Taste on my Tongue

by Beth Bolden

  With five minutes to go, and the distinct sounds of swearing coming from the tiny kitchen, they pop the pasta quickly in a pot of boiling water and then Quentin, with lots of Landon’s assistance, combines it with the sauce, and then carefully positions it into a beautiful swirl in the center of their bowl. Landon holds the parmesan cheese steady as Quentin swipes a grater over the surface, dusting the pasta with cheese. A sprinkle of herbs and they’re done.

  Quentin wipes his brow when they sit back and Alexis re-enters to count down the final seconds. Landon feels as apprehensive as he looks. Rory has a beautiful dish of what looks to be scampi, and even Diego and Reed have put together something that at least looks good. It might not be cooked, but their presentation is gorgeous.

  This time, the judges start with Quentin and Landon.

  “Pasta Bolognese with herb fettuccine and some parmesan cheese,” Quentin explains politely as he nervously eyes Zach Emory. He is the Italian here.

  “Pasta is perhaps a trifle soft,” Zach pronounces, “but the herbs are delicious, and the flavor of the sauce stands up well against them. A great job.”

  “I’m going to eat this whole bowl,” Jasper jokes, which sends Landon’s heart into an unsteady rhythm. Jasper doesn’t tend to joke. He’s unreasonably serious most of the time. And he is probably the pickiest person that Landon has ever met in his entire life. He could find fault with anything.

  “An excellent dish of pasta, boys,” Simone adds. “Could have used a tiny bit more salt, though.”

  Quentin raises his eyes skyward and Landon knows he is thinking about how he was literally not allowed to taste the food before it was put in front of the judges. Frankly if a bit of salt is all they’re missing, it’s a miracle.

  Still, Landon feels confident about them heading to the final. They didn’t have a single major flaw.

  Of course, Rory and Kimber don’t really either.

  “This is really good,” Zach claims, as he wraps the pasta around his fork. “Though I get that bit of woodiness that I usually do from dry pasta. I’m assuming this isn’t fresh.”

  Landon doesn’t think he imagines the quick, dirty look that Rory shoots Quentin.

  “No, it’s not fresh,” Rory admits.

  “Fresh pasta and a sauce in thirty minutes isn’t easy,” Zach says understandingly. Landon doesn’t want him to be understanding, but then he keeps going. “But your competitors did it and did a credible job.”

  “Still, this is delicious,” Simone says.

  “I think my shrimp might be overcooked,” Jasper adds, and there is the picky judge that Landon knows—and doesn’t love at all. “Just a tad. How are yours?” he asks the others.

  “Mine are a bit on the rubbery side too,” Simone admits.

  Landon thinks they’re barely inching out Rory and Kimber when the trio of judges hits the wild card of the day, Diego and Reed. They could have done something spectacular with that tiny kitchen, but Landon is betting (hoping) that they didn’t.

  “A spicy raw tomato sauce,” Reed explains politely. Maybe Landon should feel bad that he condemned them to serving raw sauce, especially now that he knows about Reed and his boyfriend, but Landon isn’t that selfless.

  It takes a long time after that first bite before Zach says anything. Landon feels like his breath is clawing out of his lungs and there’s a hush that’s fallen on the entire set as everyone waits for what he thinks of this “raw” sauce.

  Zach, of course, figures it out. “This doesn’t strike me as a particularly ‘raw’ sauce,” he finally says. “Not the purpose of raw anyway. It more strikes me as a sauce that just isn’t cooked.”

  The oven and stove with their lightbulb heating elements have done their job. Landon wants to give himself a high five. He settles for giving Quentin a low five under the cover of their station.

  Jasper and Simone make similar comments, and even though everyone protests that the taste is good, Landon knows it’s not going to be enough to save them.

  It isn’t. Landon doesn’t feel a single ounce of remorse when fifteen minutes later, Diego and Reed are sent packing.

  Landon and Quentin have made it to the final.

  You promised me I could listen, is the text message Landon gets from Quentin three days later. Tonight. Please?

