Nero puffs up maybe a little more than is necessary for such an inconsequential bit of praise -- especially over a cheese-covered hotdog. Unfortunately, this is probably the first time he's ever been called a genius in a capacity that wasn't sarcasm.

Over a hotdog.

"I know," he says with the ease of a man who may be breaking a little on the inside.

The ease at which a man's opinion about another dude can change.

Nero claps Geralt on the shoulder. "For real, man. It tastes awesome." Neither of them need to harp on the experience much; it is just that. An experience. The same way learning to ignore the guy behind the counter is an experience. You just sort of ease into it. An unspoken rule. No one is acknowledged unless they gotta go to the counter.

The way it should be --

Nero looks up after the feather besmirches the good name of the cheesedog. "Think you've got a pigeon infestation," Nero throws towards the guy behind the counter. It's an unspoken rule, but at certain times, it must be broken.

He flicks the feather off the dog for Geralt. Except it sticks to his finger because of the cheese.

Goddammit.

He wipes it off on his pants. Whatever. Horizon, right? "Promise, if you don't like this, I'm giving up any culinary prowess I've ever claimed to have."

He's never claimed to have any. That's why he lives with Himeka and only makes cheese.