t really even contemplate the possibility that Rory will gesture wildly at Quentin and declare that he’s always wanted to see his good friend run around a table.
Landon feels panic rising in his throat. It must show because Quentin leans over again. “It’ll be fine, Landon, promise. We’re lucky it’s just pancakes. I could whip those up upside-down.”
Landon chokes out a laugh. “Don’t give Alexis any ideas.” He absolutely means it. If they’re saddled with anything else, he’s not sure they’re going to make it out of this week.
“Thirty minutes to make breakfast,” Alexis cries out, and suddenly there’s a lazy Susan prep station in their section and Quentin is rather effortlessly jogging around it as he pours flour into a bowl.
“Landon,” Quentin says like he’s not currently running around a circling table, “get a skillet and a small saucepan from the equipment shelves.”
Landon is getting dizzy even watching Quentin and it’s only been a minute. He’s grateful to be able to turn away and go scrounge up the equipment that Quentin’s requested.
“The raspberries into a pan with some sugar,” Quentin barks out, still fairly pleasant, even though the table has begun to diabolically spin even faster.
“How much sugar?” Landon asks, and his own voice is definitely panicked—even higher and even squeakier than usual.
“Oh, a good shake or two.” Quentin glances over as Landon experimentally shakes some sugar from the plastic container into the saucepan. “That’s good,” he says, and Landon sets it on the stove.
Quentin instructs Landon to turn the heat on high. “We’re making blueberry sour cream pancakes with raspberry syrup,” he informs Alexis when she drifts over by their station, no doubt interested in seeing how well her evil invention is crippling them.
But Quentin, as far as Landon can tell, is completely unconcerned. He whisks eggs into sour cream, pours in vanilla and even manages to pretty successfully grate the rind of a lemon into his pitcher of wet ingredients.
Every few rotations, he’ll glance over to Landon for an update on the raspberries. As far as Landon can tell, they’re bubbling away fine.
The first problem happens when the table slows unexpectedly, and Landon gasps out loud as Quentin’s elbow catches on the edge of the blueberry carton, sending it flying all over the floor underneath their station.
“Shit,” Quentin yells. Rory glances up from where he’s bent over his cutting board. His stationary cutting board.
“Guess you’re making sour cream pancakes sans blueberries,” Rory cackles. “Tough luck, buddy.”
“All your fault,” Quentin insists. There’s an edge of frustration to his voice, but it’s still mostly pleasant.
“Is this going to
be okay?” Landon hisses over at Quentin.
Quentin just shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. We’ll make it work. No point in crying over spilled blueberries.” He shoots Landon a quick, reassuring smile and Landon tries to smile back, but he’s not feeling it. Something uncertain is roiling at the base of his stomach and he’s just not ready for this to be over, okay? Not like this, not over a stupid rotating table and some blueberries.
He looks over to Jeff and Jessa’s station, praying that they’re worse with the campfire stove than he and Quentin are. At this point, it might come down to whoever makes the most mistakes out of the two of them.
Jessa is bent over the campfire, shaking a skillet with what Landon thinks are potatoes. Jeff is coaching her, and it doesn’t seem to be going well. Jessa’s face is blotched with red and Jeff looks like he’s about to throw the skillet across the room.
It cheers Landon just enough. He turns back to Quentin. “I think we might be okay,” he says quietly. “Just have to hold on, okay?”
“I said, we’re good,” Quentin says but this time there’s a distinct edge of frustration in his voice. Landon isn’t sure that Quentin’s even buying what he’s selling. He’s begun to lag behind the table just a half a step and he looks exhausted, his own face flushed and sweaty. There’s only one circumstance under which Landon wants Quentin to look flushed and sweaty and it’s not while cooking pancakes.
“We’re really close to finishing up the batter, then you can have a break,” Landon pleads with as much encouragement as he can muster. “So close, Quentin!”
It must help, because Quentin makes one last push, pouring the wet ingredients into the dry and folding them as efficiently as he can while actually chasing them around the table.
“Heat the skillet,” Quentin instructs. “Lots of butter. But make sure it doesn’t burn.”
Quentin carefully grabs the bowl full of batter off the table and hands it to Landon, who cradles it like he’d carry one of his baby sisters. With respect and care. This is Quentin’s future, in his hands. His future, too, he’s begun to think.
Quentin walks over to the stove, and examines the raspberries. “Those will need to come off the heat,” he says, and Landon reaches over and pulls them off.