  Shit. Landon’s palm is sweaty as he slides his phone into his pocket, message unanswered.

  This is the fifth time Quentin has asked, and the most direct he’s ever been. Landon’s run out of excuses that aren’t the truth, and the thought of admitting what he worries about in the middle of the night makes his palms even more damp.

  He’s kept hoping that the longer he puzzles out this problem of their fundamental differences, the greater chance he might stumble onto a solution. Landon can’t believe that he spent so many rapturous hours in the beginning of their relationship obsessed over how alike they are.

  The similarities haven’t changed; Landon’s just become more and more aware of their differences. If he was still going to his therapist, he has a feeling she’d be tossing around phrases like “honeymoon period” and “adjusting to the reality of a serious relationship.”

  Landon is not ready to face the possibility that someday Quentin will get fed up with the attention Landon craves and leave. Steve leaving was devastating, but Landon isn’t sure how he’d make it through Quentin leaving. The stray thought is enough to send him into a cold sweat.

  His phone vibrates in his pocket again. He pulls it out, and this time it’s not a text. This time it’s Quentin calling. Probably because he knows Landon read the text and ignored it.

  Quentin calls three more times over the next hour, and by the end of it, Landon is a mess. Julian has to call his name multiple times, at increasing volume, to even get his attention. Finally, he throws his hands up and tells Landon they’ll meet back up tomorrow. “Go home,” Julian says, “and get your head on straight.”

  Landon wishes that would be enough to do it.

  He putters around the studio for another twenty minutes after Julian leaves, but he can’t put it off any longer. Feels sick at the possibility of dragging this out any longer.

  Maybe it’s a good thing Quentin is forcing the issue. Landon can finally stop worrying about what happens when the subject inevitably arises.

  Quentin’s got something delicious-smelling simmering on his stove, some sort of soup, and he’s hunched over his laptop on the counter, typing something that’s made the crease between his brows grow even more pronounced.

  “Something going on with the bakery?” Landon asks. He’s deliberately avoiding the real issue, and as Quentin glances up, it’s clear he knows it too.

  “You have your phone on silent today?” Quentin asks casually, but it’s not a casual question. Landon never has his phone on silent.

  The lie sticks in Landon’s throat. Finally, he shakes his head, no.

  Quentin sighs and Landon hates the long-suffering edge it has. “Are you gonna tell me what’s up with you? Why suddenly you’re not responding to my texts? Dodging my calls? Making a bunch of shitty excuses that a five-year-old could see through?”

  This whole time Landon has kind of wanted Quentin to call him on his bullshit, but now that’s happened, all he wants to do is run away. There’s no more excuses Landon can make. He’s done all the things Quen is accusing him of. Quentin has the patience of a saint and has miraculously withheld judgment, but there’s no way that’ll continue.

  “You sick of me? Done playing house? Is that it, Landon? You want me to give up on you?” Quentin’s voice is creeping upwards in volume.

  “That’s the last thing I want.” It’s the only truth Landon can give.

  Quentin jerks to his feet and shoves a hand through his unruly hair. He starts pacing in the living room, frustration ripe in every jerky movement of his body. “Then what the fuck, Landon,” he finally says. Stops. Turns towards Landon. His gaze is burning blue, intense and angry. It’s ironic that this reaction was t
he very one Landon was trying to avoid, yet here they are all the same.

  “I’ve been trying to avoid this.” Another single nugget of truth.

  “Well, you’re doing a terrible job,” Quentin snaps.

  “I know,” Landon says, miserable and sick. “Maybe I should just go . . .” It’s a terrible thought; Landon has a feeling that once he walks out that door, he won’t be coming back anytime soon.

  “No.” Quentin practically yells it. “I want you to tell me what the fuck is wrong with you. Why you’re not sleeping. Why you’ll let everyone else hear your music except me. Is the album about Steve? Is that it? You’re not over him?”

  Landon wraps his arms around himself. In a different scenario, he might be amused how Quen could get so close, yet be so far.

  “I’m over him; I’m not over what he did to me,” Landon admits. So far it’s the closest to a dangerous truth that he’s gotten.

