Chapter 55

Miguel was answered with another slap on his forehead—given that the back of his head had been split open and his buttocks had been thoroughly thrashed, the only part of him still intact was his forehead. Under the Navigator’s dissatisfied gaze, Caesar turned to Rick and asked, word by word, “Is there anything else?”

Rick shrank back, instinctively wanting to bolt, but being young, he managed to steady himself after a moment of hesitation: “Can I borrow that compass for a bit?”

…Was this a matter of playing with one’s life? Miguel was stunned for a moment. The joy of a naive child was endearing, wasn’t it? For some reason, he suddenly felt a bit of sympathy for Rick (…).

“If you don’t lend it to me, I’ll ‘accidentally’ tell everyone at breakfast tomorrow that Miguel was lying bare-assed on your sofa,” Rick said, counting on his fingers and deciding to go all out. “What do you think everyone will say? …I’m telling you, Captain, don’t say I’m being unfair. There are already rumors on this ship about you and Miguel being… unusual…”

Miguel: “Huh? I thought I was being pretty low-key.”

Caesar frowned but said nothing.

“Don’t stress about it,” the red-haired first mate said with a smirk. “Actually, everyone’s kind of… enjoying it.”

“…” Enjoying it? Laozi is seriously in a relationship here, okay? A serious (gay) relationship!

Laozi is the naive child here, feeling sympathy for you is just me being sick. Here, take the damn compass and get lost. With a toss, Miguel threw the compass at Rick, who caught it gleefully and even winked at him. The black-haired young man didn’t hesitate to return the favor with a glare.

“Have you really gotten so bored that you need a compass to figure out what you want, Rick?” The Captain, who had been silent, suddenly spoke up as the first mate fiddled with the compass, cutting straight to the point. “Has life been too uneventful lately?”

“Everyone goes through a period of confusion, boss,” Rick muttered, opening and closing the small wooden box in his hands, but the needle remained still.

Caesar sneered but said nothing more, letting it go.

In the end, the compass in Rick’s hands seemed dead, refusing to budge no matter what. After fiddling with it for over ten minutes, Rick gave up in disappointment and tossed the box back to Caesar, who caught it with ease. The red-haired first mate glanced at him, as if he had something to say, but then he looked at Miguel, who was lying on the sofa staring at him with wide eyes, and in the end, he said nothing, sighed, and left.

The door to the Captain’s Cabin closed with a soft “click.”

There was a brief silence in the room.

“Honestly, I hate it when people play the ‘almost saying something’ game. And sighing on top of that? That’s just adding insult to injury,” Miguel said, unable to resist reaching out to scratch his back again, only to have his wrist caught by the man sitting by the sofa. The Navigator was stunned. “What are you doing~ing~ing~”

The black-haired young man was terrified as he watched the Captain’s cold, elegant, and handsome face slowly lean in, then puff out his cheeks adorably (not really) and blow on his back.

The sensation was so intense that Miguel felt it from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

“Better?” The man asked, completely unfazed by Miguel’s reaction.

Miguel thought for a moment, then shamelessly and earnestly said, “It’s even itchier now. Do it again.”

Glancing at Miguel, the Captain reluctantly leaned in and blew again.

Miguel: “Mmm~ Uh~ Uh~ Uh~”

Caesar: “What are you howling about?”

Miguel: “Nothing, I just suddenly feel like lying here is totally worth it. I really want to lie here for another five hundred years—Ow! Why are you hitting me!”

…

Over the next few days, Miguel obediently stayed in Captain Caesar’s Cabin to recover. During this time, whether it was because Caesar had used some underhanded methods to suppress the rumors, he didn’t hear any of the idle crew members gossiping about him and the Captain—surprisingly, his tough-guy performance on the deck that day had actually earned him quite a few fans.

Pirate A: “You actually survived after being personally whipped by the Captain!”

Miguel: “Hehe, yeah, yeah =__，=.”

Pirate B: “You didn’t make a single sound while the Captain was whipping you. Man, I underestimated you!”

Miguel: “Hehe, yeah, yeah =__，=.”

Pirate C: “You didn’t even wet yourself after being whipped by the Captain. I need to learn from you. Here, have this apple without a nail in it!”

Miguel: “Hehe, yeah, yeah =__，=.”

Caesar: “What are you so proud of? I already said I went easy on you.”

Miguel: “Hehe, long live the Captain.”

…

On the seventh day, just as Bakir and Caesar had predicted, Miguel was finally able to get out of bed on his own, albeit with a wriggling motion. When Caesar returned from the morning meeting and opened the door to the Captain’s Cabin, the first thing he saw was the Navigator sprawled on the floor in a starfish pose—honestly, the usually unflappable Captain was startled.

