Chapter 8

The next morning, the sky unexpectedly cleared up. The heavens had completely changed their tune overnight, as if the thunder and rain of the past three days had never happened. Overnight, the sun baked Djerba Island so fiercely it felt like the place was about to take off.

Miguel was woken up by the heat. Wiping the sweat off his face, he rolled out of bed, washed his face and brushed his teeth with a blank expression—until he sat down at the dining table and faced the hard black bread and a lone plate on the table, he finally realized that someone was missing from the room.

Big Dog was gone.

The kerosene lamp that Miguel had casually placed by the bed last night was still in the same position, except that next to it was a clearly used bandage—one could easily imagine the tragic fate this poor bandage had endured. Miguel could almost effortlessly picture it being carelessly removed by its owner and then tossed aside.

How tragic.

Just like the person who had lovingly wrapped it around the man’s eyes.

Almost nothing in the room had changed. The young man, with a wooden expression, moved the plate on the table and, unsurprisingly, found a piece of parchment with a sentence scrawled on it in rough handwriting. The parchment, which seemed to have been taken from some unlucky tavern’s ledger, was covered in greasy stains, and the back had some Arabic numerals written on it—

Probably something Big Dog had casually snatched from a tavern’s ledger at some point.

Miguel picked up the dirty parchment, walked to the bed, sat on the edge, and opened the window, letting the sunlight stream in—

Holding the parchment high, the young man squinted his dark eyes, carefully studying the parchment through the light.

Then he silently put it down.

Because he couldn’t understand a single word (…).

After eating a few bites of bread with cold water, Miguel took the parchment and knocked on Old Fante’s door—it seemed that the filial son Lake had already left. Damn the Barbarossa brothers, they were demanding that everyone learn some combat skills on short notice. When Miguel arrived at Fante’s house, the old man was sitting at the table enjoying his soft breakfast bread.

Glancing at Miguel, who had been gloomy-faced since entering the room and clearly looked like he’d been abandoned, the old man snatched the parchment that was almost crumpled from his hand and quickly scanned it—

Miguel dragged a chair over and sat down next to the old man. The two of them stared at each other for a while, and finally, unable to bear the silence, Miguel, sitting stiffly, clenched his fist under the table and asked through gritted teeth, “What does it say?”

“I’ve memorized your face.”

“…Kicking someone when they’re down isn’t nice, Fante,” Miguel said, “Although my face probably does look pretty sour right now.”

“Your Arabic has improved by leaps and bounds, when did that happen?”

“This morning,” Miguel said with a blank expression, “Maybe the shock was so great that it suddenly opened my mind.”

“Oh,” the old man shoved the parchment back under Miguel’s nose, “Take another look, can you read it now?”

“…No.”

“Take back what you said earlier, your Arabic is still terrible,” Fante said smugly.

“…Just tell me what it says already!” Miguel wiped his face, indicating he had no patience for Fante’s games.

“It says ‘I’ve memorized your face.'”

“……”

“Who did you offend? Or did you see something you shouldn’t have?” Fante looked puzzled, “Otherwise, why would someone threaten to seek revenge?”

“Ah, right.”

Seeing Miguel’s spaced-out expression, Old Fante sneered, having had enough fun. He shoved the parchment back into Miguel’s hand, “That pirate ran away?”

“Yeah,” Miguel snapped back to reality and nodded, “He’s gone.”

“Oh,” the old man drawled with a smirk, “Did he at least say thank you?”

“No, he just said ‘he’s memorized my face.'”

Fante: “…”

Miguel: “Fante.”

Fante: “What?”

Miguel: “…Comfort me.”

Fante: “I told you trying to keep him was a pipe dream.”

Miguel stood up abruptly: “I’m leaving.”

Fante: “Where to?”

Miguel: “To find Lake, have him comfort me.”

Fante: “My son’s crush is the big-chested girl at the tavern next door who does erotic dances.”

Miguel: “My crush is a pirate.”

Fante: “My son is a pirate, freshly minted just the other day.”

Miguel snorted disdainfully: “Big Dog is much handsomer than Lake.”

Fante: “Big Dog? Who’s that? Is that the name you gave that pirate? What kind of crappy name is that? If I were him, I’d run away too. Now I completely understand that poor guy.”

The response to Fante was a door slam filled with rage.

…

Miguel found Lake practicing sword swings in the open space near the guild—let’s reintroduce Lake: tall but not handsome, the filial son of Old Fante, former top dog at the docks, now a freshly minted pirate…

Straight, straighter than a compass needle.

When Miguel found Lake, he was swinging a saber and practicing with a bearded pirate he didn’t recognize, his face red from exertion. The cold steel glinted in the sunlight, and the metal guard and razor-sharp blade clearly indicated that this was a high-quality European saber—such a good weapon being given to a newcomer either meant that the Barbarossa brothers had made a hefty profit from their previous victory over Caesar’s fleet, or that the brothers were so desperate for the upcoming revenge battle that they were throwing caution to the wind.

Leaning lazily against the wooden railing near the open space with a blade of grass in his mouth, Miguel looked around at the sweaty men on the field, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what was so appealing about being a pirate.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Miguel turned and walked into the nearby tavern. Just as he placed the last three silver coins from his pocket into the barmaid’s hand, the bell at the tavern door jingled—and the entire doorway was filled as Lake walked in. The bear-like man looked around, seemingly searching for something—

“Over here,” Miguel drawled, “Here, here.”

He lifted the still-cold wheat beer in his hand and unhesitatingly handed the whole glass to Lake. The latter grinned even wider, slapping Miguel’s not-so-sturdy frame with a hand as big as a fan, and took the glass of beer, downing it in one go.