  “He left you,” Quentin states, and his voice is a little calmer. “I’m not going to leave you, unless you god damn force me. And you’re forcing me right now, by pulling this.”

  Landon knows it. He’s been caught between this rock and a harder place for weeks. Maybe he should just spit it all out and let the cards fall where they will. Maybe it means he’ll lose Quentin, but maybe losing Quentin would be better than driving him away like this.

  Landon reaches into his pocket and pulls out the thumb drive with all the songs. “You want to listen? Fine. Listen.”

  Quentin grabs the drive like his life depends on it and wastes no time shoving it into his laptop. If Landon thought he was going to share this experience and it was going to be beautiful and glorious, that moment has long passed. He feels a hairline fracture in his heart as he realizes that the first time Quen will ever listen to all the songs about him, he’ll be angry. Angry at Landon.

  Quentin pulls his headphones on, and spends the next forty-ish minutes listening in silence, his face completely blank. Landon knows because he stares at him for the entire time, barely blinking, halfway to tears, desperately wondering what Quentin is thinking as he listens.

  It must finally end because Quentin braces his arms on the countertop, and bows his head. He seems overcome by some sort of emotion. Landon hopes it isn’t pure rage. He doesn’t think that an album full of love songs could diminish Quen’s feelings, but Landon’s tested them both these last few weeks.

  He pulls the headphones off and turns towards Landon. His voice is rusty, gruff. “This is about me, about us. Why would you hide it from me?”

  “If I come out with these songs, everyone is going to know it’s about you.”

  Quentin still looks confused, so Landon is forced to continue, forced to utter every single damning word. He wants to cry.

  “You don’t like the attention. You don’t want the attention. Not like I do. I want to yell about how much I love you in front of thousands of people. You’re more comfortable in front of a few. I thought we were perfect for each other . . . but I think I was wrong.”

  “Is this because of the thing with Caleb?” Quentin asks, still confused.

  “Yes. No. Sort of.” Landon doesn’t know how the thought originally germinated, but it’s been growing and that particular morning fed it. The meeting with the Epic marketing executive cultivated it. The way Quentin has constantly and consistently turned every bit of personal attention away is what gives it life.

  “You’re wrong,” Quentin says, and the certainty in his voice punches the breath out of Landon’s lungs. “You’re so fucking wrong.” He reaches for Landon, for the first time since he walked in, and Landon feels his knees sag a little with relief as Quentin holds him close, tucking him under his chin. “I can’t believe you wouldn’t talk to me about this.”

  “When Steve left,” Landon confesses, voice wobbly, because he hates talking about the way Steve made him feel like a stranger in his own body, “it wasn’t only humiliating. It wasn’t only rejection. It was everything. All of it. I can’t do that again. Not with you.”

  Quentin cradles him like he’s precious. And despite his fucking stupid behavior, maybe he really is, to Quen.

  “Not going anywhere,” Quentin vows. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in a year when you pull another stupid-ass stunt. I know you. I know you blossom under attention, that you crave it. I don’t care. You could put me on some stupid reality TV show, make me a Kardashian, I don’t give a shit, as long as it’s with you. Fuck, I already put myself on a reality TV show. How could you think that would make any difference? I love you. Not sometimes. Not only if you do stuff I like. All the time, Landon.”

  Landon stands there for a long moment, feeling the rapid heartbeat under his cheek, and knows that Quentin’s telling the truth. It doesn’t make sense, but it’s the truth.

  “You really mean that.” Landon still can’t quite believe it.

  “I really mean that.” Quen pauses. “Also, you’re a genius. I love the album, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away, I should’ve. I was just . . . blown away that it was about me, when I’d sorta convinced myself that you wouldn’t let me listen because it was about Steve and how much you still cared about him.”

  This actually makes a sick sort of sense. Landon wouldn’t talk about Steve, and avoided playing Quentin his songs. He can’t blame Quentin for wondering that. Besides, if anyone here needs to apologize, it’s Landon.

  “I’m sorrier,” Landon says. “I was a total shit.”

