a/n: Something quick and different: a series of vignettes for Papillion. I'm planning to see the original 1973 film, too.
In the mornings Louis was back to his old self, fragile and wide-eyed under his spectacles.
Polite enough, quick to defuse the tension that came with his means, a constant source of danger, and continuously offered level-headed assertions that did not initially befit his smaller frame.
Henri made sure they stuck together. Louis eyed him strangely at first. And why shouldn't he? Every man in the prison should want to kill him.
Henri never saw fit to draw attention to himself. It was just another job; his reward was freedom.
Another night: Louis was still up.
Graphite etched into the pages of the notebook, a constant scratching sound not unlike rats within the walls.
Henri considered turning over and confiscating the notebook, ordering him to go to sleep, for Godssake, you'll only make yourself ill. He did not do so.
The scratching continued. Henri reminded himself that Louis was worth the investment.
One time, after a strenuous day of labour under the sun, in a rare moment of respite, Louis put down the pencil and asked if he had ever considered slitting him open to get the money.
Henri could not lie and say it wouldn't be easier, though Louis's eyes were sharp behind glass, demanding an answer. He said, no point. He needed someone around to do the talking, and they had already worked out an escape plan.
Oh, said Louis, not bothering to correct his use of they. Is that why he'd tolerated him this long?
Henri bit back a cold smile.
Sure, he said. If it helps you sleep at night.
Louis continued to study him. Henri found himself longing for a smoke.
If I wished to kill you, Henri said, you would have been dead before we landed on French Guinea.
Louis eyed him carefully over his notebook, but said nothing.
After a week passed, then a month, Louis seemed to accept Henri's intentions, or lack thereof, for the sake of money or survival alone, or perhaps all of these reasons; he could be humbled.
He'd started calling him Papi, after the tattoo. Henri didn't know what to make of that.
In recent nights Louis clung to his back the way a child would, seeking some small comfort. In the hushed, muggy air, the smell of several dozen men caked in sweat, residual mud and blood and shit, lingered still.
Henri could feel him breathing as well as hear it, in the shallow rise and deflation of his breast.
He did not relax his shoulders.