by Beth Bolden
By the time they fall in bed, Landon’s concern is almost entirely dissipated and as they cuddle together under the covers, he thinks he’s never been happier.
He always thought it was bullshit when well-meaning people insisted that going through tough times gave you perspective for the good ones, but he’s surprised to find that the cliché is actually rather accurate.
They wake up to ringing phones. Landon ignores his (it’s Ian) in favor of listening as Quentin answers his. It’s the bakery, they are apparently inundated with crowds this morning, all clamoring for Quentin.
Quentin hangs up, still trying to process as he wipes the sleep from his eyes. “I guess I missed the part where the Buzzfeed article listed my place of work,” he gripes. “They want me to come in and just make an appearance I guess, stroll behind the counter and look important while they sell out of every pastry in the case.” He doesn’t sound happy. This is the sort of personal glory that Landon is beginning to realize Quentin just doesn’t revel in. But at the same time Landon isn’t surprised at the request. It’s what he would do if he happened to employ a baker of whom everyone suddenly wanted a piece of.
He is surprised a second later to hear banging on the door. Throwing on a t-shirt and sweatpants, he pads to the door to find Ian there, looking rather wild-eyed.
“My god, Landon,” Ian spits out when he’s finally let in. “You need to answer your fucking phone.”
Landon looks at him dumbfounded. “It’s two hours before you were supposed to be here,” he points out.
“There is a mob of paps around your complex,” Ian explains in a huff. “And I already got a call from the bakery. I guess it’s a madhouse down there.”
“Quentin just talked to them,” Landon explains slowly as Ian takes his laptop out of his bag and sets up on the kitchen counter. “They want him to come in, I guess and pimp their pastries.”
“He’s not going anywhere,” Ian said with an edge of pure satisfaction in his voice. “In fact, I think it’s safe to say he’s not going there again.”
“What?” Landon squawks. “What did you do?”
“I acted in his best interests,” Ian says patiently. “He doesn’t need to be working for other people right now, he needs to be working for himself.”
“That is the plan,” Quentin says, walking into the kitchen. He’s wearing sweatpants too, but he’s not wearing a shirt and Landon wants to plaster himself to his front, even with Ian here. “Eventually.”
Landon crosses his arms over his chest. “This isn’t eventually,” he points out.
“What’s going on?” Quentin asks, glancing from Landon’s aggressive pose to Ian, who looks like he’s trying to keep a lid on his own temper.
“I spoke to the bakery this morning,” Ian says carefully. “I broached the idea that it’s not in your best business interests to bake every day for them right now. Appearances, maybe, but you have a lot of important things to get lined up to start your own bakery and working there isn’t going to help you achieve that.”
Quentin looks like he’s trying to process this. Frankly, it’s a fucking shit ton to process, and Landon is impressed that Quentin’s doing as well as he is.
“So, you want me to quit.”
Landon wants to applaud because at Quentin’s words, a look of pure disgruntlement passes over Ian’s face, like he just came to the realization that Quentin will be just as much of a pain in the ass as Landon is. Landon’s look says, did you really think I’d fall for him otherwise?
“Not quit,” Ian coaxes. “I don’t want you to do the grunt work. Maybe make some appearances. Sign some autographs. Sell some pastries. Give some interviews that boost your old bakery’s sales as well as help promote the new bakery. Your bakery.”
Landon is impressed despite himself. Occasionally he’ll have these blinding realizations of just how smart and manipulative Ian is, and honestly, those moments only make him love his manager more.
There’s a furrow in Quentin’s brow and he seems to be considering what Ian is proposing very seriously. As he should. These first few steps almost always seem to set a precedent for everything to come. Quentin needs to think about himself, first and foremost, while not alienating anyone who’s helped him get where he is today. It’s yet another balancing act, and it’s one that Landon has struggled with.
“If I agree to this,” Quentin points out, “I absolutely want to make certain that I do make those appearances and use this sudden popularity to help them as well as me. I won’t shit on them. They gave me a job right out of culinary school and I wouldn’t be on Kitchen Wars if I wasn’t allowed to creatively express myself in the kitchen there.”
“Of course, of course,” Ian promises rapidly. “We’ll arrange them today, if you want.”
“What about today?” Quentin asks. “They called me. They want me to come in early.”
“Today, unfortunately, isn’t going to work. I’ve got some investors that I want you to meet with.”
The furrow deepens. “I don’t want to answer to anyone,” he says stubbornly. “I want this bakery to be mine.”
“And it will be yours,” Ian reassures. “I just want you to meet with them. You could use some startup capital that isn’t tied to the show, and they all have an excellent business track record. I think you could use their advice, at the very least.”
Quentin leans back against the counter. His face has relaxed and so have his limbs. This feels more like the comfortable negotiation that Landon was expecting when he woke up this morning.
“LA’s not cheap, particularly the spaces I have my eye on,” Quentin hedges. “The startup capital wouldn’t be unwelcome.”
“Even better.” Ian turns his laptop screen towards Quentin. “I’ve drawn up a sample contract...”
“No need,” Quentin interrupts before he can even finish. He sets the paper they drew up last night together on the counter and slides it over. “I already know the kind of conditions I want.”
