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Geralt dusts the counter with flour, a beautiful snowy scene to match the weather outside. The savory smells of spiced meat and cabbage still linger in the air but will soon dissipate under the neutral warmth of the preheating oven.
Plop. Geralt drops the well-rested ball of dough in his makeshift carpet of flour. Some of the flour puffs into the air and somehow makes their way on his apron. He glances at the clock. No matter. Geralt’s on a mission.
When he first met Jaskier, the boy, er, man, seemed fit enough. But when he got a good look at him with a sober eye under the revealing light of the daytime sun, he could see the defined ribs and the hip bones that jutted at his sides.
He’d never been into elaborate cooking for himself or anyone outside of his family. Those grocery delivery boxes were enough kitchen duty for him. He could follow a recipe just fine, but the method was more utilitarian than anything else. If he didn’t cook, he didn’t eat. Takeout or delivery were for lazy days and not to be relied upon (not mention they would cost more in the long run). He was competent not to set anything aflame, and that was enough for him.
Yennefer had no vocal qualms about his cooking. She wouldn’t complain exactly, when Geralt tried his hand in the kitchen. She thanked him whenever he did, as what was required for politeness, but never went out of her way to compliment him either. She seemed to prefer dining out mostly or ready-made foods. No doubt a side effect of her packed schedule.
More often than not, Geralt would be at home, eating the dinner he made for them and looking forlornly at the place mat across the table. Then when she moved out, he would look forlornly at the empty space across the table.
Until he met Jaskier.
He had a niggling worry that Jaskier would take advantage and drain him of his hard-earned money. To his surprise, he was ashamed to say, Jaskier could be as frugal as he was. He wondered if Jaskier really did sugar in the past because he seemed almost uncomfortable when Geralt paid for him. An experienced sugar baby wouldn’t have any trouble with such things, would they?
He rolls the pin on the dough, mentally weighing how thin the sheet is. He makes a note to throw this apron into the wash because he got a little too enthusiastic when sifting the flour. It would also give him an excuse to use the new navy striped one Jaskier got him last Tuesday. Isn’t that wild? He’s the sort of person who owns a rolling pin and multiple aprons now. His younger self would laugh at him.
Fortunately, his only company is the mix of cooked ground beef and cabbage resting in a plastic sheet covered bowl by the sink.
Jaskier had made an offhand comment about how one of his cherished childhood memories was of his grandmother making pirozhki while she was still alive and living with his family. They found her insistence on cooking to be rather gauche, insinuating that his family was wealthy enough to hire a chef. Which begs the question of how Jaskier came to be homeless in the first place.
But... that would be a story for another day should Jaskier ever deign to tell him.
For now, Geralt works on this recipe he found three google pages deep on an old livejournal post from 2007 by a Polish-Hungarian expat’s housewife. Seemed authentic enough and Geralt bookmarked it for today.
Geralt didn’t think it was a kink. Not exactly. It was simply something he enjoyed, for his loved ones at least. Really he should have known since that first night at Vesemir’s. Lonely and aching for something he couldn’t put into words, he found himself haunting the kitchen and living room area at an ungodly hour of the night.
Vesemir found his listless thirteen year old self standing like a ghost and staring at the blinking numbers of the microwave clock. Instead of ushering him back to bed or urging him to talk about his feelings, the then not-so-old man wordlessly guided him on a meditation of sorts. Together they made a hot dish of chopped vegetables, ground beef and so much mash. And when they both stood together with cups of hot chocolate (with real milk! and bits of chocolate chips melted in a small pot on the stove!) in the residual warmth from the oven, Geralt forever associated the kitchen with comfort.
It was a shame that Yennefer didn’t like eating much. Or rather, she’d prefer if food was of the highest quality and served in the smallest portions. She made a passing comment once (something casually tossed like a receipt for a purchase one regretted and Geralt knew better than to probe), that she used to weigh double her current weight when she was a teenager, and implied that when she came into money her body size changed. Now that he thinks harder on it, there were lots of little hints that he missed during their relationship.
In the early days, he tried cooking for her, but she never ate more than half of what was served though it seemed like she wanted to finish the whole thing (and perhaps part of Geralt’s serving as well). He didn’t understand it at the time-- how or why she would reject his efforts like that. Then again, he didn’t have the same experiences or expectations thrust upon him like she did. He should have worked harder to see her perspective. He should have done a lot of things.
