Chapter 17

Chapter 17

A brief silence followed in response to the captain’s words.

Suddenly reaching out to casually touch the black pearl earring on Miguel’s earlobe, the unhealed wound made the latter hiss lightly. With a cold laugh, Caesar withdrew his hand and licked the remaining blood on his fingers, curling his lips as he slowly said, “Seems we’ve reached a consensus.”

When Miguel looked up at him, the captain noticed that the eyes of the dancer he’d bought for fifty gold coins tonight looked especially bright and dark in the night, paired with the black pearl earring on his earlobe… Hmph, if only the powder on his face wasn’t caked on so thick. Snorting, he stretched out a long arm and dragged the wooden table originally placed by the bed over, the heavy friction against the floor emitting a grating noise.

Thud, thud.

The two sitting on the edge of the bed froze—seemed like some drunkard downstairs was vigorously poking the ceiling—or rather, the second floor’s floor—with a mop handle. The two male creatures sitting cross-legged on the bed stared at each other blankly. “Fire downstairs?” Unable to bear the silence, the man rapped his knuckles on the table and asked in a low voice.

“Dunno,” Miguel lazily dug at his ear with his pinky. “Maybe they’re just telling you not to set the place on fire. Oh, I mean, all the guests saw it—after all, tonight I was so…”

Caesar: “So what?”

Miguel didn’t answer. He chuckled softly, glanced at Caesar, then pulled at the elastic waistband of his floral-patterned underwear before letting go—

Snap.

The sound of the elastic band snapping back against his smooth, hairless thigh.

The black-haired young man composed himself, his expression serious. “So… hot.”

“…………”

Now, the most notorious pirate lord of the Mediterranean suddenly felt like something inside him had broken—perhaps his reasoning ability. Otherwise, why would he go to such lengths to recruit a pervert onto his ship?… And promise him three hundred gold coins a month?… No, this absolutely could not stand.

“Your salary is reduced to two hundred gold coins a month,” Caesar said coldly, changing his posture and raising a brow. “For the sake of my sound judgment… and your floral underwear.”

“I just happened to wear this pair today. I also have pure white ones,” Miguel said. “And a blush-inducing, innocent blue-and-white striped pair…”

“One question for you,” Caesar finally interrupted impatiently. “Your Arabic suddenly improved by leaps and bounds.”

“…Probably unlocked a hidden talent,” the black-haired young man shrugged, seeming at least willing to answer this question properly. “You know how some people, after suffering a great shock or setback, or enduring physical and mental torment, suddenly awaken with a new skill when they come to again.”

Caesar sneered once more, expressing his utter disdain for this nonsense.

“My pet ran off without a word, abandoning me on this desolate little island. Just think—I even swallowed my pride to ask a young pregnant woman for breast milk, all for my pet’s eyes—”

“You wanna die?”

“…Skip that part. Anyway, my pet ran away. When I finally managed to row a boat four nautical miles out and fished him out from a sea of blood, before I could even share a tearful reunion hug, I realized I was seasick. And then my cold-hearted pet shoved an empty barrel at me, telling me to ‘puke into this’ instead of ‘puke on me’.” Miguel spread his hands. “So, what do you think of that? Pet.”

“I think a barrel is already a mercy. Normally, I’d tell them to go puke in the sea.” Poking the black-haired young man’s forehead firmly, Caesar said flatly, “Also, call me Captain.”

“Captain, can we at least have that tearful reunion hug now?”

“Excellent. You’re steadily eroding my goodwill—from now on, you can go puke in the sea too.” Scooting back slightly, the man said mercilessly, “Don’t dirty my ship, or I’ll dock your pay.”

Before Miguel could respond, Caesar stood up. The tall man cast a long shadow as he paced barefoot around the room, seemingly searching for something. Drawers were yanked open and slammed shut, the dust-covered dressing table shaking violently from his movements—

And so, the poking from downstairs resumed.

Miguel leaned against the headboard, grinning. “Hear that? They’re telling you to go easy—don’t hurt me.”

Caesar turned around, clutching a quill pen of uncertain vintage and a piece of parchment that had likely been lying around for ages. He roughly tossed the writing tools onto the small bedside table. The mattress sank once more as the man returned to the bed. He picked up the tools first, pondered for a moment, then swiftly scrawled a long sentence on the parchment.

With a heavy final punctuation mark, he signed his name flamboyantly in the bottom right corner, then snatched up the parchment and shoved it at Miguel, demanding his signature.

Miguel took the parchment and saw that it was in German.

“What’s it say?”

Caesar sneered, arms crossed as he burrowed under the covers. “You reminded me—once we’re on board, I’ll assign someone to teach you German.”

Miguel was busy desperately holding down one side of the blanket to prevent it from being entirely stolen. At the man’s words, his head snapped up, eyes wide. “I just learned Arabic!”

“Great. Starting at sunrise tomorrow, you can forget it entirely and no one will scold you.”

“You’ll teach me German yourself?”

“In your dreams.”

“I’ll learn if you teach me.”

“No choice.” Caesar closed his eyes. “Your only acceptable response is, ‘Aye, Captain.’ I’m not negotiating with you, you perverted fisherman—I’m giving you an order. Or, to put it more gently, you could interpret it as a ‘comply or die’ command.”

“I swear I won’t sexually harass my teacher under the guise of lessons.”

“Too bad. Even if I chopped off both your hands, I wouldn’t believe that promise.”

The man turned over, presenting his back to Miguel—in Big Dog’s body language dictionary, this was a clear refusal to continue the conversation.

Miguel stared at his solid back muscles for a moment, suddenly struck by how familiar this scene felt—because, after all, for over a week now, he’d begun each night’s sleep facing this very back. Feeling somewhat deflated, Miguel mumbled and scratched his head before lifting the parchment again. “At least tell me what this says right now.”

“…………” A brief silence, then the man’s low voice sounded in the darkness. “A promise that you’ll show up tomorrow morning when we tally the crew and slaves.”

Miguel: “Liar.”

Caesar: “…”

Miguel: “This one sentence needed all those punctuation marks?”

Caesar: “…The moment your name appears on my crew contract, I’ll burn Lake’s contract to ashes.”

Miguel: “Why didn’t you say that all at once?”

Caesar: “I felt like it.”

Miguel: “But then this one sentence seems too short in comparison.”

Caesar: “Less talk. Sign it, then sleep.”

Miguel pursed his lips, then committed what might have been the dumbest act of his life—signing his name on a contract whose contents he had no clue about.

Once he’d signed, the parchment was viciously snatched away. Without even glancing at it, the man folded the parchment and stuffed it into his breast pocket.

Miguel reached out and poked that satisfyingly firm back. “Starting tomorrow, I’m yours.”

“………………”

Silence.

An awkward silence.

But a true warrior couldn’t be defeated by mere awkwardness.

Miguel: “Care to share your acceptance speech for acquiring the Mediterranean’s finest meteorologist?”

Caesar: “Sleep or get out.”

Miguel: “What if I do neither?”

Caesar: “Then die.”

Miguel: “………”

Downstairs, as the Mediterranean’s finest tavern, the songs and laughter of Babatra continued.

Perhaps people were still wondering how many positions the pair upstairs had tried tonight, or perhaps they’d already moved on to new flirtations—who could say? Outside, night had fallen, but at least for tonight, Djerba Island remained a scene of revelry.