Propping his chin on one hand, Miguel asked lazily, “Finished?”

“What are you here for?” Lake wiped the liquid from his mouth and called out to the barmaid for a towel to wipe his sweat.

“To see what pirate life is like,” Miguel said teasingly.

Lake seemed stunned by this statement. He put down the half-empty beer glass, turned around, and stared at Miguel with eyes almost identical to Old Fante’s. Finally, he looked a little sheepish, scratched his nose, and said, “The Barbarossa brothers aren’t recruiting anymore. Besides, with your build, you can’t be a pirate.”

Miguel almost spat out the beer in his mouth.

“I’m serious,” Lake said, “Stay at the docks, work hard, I’ll make sure Dulce takes good care of you. In three years, you’ll be the top dog.”

Miguel put down his glass, his gaze fixed on a patch of peeling paint in the corner of the bar, and sneered, “And take care of your dad in the meantime?”

Lake fell into an unexpected silence.

“What are you thinking, Lake?” Miguel frowned, “If you become a pirate, you probably won’t come ashore even once a year. Fante’s getting old, what will he do without you?”

“Your Arabic has improved.”

“…Thanks, I had an epiphany this morning,” the black-haired young man said with a blank expression.

“Miguel, you’ll take good care of my father, right?”

The person being called chuckled lightly. He tilted his head slightly, as if he’d just heard a very funny joke, and glanced sideways at the bear-like young man who was looking at him so seriously—the sweat on his face hadn’t completely dried yet, and some of it was trickling down the side of his forehead, making his already dark complexion even darker.

“I won’t.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Miguel’s collar was yanked up with ferocious force—

The beer glass on the table was knocked to the ground with a loud crash, and the previously noisy bar fell silent in an instant—

But as soon as everyone realized what was happening, the small bar quickly returned to its lively atmosphere. After all, almost everyone here was used to this kind of thing—what kind of place was Djerba Island? It was a place where pirates ran rampant, where hoodlums and scoundrels were everywhere. Here, getting into a fight at the drop of a hat was as common as eating.

“I can’t stay here for the rest of my life,” Lake said through gritted teeth, his eyes red, “I don’t want to stay here for the rest of my life!”

“I know,” Miguel said calmly, glancing down at the hand gripping his collar, “Your dad just told me with a big smile not long ago that it’s hereditary—I heard your family has a great gene for ‘not being content with a boring life.'”

Lake’s eyes dimmed, and he finally calmed down. He let go of Miguel and slumped back into his chair like a deflated balloon. He hung his head, looking as dejected as a bear who’d tried to steal honey and gotten stung on the nose: “One of the clauses in the Barbarossa brothers’ contract is that you can leave freely. I want to pull off a few jobs, then let my father live a good life. You’re right, he’s getting old, I can’t let him keep working at the docks.”

“Assuming you survive Caesar’s revenge battle.”

“I’ll survive.”

…Male characters in TV dramas who make declarations like that usually end up dead in the next episode. Miguel twitched the corner of his mouth, thinking somewhat sympathetically.

“By the way, Miguel.”

“What?”

“What about that pirate at your place?”

“…He’s gone,” Miguel gritted his teeth, finally remembering why he’d come here, “Ahhhh, comfort me, comfort me!”

“Heh, I knew it would end like this.”

Miguel: …Screw you.

“But don’t be sad, tell me what he looks like. When Caesar’s men come, if I run into him, I’ll tie him up with a rope and throw him on your bed,” the straightest man in the universe, Lake, said confidently.

“…Uh, thanks, I guess?”

At this point, all Miguel could muster was a pitiful “thanks”—although the method was a bit strange, he actually felt somewhat comforted by Lake. Putting down the empty beer glass, Miguel hopped off the barstool and patted his butt: “I’m heading back.”

Lake blinked his bear-like squinty eyes, watching Miguel’s slightly arched butt as he slapped it nonchalantly. Suddenly, Lake sat up straight, his expression becoming unusually serious—though Miguel, who had his back to him, couldn’t see his face, the moment Lake called out his name, the young man who was striding toward the door immediately stopped.

In the chaotic bar, the black-haired, black-eyed young man tilted his head slightly, the soft curve of his profile unlike anyone else around—

Before Old Fante fished this man named Miguel out of the sea, Lake had never known that there were people in the world who looked like this.

Softer than a man, harder than a woman.

A perfect combination, yet not at all contradictory—probably a masterpiece created by God himself.

“Miguel, if I die, please take care of my father.”

Lake said solemnly.

“Heh—”

He heard Miguel, who was still facing away from him, reply lazily—

“We’ll talk about it when you’re dead.”

The afternoon sun was scorching, and the afternoon training session was about to begin. Lake picked up the brand-new saber that had been leaning against the bar, feeling an unprecedented sense of relief.

Meanwhile, Miguel, who had left the tavern, walked with his hands in his pockets, his gait crooked and unsteady. He hummed a tuneless song as he walked along the sunbaked dirt road. When the lyrics reached “and don’t ask my name again,” he slowed his pace. The broken remains of a three-masted ship in front of him told him that, without realizing it, he had arrived at a familiar place.

Once, he had found a wounded stray dog here.

And then?

Then the stray dog healed and, without hesitation, abandoned him, flying toward the blue sea… or something like that.

Yeah, that’s how it was.

…

“And don’t ask my name again, just call me Red Scarf…”

…

And so, the days passed like bland water, quietly slipping by for four days.

The port was peaceful; Caesar’s fleet didn’t come.

The first day Big Dog was gone, I missed him.

The second day Big Dog was gone, I missed him, missed him.

The third day Big Dog was gone, I wanted to fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

The fourth day Big Dog was gone, I wanted to kill him, kill him, kill him, kill him.