The oven dings to tell him it’s done preheating. He shakes his head of thoughts of the past. Best to savor his present, which involves a very attractive man who composes poems of Geralt’s eyes and looks at him like Geralt’s is the only face he wants to look at for the rest of his life. As he folds spoonfuls of the meat mixture in the little triangles he cut from the dough, he hears the jingling of keys and the lock of the front door turning.
“Darling, I’m home!” calls a melodious voice, clear and crisp as the breath of winter air blowing in. Jaskier steps past the threshold. Geralt can hear him make little stomps on the doormat then taking off his shoes. His lips quirk as Jaskier lets out a contented little sigh right after. No doubt he’s wiggling his sore toes into the softness of the carpet.
“In here,” he calls out, “But you can’t come in.”
“What? Why,” comes the predictable whine. As if knowing he’d come in anyway, Geralt leaves his project for a moment to block Jaskier from entering. “Hey! This is not fair. Why can’t I see what you’re doing? This is awfully suspicious.” He pouts dramatically and Geralt wants to kiss that stupid expression off his cute face.
“It’s a surprise. For you.”
Pout vanishes. Jaskier perks up and backs away, shrugging off his overcoat. “Well, well. Why didn’t you say so. I’ll just prop my feet up on the sofa, shall I?”
Geralt rolls his eyes. “Make yourself useful and fix the bed.”
“Tyrant!” Jaskier protests. But he obediently does what he’s bid anyway.
Geralt finishes up the rest of the recipe. He washes the bowls and wipes the counter clean as the pirozhki sit pretty in the oven. He chances a peek into the living room and sees Jaskier passed out on the sofa. He lies curled up on his side, socked feet snuggled under one of the pillows. Geralt thinks his heart might implode.
—
After the timer dings and the pan sits on the stove range to cool, Geralt nudges Jaskier awake.
“Uh, buh- wha?” Jaskier blinks wake. A hand comes up to wipe at the bit of drool on the side of his mouth, and a sleepy smile graces his face. Geralt tries not to find this charming. Fails.
“Dinner’s ready.”
That sets Jaskier scrambling. He zips toward the kitchen and bangs the cabinets open to set the table.
“No need. I’ve got it.”
Geralt’s already sitting as Jaskier shuffles hesitantly into the dining area. He watches Jaskier take all of it in. The prepared foods. Nothing fancy; just the pirozhki, a chilled potato leek soup to go with it.
“What’s all this then?”
Geralt keeps his face placid as Jaskier drops gobsmacked into the seat across from him. “You mentioned it.”
“Mentioned what?”
“Your grandma. These.” He gestures to the food with his fork, a silent urge for Jaskier to eat.
Jaskier takes a bite. Geralt feels his heart and time stop. Then Jaskier’s eyes start leaking absolute rivers of tears. He’s still chewing though.
“I’m sor-“
“No.”
Jaskier reaches for his hand and Geralt instinctively holds it. Jaskier doesn’t seem intent on letting him go, and he keeps eating, heedless of the continuous crying. His nose is bright red and seems to be getting stuffy. Geralt thinks of the box of tissues on the living room table.
They eat in silence, Geralt struggling to use only his left hand. This reaction is worrisome, but at least Jaskier isn’t yelling or crying loudly. He’ll just have to wait him out. He always ends up blurting what’s on his mind anyway.
They finish and leave the dishes in the sink. Geralt serves them herbata, a long-steeped tea using herbs he cut from Eskel’s windowsill gardens. Jaskier bursts into quiet tears again after a sip.
“Sorry, darling,” Jaskier blubbers, in between drinking and finally blowing his nose. “Sorry. I’m just so touched. Really I am! I can’t believe you’d do all this just from some throwaway comment I made last month.“ Here, Jaskier makes a particularly honking sound into his poor abused tissue. “I mean, of course, this is you we’re talking about here. You unbearably lovely man. All this for just me-“
“Jaskier, you’re babbling.”
“Yes, I know, thank you very much for pointing that out. I’m just extremely happy right now okay, and I don’t know what to do with myself. So you just stand there looking gorgeous and I’ll sort myself out eventually.”
Geralt sighs, fond as anything. He puts down his own cuppa and pulls Jaskier close.
“You’re worth the effort,” he whispers into his ears. His arms give a little squeeze and Jaskier squeezes him back even tighter. “You are. Understand?”
A little sniffle. Then a shuddering sigh. “I’m starting to.”
“Good.” Geralt kisses him on the side of his head.