Chapter 7

The storm raged over the port of Djerba Island for three full days.

On the third night, the wind and rain finally subsided—amidst the height of summer, the air, cleansed by the storm, suddenly dropped in temperature. Pushing open the window, fresh rainwater dripped from the plants outside the wooden cabin, and the salty sea breeze swept in from all directions. Taking a deep breath, the air was filled with the scent of earth.

Miguel closed the window, took off his shoes, and shamelessly lay down next to the man who had taken over the entire bed—when the bed creaked under the weight, Big Dog pursed his lips and, as if accustomed to it, turned over to face the outside, surrendering half of the territory.

Facing the same direction as Big Dog, Miguel propped his head up with one hand, his eyes fixated on the man’s back, observing every perfect line of his musculature—the other man seemed to have grown used to this kind of visual intrusion. Just as Miguel was enjoying the view, the man’s breathing became slow and even.

Was he asleep?

…How dare you fall asleep before I do? Clearing his throat, Miguel extended a finger and poked the firm back in front of him, adopting an “innocent and clueless” tone: “The rain stopped.”

The plank-like back remained unmoving—only a slight hitch in his breathing made the young man’s lips curl in the darkness. He kept his finger pressed against the other’s back, patiently waiting for about thirty seconds—

“Hm.” A deep male voice broke the silence. “Take your finger away.”

Big Dog, with his eyes closed, felt as though he had nearly exhausted what little patience he had left in his life. Just as he felt the finger that had been digging into his back begin to lift, the finger, taking advantage of the situation, began to trace a deliberate curve along his back. “Tch, perverted fisherman.”

In the darkness, the man cursed in German.

The other man, who didn’t understand a single word, remained blissfully oblivious. In the dim light of the room, his attention was now fully focused on Big Dog’s back: “You have a tattoo on your back?”

Not expecting this to be the subject of scrutiny, Big Dog’s back stiffened momentarily before relaxing. He grunted, offering a reluctant acknowledgment.

Miguel’s interest was piqued: “…Is it a treasure map?”

—But which island is called “Margarita”?

Suddenly, his finger met empty air as the bed creaked—Big Dog turned over abruptly, and Miguel’s finger, still in its original position, landed with thrilling precision (…) on the perfect chest muscles of Big Dog.

Miguel: “…Oh my.”

Big Dog: …”

Slapping away the hand that had been groping his chest, the man, despite the layers of bandages wrapped around his eyes, managed to accurately grab his savior’s chin with a firm grip. The pressure was intense, and Miguel instinctively grabbed the man’s wrist. When his fingers brushed against the taut skin of the other’s wrist, he realized that the man was seriously considering the possibility of dislocating his jaw—

“Have you been listening to too many stories from those idiots?”

“Huh?” With his chin firmly gripped, Miguel found it difficult to speak normally. He desperately wanted to remind Big Dog that if he didn’t let go soon, he was going to start drooling.

“It’s not a treasure map,” Big Dog said indifferently, releasing Miguel’s chin. “It’s a woman’s name.”

Miguel fell silent for a moment.

“…You have a woman’s name tattooed on you?”

“Yes.”

“A woman named ‘Margarita’?”

“Yes.”

“…”

Miguel felt as though he’d been struck by lightning.

It was like finding a purebred German Shepherd that you thought had no owner, only to discover, while cuddling with it one day, that there was a dog tag with the owner’s contact information hidden beneath its furry neck.

He didn’t expect Big Dog to be a man who liked other men, but he at least hoped he was a normal man who wouldn’t tattoo a woman’s name on his body—unless this woman named “Margarita” was already dead, how else could someone love her so deeply and grandly as to do something as cliché and idiotic as “carving your name on my body and keeping you in my heart”?!

As if completely oblivious to the pair of eyes in the darkness that were nearly bleeding with anger, the man shifted into a slightly more comfortable position, adjusting the pillow beneath his head. Backlit, Miguel could easily see the faint curve of his lips—

This only made Miguel even angrier—look at how smug this bastard is, smiling like a saint after I’ve been waiting on him hand and foot for days like he’s the emperor himself!

Silently climbing out of bed, the night had taken too many unexpected turns, and now he needed a few sips of rum to calm down.

“Pirates are nomads of the sea. At sea, aside from their own crew, everything is an enemy. For us, there’s no ‘tomorrow,’ only ‘today.'”

Miguel tilted his head back and took a swig from the bottle of rum, then, after a moment’s thought, pulled out a glass and poured half a glass, shoving it under Big Dog’s nose.

“And then?” he asked without much sincerity, having only understood four words from the previous sentence: “pirates,” “enemy,” “tomorrow,” and “today.”

“Many pirates choose symbols of their daily lives on land as tattoo designs, things that remind them of home. Tattooing a lover’s name alongside a crucifix—it’s said that those with such markings are protected from all disasters—women and children aren’t allowed on ships, but legend has it that women have the innate ability to speed up a voyage and ensure its safe return to shore.”

…Lover.

Thud!

The sound of the glass being slammed onto the wooden table.

Heh. In the darkness, in a place where Miguel couldn’t see, the man flashed a lazy, wicked smile.

Through the gaps in the bandages, as the faint orange glow of the room returned, the smile on his face vanished almost instantly, as if it had never been there. When Miguel approached the bed with the lit kerosene lamp in hand, the dim light revealed only the man’s cold, rigid, and perfectly sculpted face.

Miguel paused, then walked around to Big Dog’s back, holding the lamp close to his skin.

“What do you see?” The broad back remained motionless, as if the man was generously allowing him to examine this secret.

“A cross.”

Big Dog nodded, speaking with patience. “Aside from that, there’s another common design—if you ever see Rick, you’ll notice he has a woman’s portrait tattooed on his back, set between a ship and a lighthouse. The ship has three masts because ‘three’ is a lucky number—”

“Who’s Rick?”

“Our… first mate.”

“Old Fante says he’s a mad dog.” Or more accurately, a loyal but crazy dog, Miguel added silently.

“That’s a fitting comparison,” Big Dog chuckled briefly, his back still to Miguel. “I’ll tell him that if I get the chance.”

Setting the kerosene lamp down, Miguel pursed his lips. “Why didn’t you go with a woman’s portrait? It sounds pretty impressive.”

Big Dog: “Oh, that’s too complicated. Tattoos hurt.”

Miguel: …”

Then don’t get a fucking tattoo at all, asshole!

Extinguishing the lamp, the room returned to darkness, and Miguel climbed back into bed.

“Seen enough?”

“Seen enough.”

“Not looking anymore?”

“Not looking.”

“Since you saved my life, if you ever want to become a pirate, I’ll tattoo you myself.”

“Thanks, but no.”

“I’m pretty good at it.”

“Forget it.” With his eyes closed, Miguel snorted through his nose. “I’m scared of pain.”

“…”

The room finally fell into silence, broken only by the occasional sound of raindrops falling from the leaves outside.

Miguel turned over, feeling like he was about to fall asleep—but his mind was still buzzing with excitement—because this accidental movement had brought his left hand into close contact with Big Dog’s right hand, the touch of their skin hot and electric—enough to make his brain boil over.

In his half-asleep state, Miguel suddenly thought of a problematic question: If the person whose name is tattooed on someone’s back is also at sea, wouldn’t that mean they’d be drifting aimlessly on the ocean for the rest of their lives?

…Fuck! =__=