Ian’s glance at Landon is approving. His look and the last ten minutes have gone a long way to reassuring Landon that Quentin is making an informed and intelligent decision. He isn’t going to let Ian walk all over him, but he will take advantage of Ian’s years in the business.
Ian and Landon have been a dynamite combination. Landon is beginning to see that Ian and Quentin could create the same kind of magic.
Quentin and Ian talk over the list, but it’s all essentially done. Ian doesn’t want things that clients don’t need to give and that’s one of the main reasons Landon was so relieved when they agreed to work together. He’d had too many years of managers demanding and then just taking.
Landon eats a bowl of cereal and takes a shower and when he’s done, the contract is printing and Ian looks up at Landon next. Quentin goes to take a shower and Landon and his manager are left alone in the kitchen.
“I want you to go outside,” Ian says and Landon, despite all the positive thoughts he’s had about Ian today, shakes his head vehemently.
“No way. I’m not going out into that mob.”
“You’ll be fine. I’ll call some security. All you have to do is stand there and let them take some pictures. Maybe some video. Let them see you. Talk about going to the studio.”
“Aren’t I going to the studio? What about Julian?”
“I texted Julian yesterday. You’re not going anywhere.”
“What? So I’ll take an Uber around the block?” Landon scoffs at this. He hates, hates, the fabrications that he participates in, even though the ones he agrees to now are less over the top and far less harmful than the ones he used to be forced into. The only blessing is that so far Ian has kept Quentin out of them. He can only imagine how Quentin would react to this farce.
“Landon,” Ian says patiently.
“I know, I know, I need to be seen. For the articles.” It’s hard, but Landon barely holds back a sneer. PR will never be his favorite part of this business.
“Yesterday was
fantastic. Better than I ever could have hoped for. But it’s not a trend. It’s a single day. We need to keep this going.”
“Right. Into the premiere, then into the finale, if we make it, and then into album promo and then album release.” Landon pauses, glances over at Ian, who is wearing that proud expression again. Landon is annoyed. “Did I get it right?”
“You know you got it right, you asshole,” Ian says with a fond chuckle. “But you’re still going outside. No matter how many circles you run around me.”
“Fine,” Landon grumbles. “Do I have to change?”
Ian looks at his threadbare sweatpants and stained t-shirt. He sighs. “Yes.”
“I certainly hope your day was better than mine, Quen. I got papped by a mob, drove around the block in an Uber, and then spent the day going stir crazy at home and wishing I could be at the studio with Julian.” Landon sighs as they rearrange themselves back on the couch. Tonight it’s Chinese, not pizza, and so far there’s been no re-heating. They’ve silenced their phones and are actually ambitious enough to attempt the quiet night in they didn’t get yesterday.
Quentin sighs too. “It was good. It was productive, anyway. I liked the people I met with. They’re smart and clever and know how to sell things.”
“But?” Landon asks.
“But it feels like giving in, to just accept their money and let them own a piece of the business,” Quentin admits. “It feels weak. It feels like I never even gave it a real shot.”
Landon is quiet for a moment as he opens his carton of fried rice. “I don’t like accepting help either,” he finally admits.
“But?” Quentin parrots back with a smile.
“But some things, they’re better if you’re not on your own.” Landon swallows and wonders if now is the right time he’s been subconsciously waiting for to share the rest of his story. Maybe now is better than later. Maybe Quentin can learn from it.
“I’ve made some really dumb decisions career-wise,” Landon continues. “Like ‘against all good advice from people who knew better than me’ decisions. When I came out? I was told it was better to wait. Like there were better times to do it, better ways, but I thought with my heart and not my head.” He pauses. “I think what I’ve learned the most from four years in the entertainment business is balance. Life and career. What I want versus what I need.”
“That’s amazing advice. It helps, it really does,” Quentin says softly, then hesitates. “Can I ask you a weird question?”
Landon stares into his fried rice. He doesn’t know what’s coming, but it can’t be good. He nods anyway, because he’s weak and he can’t say no to Quentin.
“How come you never bring up Steve when you talk about coming out?”
The answer is so easy. Landon doesn’t mention Steve because Landon hates talking about Steve. Not because he still harbors some misplaced devotion for the man, but because Landon had never been so humiliated in his entire life. Even the thought of Steve makes him want to hide in a dark room and never come out, never to be seen again.
Landon has never wanted to be ignored in his entire life, except for those months after Steve, and that deep, potentially fathomless pit of despair and pain terrifies him so much, even now. He won’t think about it. Won’t talk about it. Even with Quentin, even if he deserves to hear the truth.
Landon picks at his food. He can’t look up at Quentin. “Steve was . . . Steve is . . . I don’t talk about Steve.”
He feels the soft brush of Quentin’s hand on his shoulder. It should reassure him, but instead it makes him want to blow up and throw his food against a wall. He destroyed five cell phones during the Steve aftermath. Landon takes an unsteady breath and tries to get himself under control.
“You don’t have to,” Quentin says. He almost sounds like he really means it. “I didn’t mean to push you.”
