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Dandelion pouted, cradling his broken wrist to his chest. It didn’t hurt, Yennefer’s enchantments had ensured that but she hadn’t been able to promise that Dandelion would be able to play his lute if she healed the bones with magic, so they were taking the long path. Geralt was staying with him in Oxenfurt whilst he recovered, which was lovely and he enjoyed spending quality time with his witcher, but he was still miserable. He couldn’t play, he couldn’t even write properly without it looking like a child had attacked his parchment, and he couldn’t cut up his own food.
He felt helpless. There was Geralt, renowned slayer of monsters, cutting up Dandelion’s dinner. It was pathetic.
“You don’t have to do this, my dear witcher,” he sighed again, as he had every time meal time had come around. “I can just eat with my hands… hand. Fuck!”
“I don’t mind, Dandelion. It’s my fault you got hurt.” At Geralt’s words, Dandelion scoffed. Like his protests over accepting Geralt’s help, this was an argument they’d had before.
“Nonsense, Geralt.”
“But-”
“Shut up and help me eat.” Dandelion reached over and placed his finger over Geralt’s lips.
The care in which Geralt helped to feed him made Dandelion blush. It wasn’t very often that Geralt slowed down enough to stop and look after him, not like that. Usually it was rushing in to save his life, or pulling him down a street to avoid an angry spouse or parent. This was different - more domestic, and despite the moping and the lack of music in his life, Dandelion was having a nice time. Even if he had gained weight; an unexpected side effect of his more sedentary lifestyle since his injury. He felt self-conscious about it, the way his trousers wouldn’t quite lace up anymore over the swell of his stomach, or the chubbiness in his cheeks where before had been sharp cheekbones - a sign of his elven blood.
He was, in all honesty, a narcissist, and gaining weight was something he’d never allowed himself to do before. It was quite simple really, he just needed to eat less to compensate for the lack of walking and performing. Only Geralt was so sweet when he helped Dandelion with his dinner that he couldn’t resist.
“Geralt?” Dandelion asked, twirling a long golden curl around his finger.
“Hmm?”
“You don’t mind that I- that I’ve… well. I might need to borrow your trousers soon. Mine are getting a little tight.”
Geralt raised an eyebrow at him, his gaze flicking down to Dandelion’s stomach and back up. “Why would I mind?”
“Because I-”
“Are you happy?” The question hit Dandelion like a dragon falling from the sky. Over the years, he’d always been the one pushing Geralt to be happy, to chase after the things he loved, and whilst he hadn’t exactly forgotten about himself, no one had ever asked before.
His unbroken hand fell to his stomach, pinching at the fat beneath the fine silk. Was he happy? The simple answer was yes. He was with Geralt and Geralt made him happy. The actual answer was more complicated. He was sad that he couldn’t do the things he wanted, and he was conflicted about the changes in his body, but that was because he was trained to constantly worry about his appearance and how the Continent saw him.
So he shrugged. A poet lost for words. He wanted to be happy and confident no matter how he looked. He wanted to be able to gain weight and not panic. It just wasn’t who he was… not yet, but maybe with the support of his best friend, Dandelion could look in the mirror once more and love the man he was. It would just take some time.