Banana

He often wonders what Ben would taste like if he ever got up the courage - or whatever suicidal spur he needed - to kiss him. He has plenty of theories. There are those long afternoons when he thinks Ben would taste like energy drinks and filtered sunlight, nights when he’d taste like whiskey and cigarettes - most cliché - or the cold white hotel mornings when he’d taste like herbal toothpaste and something metallic, unknown, the remnant of a lucid dream.
Ben kisses him first on an impossibly hot evening. He tastes like ripe fruit, sweet and complex and bright, a banana cultivar not yet discovered.