Chapter 25

“No.”

“That’s good. Now I just need to wrap the bandage.”

Even with Yuri’s bluntness, Cherriot remained kind. With careful hands, he laid cotton and gauze over the wound, then applied pressure and wrapped the bandage. As Yuri had felt earlier, his hand movements were incredibly practiced.

Why would an ordinary person be good at this? He’s not a doctor or a nurse.

The question rose unbidden. There was no need to ask, and the answer would likely be useless, but it slipped out before he could stop it.

“You handle that like you’ve done it a lot.”

“I suppose I have.”

When Yuri looked at him, uncomprehending, Cherriot curved his eyes into a smile. Perhaps because he felt relieved having secured the bandage, the corners of his mouth lifted prettily.

“Hockey players get hurt a lot.”

It sounded like an answer hiding something, but the mystery was resolved. It made sense for an athlete from a sport famous for injuries to know how to treat himself. There must always be medical staff, but a wound like this was something he could handle alone.

“…I see.”

“Have you never watched hockey? Hitting each other is basically what we do every day.”

Yuri shrugged. If he had time to watch sports, he would rather sleep.

Cherriot laughed low, as if he had expected nothing else. “So there’s no reason for me to be scared of blood. I’m afraid of situations outside common sense, not injuries themselves. I’m used to those.”

Then why had he waited outside the bathroom? What sort of situation would worry a man accustomed to injuries and blood?

He had only just had one question answered, yet another emerged. While Yuri fell silent, Cherriot finished wrapping the bandage neatly. When Cherriot stood to retrieve scissors, Yuri’s gaze followed him. Watching him head toward the kitchen, Yuri noticed the whole house was filled with an appetizing smell. Before he knew it, his eyes followed the source of the scent to the island table.

Perhaps noticing Yuri’s gaze, Cherriot retrieved the scissors with a smile.

“If you wait just a few more seconds,” he said lightly, “it’ll be mealtime.”

Feeling as though he had revealed a weakness, Yuri turned his head away from the table for no real reason. Cherriot, now back to his usual self, knelt by his side, cut the bandage, taped it neatly, and asked with casual mischief, “Do you want to eat a real sandwich I made?”

Ignoring the jab at his own sandwich-making skills, Yuri stared at him expressionlessly. The sandwich did smell good, but there was no particular reason he had to eat it.

“No,” he said flatly.

“I saw you looking at it earlier,” Cherriot noted.

“Yes. You made it well.”

Cherriot’s expression turned subtle. The answer seemed almost like what he wanted to hear, yet somehow missed the mark. Folding his arms, he looked down at Yuri with a trace of arrogance.

“But you don’t want to eat it?”

“I don’t care what I eat.”

“Now that I see it, you’re stubborn in ways I can’t understand.”

Hearing Cherriot echo what Alexei had once said made Yuri feel oddly unsettled. They had only spent a single day together—so why did Cherriot speak as if he already knew him?

“But handsome men are supposed to be hard to win over,” Cherriot teased.

Saying to Yuri something that should have applied to himself, he personally brought the sandwich to the sofa. The item on the table looked nothing like what Yuri usually made. Beneath the crisp, brown toasted surface, appetizing layers of lettuce, Gouda cheese, and bacon were stacked thickly, the cross-section inviting. The bacon was clearly pan-fried—crispy and fragrant—while the cheese had melted luxuriously against the meat.

Even so, Yuri waited patiently, hands still, refusing to reach for it. He did not want to look as though he had been waiting to eat. As he sat with his mouth closed, Cherriot took a seat on a nearby stool and held the plate out to him.

“I won’t tease you,” he said in a softer voice. “You’re hurt—you need to eat properly.”

Cherriot leaned forward, his arm extended. The green eyes gazing up at Yuri were full of worry. Faced with an expression so sharply at odds with his earlier childish behavior, Yuri suddenly found him unfamiliar.

When Cherriot charged at him without restraint, Yuri could easily push him away. But when Cherriot looked at him with the careful concern of someone tending a patient, he could not bring himself to return a harsh word. Unsettled, he slowly turned his gaze from the plate.

“You eat first,” Yuri said, as if offering the owner of the food the first bite.

“Because you think I might have poisoned it?” Cherriot asked, sounding half-serious. Strangely, the question made Yuri feel more at ease.

“That sounds like a question you should ask later, when I make something,” he replied.

Seeing Cherriot’s subtle expression, Yuri realized he had no choice but to eat first. Otherwise, he had the ominous sense the man would wait forever. The sandwich, now slightly cooled, filled his hand.

Cherriot’s gaze tracked his every movement, heavy and insistent. Turning his head slightly to escape that scrutiny, Yuri finally took a bite. The crisp, savory texture came first, followed by the fresh crunch of lettuce spreading over his tongue. He instantly understood why Cherriot had insisted on that particular variety of lettuce—it was clearly superior to what he usually ate.

Even as Yuri chewed quietly, Cherriot still did not start his own meal. A fleeting thought passed through Yuri’s mind—had he really poisoned it? He turned sharply, only to meet Cherriot’s expectant eyes.