  “A real brat,” Quentin says, but his voice is affectionate. Like he knows it, and accepts it, and it doesn’t bother him.

  “You’re going to get sick of it, I promise you,” Landon says. Warns. He is still a little bit afraid, and will be afraid for a long while longer. Only time can give Landon the reassurances he really needs.

  “Doubtful.” Quentin slips a hand under Landon’s chin and lifts his head gently, so he can press their lips together. “I told you I love you.”

  Landon deepens their kiss. He’s said everything he can; maybe it’s time to show Quentin how he really feels. His hand trails down Quentin’s arm and intertwines their fingers. He gives Quentin a little tug. “Maybe I should show you how much I love you,” he says and when Quen giggles, Landon lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

  Landon settles his knees further into the comforter and arches his back, pushing the curve of his butt deeper into Quentin’s face. “Like that, Quen?” Landon croons as he wiggles just the tiniest bit, giving Quentin a taste of his own medicine.

  If he had the available brain cells to truly consider it, Landon might think that he enjoyed this other side of their relationship too—when they flip the power and he gets Quentin literally on his knees, then on his back—but he doesn’t. He just doesn’t. Because Quentin’s slipped his tongue down his crack, and is now teasingly circling his hole and the pleasure is hot and thick in his veins.

  “We should do this after every fight,” Landon breathes out unsteadily, his voice high and breathy.

  Landon can feel Quentin’s chuckle, and it’s way hotter than it should be.

  That’s another thing he loves so much about Quentin; the bedroom isn’t always serious. They can laugh and joke and tease and still make each other moan all in the space of five minutes. It’s brilliant.

  Landon leans forward, careful to not move from where Quentin is finally applying himself to his work, and lets just his breath ghost over Quentin’s hard cock. It’s hard and bright red at the tip, pre-come bubbling out of his slit. There’s a wordless whine from the general direction of where Quentin’s upper half is buried under Landon’s body. Landon just laughs.

  “Yeah, you want it,” Landon croons to Quentin’s dick as he leans a bit further down, close enough that he can swipe just his tongue across the head, gathering the taste of Quentin there.

  Quentin’s hips stutter upwards, chasing Landon’s mouth, but Landon places his hands on his thighs and presses hard. Hard enough to leave blooming red marks across
the pale skin. He trusts that Quentin will do something if he hurts him, but all Quentin seems to want to do is flick his tongue against Landon’s hole harder and more insistently. Which Landon is pretty okay with.

  “Don’t move,” Landon insists. “And if you want more, you’d better give me something.”

  Quentin’s reaction is almost instantaneous. Landon gets a spit-slick finger sliding next to Quentin’s tongue almost before he can imagine what it is that Quentin will do. A tiny whine escapes from Landon’s throat and he can’t help but want to arch his back even more insistently into Quentin’s face.

  But Quentin’s so good, Landon wants to reward him. So he leans forward again and this time his mouth sinks down onto Quentin’s cock, his fingers still holding on to Quentin’s thighs to keep him in place.

  It gets hot so fast, Quentin’s cock practically down his throat, and Quentin’s tongue and fingers practically wrenching Landon’s orgasm from him.

  It doesn’t take Quentin much longer, his entire body tensing as he shoots into Landon’s mouth.

  Landon reaches for a spare sock next to the bed and wipes down his tummy as Quentin lies back against the pillows, curls frizzing around his face, a smile on his face.

  “Liked that, didn’t you?” Landon teases.

  Quentin just shrugs, radiating calm from every pore. Landon throws the sock to the floor, damn Quentin’s inevitable scream of betrayal when he goes to put it on the next morning, and snuggles up next to him.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Quentin asks. “I feel like maybe we should talk about it.”

  Landon would rather walk over burning hot coals than talk about his sexual kinks, newly discovered or otherwise, but he and Quentin are in an adult relationship and they love each other. He was stupid before, keeping it all inside. He can’t do that anymore, as much as he wants to. Quentin deserves better, and the love pulsing through Landon makes him want to be that better man.