Chapter 6

What did Miguel want? …Actually, he didn’t know himself. Just as he had pondered before, living alone was truly lonely—just as he firmly believed that even the most shabby table should have two or more sets of utensils to make a meal feel complete.

The next morning, when a drowsy Miguel got up from Big Dog and silently wiped off the drool he had left on the man’s firm and perfect abdomen, he began to seriously consider whether he should really share a table with Big Dog and make do with this arrangement.

Unfortunately, it seemed like everyone thought he was crazy.

“——Do you really think you picked up a dog?” Old Fante, handing the bandages to the young man who looked utterly indifferent, felt like his heart was fucking breaking. “That’s Caesar’s man—’Black Sea Wolf Caesar,’ ever heard of him?—never mind, what else would you know besides eating… You said it yourself, he’s definitely not an ordinary sailor. I’ve heard that every position on Caesar’s ship is earned by the crew with their lives. That guy is definitely not someone to be trifled with. What kind of drugs are you on to think you can keep him as a pet?”

“Ah,” Miguel stuffed the bandages into his pocket, digging at his ear with his pinky finger, and said slowly, “You’re talking too fast, Fante. You said he’s Caesar’s man, and then… and then what?”

The old man took a deep breath to suppress the urge to grab the dagger beside him and stab the person in front of him.

Meanwhile, the oblivious Miguel was still sitting in the chair, looking around: “Got any clean containers?”

Fante immediately became wary: “What do you want to do?”

“Big Dog needs his bandages changed,” Miguel said. “I’m going to ask Mrs. Reese next door for some breast milk.”

“Why would you need milk to celebrate his eyes getting better?” Old Fante looked thunderstruck. “And breast milk? That’s so perverted!”

“It’s for his eyes,” the young man rolled his eyes, looking as if he was too superior to argue with someone so ignorant.

“Don’t mess around with weird treatments. What if you really blind him?” Fante grumbled but still took out a small jar from under the stove and handed it to Miguel. “Go ask for it yourself. I’m too embarrassed to do it.”

…In the end, Miguel dragged Fante along to act as a translator.

When the young Mrs. Reese, blushing, handed over the jar filled with a small amount of breast milk, Fante felt like his lifelong reputation had been ruined by Miguel. The culprit, however, was completely calm and even thanked Mrs. Reese with utmost seriousness—by the way, out of all the Arabic phrases Miguel knew, his “thank you” was the most standard and fluent. Fante suspected it was because he had said it so many times.

Holding the jar like a treasure, Miguel carefully carried it, lazily looking around and chatting as he followed Fante: “Where’s Lake?”

Lake was Fante’s only son. He was tall, strong, and incredibly capable, a key figure at the docks, and most importantly, extremely filial—it was quite rare not to see the dutiful son around Fante on a rainy day when the docks were closed. Not getting an immediate answer, Miguel turned to look and noticed Fante frowning. The old man absentmindedly wiped the rain off his forehead and reluctantly replied, “He went to the guild.”

“The guild?” Miguel was surprised. “Isn’t today a day off? To deliver an order?”

“With this storm, everyone’s bored. The Barbarossa brothers are recruiting at the guild. It’s the second day today,” Fante stopped at his doorstep, pushing the door open with a rare look of irritation. “He went to take a look.” With that, the old man tried to close the door—

But Miguel was quick, sticking his leg in the gap. “He wants to be a pirate?!” the young man exclaimed. “Is he crazy?”

“Tch, who knows? Do you think I can stop him? It’s probably genetic. I didn’t give up on my pirate dreams until I turned fifty-five and realized I didn’t even meet the first requirement of the pirate recruitment notice—’under fifty-five, excluding fifty-five,'” Fante opened the door again, standing expressionless behind it, his tone devoid of much emotion. “If he wants to go, let him. I’m too old to stop him!”

“You’re talking too fast, slow down,” Miguel shamelessly demanded.

Fante: “…Your Arabic is like shit.”

“I understood that one,” Miguel nodded calmly. “You’re the one who taught me shit.”

Fante: “…”

Miguel thought for a moment and suddenly looked surprised: “You said the Barbarossa brothers are recruiting?”

“…” For the first time, Fante felt like a normal conversation could be exhausting.

“Why are they recruiting?”

“Some of their men died in the fight with Caesar’s fleet. Plus, they’ve seized two of Caesar’s ships, so they’re short on hands,” Fante shot Miguel a “you’re so annoying” look. “And Caesar’s men will definitely come back for revenge. The Barbarossa brothers need men, otherwise how are they going to fight? Caesar’s fleet loves boarding battles. Without men, how are the Barbarossa brothers supposed to play?”