He even took a moment to recall if there had been any significant turbulence or waves that morning that could have thrown the person who had been lying peacefully on the sofa when he left onto the floor—after three seconds of thought, the Captain concluded: it had been a calm and sunny day.

Leaning lazily against the doorframe with his arms crossed, the Captain asked expressionlessly, “What are you doing?”

The person on the floor stiffened, then replied dryly without turning his head, “Exercising.”

Caesar sneered, “Exercising on the floor?”

“To be honest, this is the tenth lap I’ve crawled today. I’m just taking a break, alright?”

Not bothering to argue, the man frowned, walked over, and effortlessly hauled the person off the floor and threw him back onto the sofa: “Don’t move around if your wounds aren’t fully healed. I’m not in the mood to take care of you for another seven days. You’re just in the way.”

Miguel, thrown back onto the sofa, was nearly going insane. He turned his head and sure enough, saw the man’s smirking eyes staring at him, clearly enjoying the show. The two of them glared at each other for a while, but in the end, it was Miguel who couldn’t hold back. He irritably ruffled his hair, the sticky sensation on his hand only making him more agitated—

“My wounds are almost healed, boss. I beg you, let me take a shower. On my knees, I beg you, please let me take a hot shower.”

“I thought you were enjoying me personally wiping you down every day,” the man said calmly from his desk chair. “How sad, it was all an act.”

“Let’s separate body and soul for now, alright?” Miguel wiped his face. “The part of me that enjoys your rough hands caressing my fair skin is genuine; the part of me that wants clean water to wash my fair skin is also bleeding with sincerity.”

“…” The Captain’s smile faded, thoroughly disgusted.

“So let me take a shower.”

“You were much cuter back when you couldn’t speak the language and stuttered through everything.”

“Whatever! Let me take a shower!”

…

Fifteen minutes later, Miguel was soaking in the large wooden tub in the Captain’s bathroom, in hot water.

After using half a bar of animal fat soap, he finally managed to work up a bit of lather on his head. Someone above him poured a ladle of water over his head, and the black hair, now shiny and soft, clung to the young man’s slightly gaunt cheeks after days of torment.

“Why am I the one serving you here?”

With his sleeves rolled up, holding a ladle in one hand and a cigarette in the other, the man squinted and asked indistinctly.

“Because this is a work-related injury,” Miguel said, leaning on the edge of the tub, unable to resist reaching back to touch his wounds—most of the scabs had already fallen off, and the once bumpy skin now felt like raised lines, as if pink centipedes were crawling on his back. “I’m scarred now, Big Dog.”

Another ladle of water was poured over the Navigator’s back. The man, holding the ladle in one hand and taking a deep drag of his cigarette with the other, casually hummed in acknowledgment. He took the soap from Miguel and haphazardly rubbed it on his back.

Miguel: “I’m scarred now!”

Caesar: “What nonsense are you talking about? It was never good-looking to begin with… Tsk, you’re disgusting, like you were fished out of a sewer.”

Miguel: “My filth is a reflection of how half-heartedly you’ve been wiping me down.”

“…Shut up.”

Casually tossing a towel over Miguel’s face, the Captain said with disdain, “Wipe your face.”

Then, as if too impatient to wait, he grabbed the towel himself and roughly rubbed Miguel’s face—ignoring the force that could have twisted his nose off, the gesture was almost tender.

“You actually have some sincerity when it comes to taking care of people, Captain,” Miguel said with a smile, soaking in the tub.

“Yeah, I used to have a monkey,” Caesar said. “I took care of it myself.”

“A monkey?”

“Yeah, that trash Rick said having a pet would make me more like a pirate captain.”

Oh, so he likes animals? How endearing.

“Oh—” Miguel continued to smile. “What happened to the monkey?”

“It died.”

The Navigator’s smile froze: “…What?”

“It died,” the man said expressionlessly. “During a sea battle, I didn’t keep an eye on it, and it ran onto Leoza’s ship. That lunatic shot it in the head.”

Miguel: “…”

Caesar paused, as if suddenly remembering something. Then, under the black-haired young man’s incredulous gaze, he leaned down and said very seriously, “Can I expect your IQ to be a bit higher than a monkey’s?”

Miguel: “…What are you trying to say?”

“You’re not that easy to kill, are you?”

“…”

“Just don’t die by that red-haired midget’s gun, alright?”

“…”

“Stay alive, alright? You’re not allowed to die without my permission.”

“…”

“Got it? Be obedient, or I’ll whip you.”

“…”

At this moment, Miguel really wanted to sincerely tell Big Dog that when it came to being a “psychopath” and a “lunatic,” he and Leoza might as well be brothers—genuine, refundable for 100,000 gold coins.