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Dimitri remembers when butter and cheese were luxuries.
He remembers the cabin in the middle of the wilderness somewhere in Galatea territory. He remembers the weathered faces of the woodcutter and his wife who took him in for the night. He remembers the wife opening a rotting cabinet and taking out a tiny pad of butter, and with shaking, arthritic hands, spreading it over a parchment-thin slice of bread. He remembers the hunk of cheese wrapped in a dirty cloth that the woodcutter pressed into his grasp the following morning. He remembers their smiles as they wished him well.
They never even asked his name, and he never requested theirs.
He remembers wandering back to those same woods months later, in the dead of winter, and finding them frozen to death in their cabin. He remembers the woodcutter was holding her. He remembers the wife’s jaw was stuck to the floor, and it came off when he lifted her up.
That was a blessing, as it turned out, because when she appears at the end of his bed in the middle of the night, she doesn’t speak. She just stares.
Now, he watches the butter sizzle as the cheddar melts in the bread’s embrace. He works the flat of the knife under the sandwich and lifts it up to check on it. Some of the liquid cheese has pooled over the crust, and it stretches up, up, up in a sinewy string, before finally snapping.
The bread is toasted a warm golden-brown. The grilled cheese sandwich is done.
He takes the pan off the woodstove and reaches for the jar containing one of Dedue’s special herb-and-spice blends. This one has basil, thyme, oregano, and rosemary. Not that he can taste the difference between any of them. Even the smells are kind of indistinguishable. It doesn’t matter, so why bother?
Then again, it doesn’t matter, so why not?
He takes a tiny pinch and sprinkles it over the toasted bread. He considers taking a plate and heading to the dining hall, but in the end, he decides to just eat it over the pan. Less washing-up to do afterwards. And he’s not used to eating with the others again. Not yet.
He picks up the sandwich with both hands and takes a bite.
The first sensation that washes over him is the sound. The crunch of the bread, the bursting of a bubble of cheese, the sprinkling of crumbs upon the countertop like drops of rain. Then the textures. His tongue registers no tastes, but it can still tell apart textures – the crisp, perfect crusts that fall apart into splinters between his teeth, and the liquid-gold cheddar that coats the inside of his mouth in a greasy film. The thick, soupy cheese necessitates that he chew slowly, so he chews, and chews, and eventually swallows. And he feels the warmth of the meal slide down his esophagus, embracing his ribcage, and even brushing against the black, shriveled thing that was once his heart.
And in that moment, a very strange thought occurs to him.
This grilled cheese is good.
It’s a thought so faint he almost mistakes it for the murmur of one of his ghosts. But for the moment, the kitchens of Garreg Mach Monastery are silent and empty.
This grilled cheese is good.
Dimitri ponders this. When was the last time he thought of food as “good” or “bad”? Like butter and cheese, it’s another luxury afforded to those who do not know starvation’s icy grip. What right does he have to be selective?
And even if he did have that right – how does he know the sandwich is “good”? It’s probably not a spectacular sandwich, in the grand scheme of things. Not like the ones Dedue and Ashe can make. He’s no chef. His Crest does not allow for the delicacy that cooking requires. All he can do is snap wooden spoons. Crack mixing bowls. Bend sewing needles. Break fingers. Break limbs. Break necks.
And yet. This grilled cheese is good.
One of his ghosts mutters something, but they’re drowned out as he bites into the sandwich again. A larger bite, and he chews it even slower. This time, he takes in the smells. Salty, savory butter mingling with sharp, acrid Gautier cheddar. And buried underneath, there’s the lighter hints of Dedue’s herbs. What were they again? Basil. Thyme. Oregano. Rosemary. He can’t tell them apart, but they’re there. He’s surprised he can sense them beneath the oceans of greasy cheese.
Maybe the little things are more important than he suspected.
And as he chews and breathes and chews some more, an even stranger thought occurs to him.
I don’t want to die.
Dimitri stops chewing.
He pulls back and looks down at the sandwich in his hands. Then he looks around at the monastery’s cozy kitchen. He takes in the neat shelves and cupboards, and the flowers on the windowsill, and the woodstoves permanently stained by the culinary disasters of hundreds of Garreg Mach students. Then he takes in the window, and the clouds, and the sky just starting to change from blue to lilac as the sunset starts. Then he takes in the sound of the fishing pond, and the meows of the cats that linger by its edges, and the distant conversations of the knights as they change the guard for the evening.
He takes it all in.
Then, with a long breath out, he returns to his grilled cheese. The third bite starts to affect the sandwich’s structural integrity, and he has to cling to the bread for dear life. Crumbs rain down all over the place. A long string of cheese clings to his chin. He licks the grease from his lips.
And as he enjoys his sandwich, he turns the two new thoughts over in his mind. Like bread and cheese, the thoughts go better together than they do apart.
This grilled cheese is good.
I don’t want to die.
One of his ghosts whispers something, but he’s not listening.