“Caesar’s dead!”

“But his men still need to make a living on these seas. And Caesar’s first mate is a loyal mad dog,” Fante frowned, looking at Miguel as if he were an idiot. “And if the boss is killed and he doesn’t seek revenge, who’s going to follow his fleet in the future?”

Miguel was speechless. He tightened his grip on the jar of breast milk, but his thoughts were elsewhere—

“Exactly, the stray dog you picked up will turn into a ravenous wolf, and the Barbarossa brothers will be chopped into mincemeat by Caesar’s men—” as if reading Miguel’s mind, Fante let out a deliberately disdainful sneer. “Tunisia is about to see some major action. Wipe your eyes and watch, you fool!” With that, he tried to close the door again—

Miguel stuck his leg out, yelping as it got caught but still glaring at the old man. “You know the Barbarossa brothers are going to lose, and you still let Lake go!”

“Can I fucking stop him? If you can, you go!”

With a deafening roar, Miguel’s leg was roughly kicked back, and the rickety wooden door slammed shut right in front of his nose!

…

“—And that’s how it is.”

While fiddling with the bandages he had just removed from Big Dog’s eyes, Miguel casually recounted the events of the afternoon, explaining how the Barbarossa brothers were recruiting. His audience, meanwhile, was still struggling to piece together useful information from his terrible accent and jumbled words.

After a long while, the man, with his eyes still closed, said gravely, “Tell your friend not to go.”

“I wish I could,” Miguel glanced at Big Dog, noticing how his serious expression still looked handsome. “But even his own father couldn’t stop him. What can I do?—Lie down.”

“Why?” the man sitting at the table asked warily.

Miguel didn’t bother explaining. He simply dragged the man to the bed and forced him down. Big Dog’s brows furrowed, his tall frame stiffening. He swore no one had ever dared to manhandle him like this in his entire life—

Just as he was about to get up and beat the perverted fisherman to a pulp, a cold hand pressed against his chest and patted it. “Don’t move,” came the voice. The man paused, swatting away the hand on his chest, and reluctantly lay back down with a frown.

The room fell silent, save for the sound of liquid being poured. About a minute later, Big Dog felt the perverted fisherman leaning in—his breath now warm against the man’s face. Past experience told him that this kind of proximity meant their faces were almost touching.

“Get lost.”

“Tch, don’t move.”

Miguel frowned, his cool, slender fingertips gently brushing against the man’s tightly closed eyelids. Feeling the eyeballs twitch beneath his touch, the young man couldn’t help but smile slightly, lightly rubbing them twice. As the man grew impatient and reached out to grab his hand again, Miguel picked up the container with a bit of the milk and hovered it over the man’s eye, letting a drop fall.

The cool, smooth sensation made the man pause.

“Eyes, open a bit.”

The low, almost hypnotic voice murmured in his ear—so persuasive that the man, who was used to giving orders rather than taking them, unconsciously relaxed his eyelids—

His keen sense of smell immediately identified the substance—

“Where’d you get the goat’s milk?”

Miguel: …Goat’s milk?

With his eyes still closed, letting Miguel drip the milk onto them, Big Dog sensed the young man’s movements pause.

“What?” he asked, frowning in dissatisfaction.

“…Old Fante has a goat in his yard.”

Considering that telling the truth might result in the man leaping up and beating him senseless, Miguel chose to lie without batting an eye.

…He was confident that Big Dog wouldn’t bother verifying whether Old Fante actually had a backyard.

Grabbing a clean cloth, Miguel wiped away the excess milk. He took out the bandages from his pocket, carefully discarding the outer layer that had gotten dirty, and began wrapping the man’s eyes again with patience.

“Old Fante says that as soon as the storm stops, Caesar’s fleet will head straight for the port.”

“Oh.”

“Your eyes, the bandages can come off by the day after tomorrow.”

“Hm.”

“Will you go?”

“…”

Sitting back at the table, propping his chin on one hand, Miguel tapped the tabletop restlessly with his fingers at the man’s silence.

The man sprawled on the bed shifted his position, lifting his long legs to kick open the previously closed window—a few cool raindrops drifted in, dispersing some of the stifling heat.

“Hm. The Barbarossa brothers must die.”

…

Miguel: “Hmph.”

Big Dog: “What?”

Miguel: “Nothing. Just remember to repay me. A dagger, a high-quality one.”

Big Dog: “Hmph.”