“How is it? Is it good?”

The seasoning was perfect, and the whole-grain mustard complemented the fillings well. Finding it hard to meet Cherriot’s gaze, Yuri instead looked toward the window. Sunset had begun to settle over the lake, the reddish light rippling like a freshly peeled orange.

After swallowing, he finally spoke. Cherriot seemed to have decided to torment him differently this time, staring intently until he got the answer he wanted.

“It’s good,” Yuri said simply.

It was a plain statement, but Cherriot looked satisfied. Only then did he begin eating his own sandwich. They exchanged a glance before turning to the view outside. Unlike Yuri, who sat straight on the sofa, Cherriot appeared relaxed, his arms resting on his thighs as he admired the lake.

Halfway through his sandwich, Cherriot announced, “You’re banned from lake swimming.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Yuri replied inwardly with a hollow laugh, as Cherriot continued to gaze out the window.

“If you happen to see me swimming, you’ll probably want to follow,” Cherriot added.

It was an unnecessary worry, yet Yuri suspected he might be right. Just as Cherriot was far more striking running around than trapped in the cramped car, the sight of him moving freely in that wide expanse would be annoyingly pleasing. Yuri thought he wanted to see it—then immediately erased the thought.

Freedom one cannot have only creates thirst the more one witnesses it.

“But can you swim?” Cherriot asked suddenly.

Yuri frowned, amused that he was only now asking something so basic. Suppressing the urge to laugh, he shook his head. “No. So there’s no need for unnecessary concern.”

“You can’t swim?”

“No.”

The Red River was the only river running through Saratov. Its violent, deep current could only be crossed by someone prepared to die. No one swam there for fun.

Unpleasant memories crept in. Anyone indebted to Igor had shadows attached—people watching their every move. If they went out by car, Igor was always informed. The only way to avoid those eyes was to go upstream along the Red River and cross into Canada. Many who tried were caught and died in vain.

“Then, when your wound heals, I’ll have to teach you,” Cherriot said cheerfully, his voice cutting through the dark memories.

Returning to the present, Yuri picked up the remaining half of his sandwich and refused. “No need.”

“Do you know there’s nothing as refreshing as swimming in summer? Not fans, not air conditioning. Nothing beats swimming.”

Yuri said nothing. Apart from not knowing how to swim, he had no intention of exposing his body in a place others could see. Cherriot, who had not overreacted even after seeing his scars, was unusual. Any normal person would have been startled.

“When should we do it? It’ll take a while for your wound to heal, right?” Cherriot pressed.

“Yes. It’ll heal only after you and I never see each other again.”

“That makes it feel kind of regrettable.”

Cherriot’s words were unnecessary. When Yuri stared at him in confusion, he shrugged knowingly. “I know. Yuri Campbell is a bad man, and I don’t intend to become friends with you either.”

“Then why say something like that?”

“Partings are always regrettable,” Cherriot mused, gazing out the window. Yuri couldn’t help but notice the lonely silhouette he cut against the fading light. “When you part ways and never see each other again, it’s akin to death, isn’t it?”

Cherriot’s words carried a certain truth. But since childhood—since learning of his parents’ untimely deaths—Yuri had always anticipated such partings. That thought had lingered, shaping his life.

“Every connection leaves behind a trace,” Cherriot continued, turning his gaze back to Yuri.

Yuri didn’t meet his eyes directly, yet he didn’t look away either. He spoke steadily, looking ahead. “Even if you can never see someone again, that memory remains within you. What truly exists is not death—it is the extinction of that connection.”

Even though Yuri’s mother had gone somewhere he could never see her again, his father and he carried traces of her in their hearts. Her face blurred with time; the exact warmth of her scent or touch slipped away. Still, the memories of her were the source that sustained the Kiselyov father and son.

Perhaps because he hadn’t expected such words, Cherriot stared at Yuri for a long while. Listening to the faint rhythm of his breathing, Yuri finished the rest of the sandwich. Dining so close to a stranger was unfamiliar and awkward, but the cooled sandwich remained good, and the weather was pleasantly cool. Because of that, it was bearable.

Perhaps it was even a little pleasant.

“I never thought of it that way,” Cherriot said at last.

Everyone believed in different things; that was likely the reason. Yuri finished his sandwich silently, and Cherriot watched until the last bite was gone. Over time, Yuri grew slightly accustomed to that uncomfortable gaze. Not that it became comfortable—just tolerable enough to ignore.

“Then your traces will remain too,” Cherriot said finally, after staring at Yuri for what felt like an eternity.

Holding the empty plate, Yuri slowly stood and looked down at him. The sunset streaming through the window painted Cherriot in a color that suited him perfectly. As if fleeing the dazzling light, Yuri turned away.

“Something like me will be erased quickly,” he said. He swallowed the words, It would be better for your life if you erased me, deciding there was no need to speak them.

After all, he didn’t even have that much value.

🜼 🜼 🜼