Of course he didn’t. He’s a fucking saint. Some deep part of Landon wishes Quen would push him harder, make him face it and talk about it. But that’s ridiculous because that’s just not who Quentin is. He’s nice.
Instead of responding, Landon just buries his face into the crook of Quentin’s neck.
“Wanna watch a movie?” Quentin asks tenderly. “Netflix and chill, maybe?”
Landon lifts his head and shoots Quentin what he hopes is his good smile. As far away from the monster Steve created as possible. “My favorite kind of evening. No clothing changes required.”
Sex is a good distraction. They could both use a distraction.
Quentin’s smirk is back, and Landon can breathe a sigh of relief. “No clothes required period.”
“We’re going to be late,” Quentin says as they climb into the Uber that’s idling next to the curb. His voice is edgier than Landon has ever heard it. Maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Maybe he slept badly alone, even though he was the one who insisted he go back to his apartment and make sure his flower box herb garden hadn’t died. Maybe it’s that Landon took too long getting ready, then insisted they get coffee before catching a ride over to meet the realtor that Ian has hooked Quentin up with to help him find a space for his bakery.
Or maybe it’s the truth, which is that Quentin is taking a huge step today, shouldering an enormous responsibility to invest in a business and hire employees and set himself up as the one person it all depends on. It’s more adult than Landon has ever been, and maybe that’s part of it.
Maybe it scares Landon more than it even scares Quentin.
“Five minutes. Not a big deal.” Landon hopes his own unconcern will rub off on Quentin.
“It’s a big deal to me,” Quentin says, words harsher than his mild tone of voice. “I try never to be late.”
Landon glances over at him and shrugs apologetically. “I hate to tell you, but you’re gonna have to get used to it. I’m notorious for being late.”
He watches as Quentin overcomes a brief struggle to put the annoyance behind him and then shoots Landon a reassuring smile. It’s a shadow of what it might normally be, but Landon knows how big this is. He’s willing to excuse Quen this morning. It would be weird if he wasn’t nervous.
Unfortunately, things do not improve when they exit the Uber to find their realtor waiting on the corner.
“Hi, I’m Caleb,” he says, reaching out a hand to shake Quentin’s. He’s medium height, slender. Hair styled perfectly, clothes equally impeccable. He’s subtle about it, but he checks Quentin out top to bottom, then glances over at Landon.
It would be a lie to say that Landon is used to being recognized. It happens on a fairly regular basis, but it’s always a rush, that brilliant burst of confidence that he craves, even when he doesn’t need it. He still loves it every time it happens.
“Oh my god,” Caleb squeaks, Quentin completely forgotten, “you’re Landon Patton!”
“Guilty as charged.” Landon smiles, but unlike other times he keeps it less friendly and more professional. It’s a little weird to have a stranger gush over him right in front of Quentin. It never was before, not ever in front of Steve, but it feels weird now. He didn’t think they were in a bad place, but maybe they are, if someone gushing over him in front of Quen makes him feel weird.
“You were so great on The Voice, you should’ve won your season,” Caleb continues to gush.
The first time they met, Quen said the same thing. Landon believes he meant it. He isn’t sure Caleb does. Maybe he’s just one of those people who obsesses over celebrities. There’s lots of those in LA, and Landon tries his best to avoid them.
“And you’re here with, Quentin, is it?” Caleb says, finally remembering the job for which he was hired. Landon refrains from rolling his eyes.
“Landon’s my boyfriend,” Quentin says, and that edge is back in his voice. He’s clearly not pleased that his real estate agent is such a big fan of Landon’s.
Landon doesn’t think Quentin could really get jealous; he’s so easy going it’s hard to imagine it. But the boyfriend comment is impossible
to ignore.
“Aren’t you two lucky?” Caleb says, and Landon doesn’t even think he tries to be genuinely happy for them.
“The luckiest.” Quentin wraps an arm around Landon, tight. It would make sense except that Landon has no intention of escaping.
Caleb gestures to the building behind them. “Ian said you wanted to see places with existing kitchens, near neighborhoods. I think this is one of your best bets. Do you want to see inside?”
Quentin takes his sweet time responding. Landon wiggles out of his grasp, finishes his coffee and wishes he could take out his phone while Quentin looks up and down the block, carefully reads every neighboring business sign, then gives a short nod. “Decent location,” is all he says.
Quen will never be as loquacious as Landon is, but this is bad, even for him.
Caleb unlocks the door, and they walk in. The space to rent was a café in a former life. There are a few dusty tables and chairs, dead plants in the corners, a huge empty blackboard for a menu above the cash register.
It’s small like Quentin wants, but there’s no light. No space. It feels cramped, and it’s basically empty already.
Quentin prowls around, though, despite that Landon can tell in the first five seconds that it’s not what he’s looking for.
Landon’s scrolling aimlessly through email on his phone. He doesn’t realize Caleb has practically invaded his space until he’s right there. He glances up, catches Caleb in the act of trying to get a glimpse of his screen. Shoots him a patented Landon death glare.
Lesser men quail from the Landon death glare, but Caleb is dumb enough he’s apparently immune. “I meant what I said. I totally thought you should have won your season,” he says.