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The first time he sees Dega, he can’t help but stare at him, curiosity piqued.
The man is small, and slender, and the round glasses perched on his nose somehow make him look younger than he probably is.
He looks out of place, like he doesn’t know how he got here. He can imagine how someone like him wouldn’t last long amongst criminals- murderers, thieves, rapists.
He thinks about what Julot said, and knows it’d be far too easy for anyone to slip up next to him during the night, and slit his throat before gutting him.
He’s not sure why, but the thought of it revolts him.
And before he knows it, Dega has already made his way under his skin, the mere concept of his presence like a fog over his brains.
Once they get to the island, they barely leave the other’s side.
Papillon knows Dega must feel safer like this, but for some reason, having him close by makes him feel safer too.
He can’t help but wonder how he would have managed himself without him.
Dega’s weak and fragile, not made for heavy manual work and the rough conditions they live in, and Papillon knows he’s grating on the other inmates’ nerves. He often slows them down, if he doesn’t make them work even harder to compensate what he can’t handle.
He imagines him all alone, in this prison, to fend for himself. Maybe he would have gotten killed that very first night on the boat, maybe not.
Maybe he would have gotten raped in a dark corner of the barracks they sleep in, then beaten to death. Or maybe he would have met another one like Papillon, and he would have been just fine.
Thinking about it makes him strangely uneasy.
One night, he has a bad dream.
He’s back in Paris, lying on the bed he usually shares with Nénette. When he looks next to him, though, the slender frame and dark hair on the pillows don’t belong to her.
It’s Dega, and Papillon isn’t even surprised. He’s sleeping still, his back turned to him.
Papillon touches his shoulder, gently shaking him. When he doesn’t wake up, Papillon turns him on his back, tugging at his arms.
Dega stiffly rolls onto his back. He is dead, blood oozing out of the wide gash that slashes his throat.
Papillon wakes up to the grip of Dega’s wounded wrist on his shirt, and the soft sound of the bats flying above them.
--
He tries not to think about Paris, about the life that he left behind when they came to take him away.
He knows that if he lets himself go, escaping will only be harder; that letting his emotions take control will hold him back.
So he puts everything in a little corner at the back of his mind, not allowing himself to look back. Instead, he lets the heavy Guyanese sun harden his skin and fists, and focuses on finding a boat. One way or another, he’ll take the sea. This cursed land can’t be the end of him. He already hates the island too much as it is.
After they get mobbed in the showers, he finds he can’t bring himself to sleep.
His ankles feel heavier than usual, the chains bigger. He feels more than he hears Dega in his back, scribbling furiously in his little notebook. He can’t help but feel sorry for him, as he must know that hadn’t he been there, things would have turned out a lot differently.
How odious is it for Dega to think that those men were ready to kill them both, that they wouldn’t have hesitated to tear his insides open, if that meant they could get to the dirty, crumpled francs he’s carrying?
His blood is still boiling hot in his veins, his fingers still sore and numb.
The wound on his chest isn’t too deep, it’s more of a gash than a cut, but it stings, sticking to the dirty fabric of his shirt. They were lucky to get out of this one with just a few scratches.
He could get mad with anger when he thinks about how the other held that knife to Dega’s face, how Dega couldn’t know how to defend himself and just stood there, frozen on his feet and terrified. The rush of it all makes him want to pick up Dega and lock him up somewhere, to hide him away where he’s sure nobody will try to take a knife to his guts, where nobody but Papillon will be able to talk to him or touch him or even look at him.
Instead, he curls up on himself, cornering Dega against the barrack’s wall. He knows he can’t stay angry, knows than the adrenaline has him thinking too much.
When he feels little fingers tapping at his shoulder, he knows what Dega is going to ask before he even speaks. He’s not too sure why he rejects him, as they seem to be far too involved with each other for Papillon to pretend that he wouldn’t take him, that he doesn’t care.
“You can’t come with me, Dega”, he says, and he doesn’t sound convincing even to his own ears.
“You should call me Louis”, Dega replies, polite as you please; and at this moment, Papillon swears he can feel his heart break in two.
Dega falls asleep shortly after that, his breathing getting slow and quiet, and all Papillon can do is listen to him as sleep doesn’t come.
--
They don’t talk about what happened in the showers again.
Dega remains his well-mannered, pleasant self, and Papillon doesn’t push it. He knows the other must feel humiliated. Who wouldn’t?
He seems to be drawing more frequently, with more vigor if not anger, and when Papillon can catch a glimpse of the dirty pages, it’s always abstract curves and shapes, sometimes rough drawings of landscapes. He doesn’t draw his wife anymore, though he thinks he may have seen his own face in there once or twice. He should feel guilty about it, and finds that he doesn’t.
Papillon thought he had Dega all figured out, and he’s starting to think he was wrong about everything. He takes to observing him more, and notices things he shouldn’t be. Soon, he’ll be out at sea, sailing back home, and he knows Dega would only slow him down.
It shouldn’t even cross his mind, he shouldn’t even see the way that Dega tugs at his glasses, just to pull them down on his nose again, or how he always quickly blinks afterwards, almost batting his eyelashes, looking lost for a few seconds. How the curve of his upper lip looks like nothing Papillon have seen before, and sometimes he wonders how it would be to trace it with the pad of his thumb, and if Dega would open that mouth in surprise if he did.
He shouldn’t be thinking about all that at all, and God help him, he is.
--
One windy afternoon, Dega gets jumped in the backyard.
It’s Celier who comes to find Papillon in the barracks, looking mildly annoyed.
“Oi. Your boy’s in trouble again. Best go get him, eh?”
When he gets there, he finds two inmates cornering Dega in the muddy alley that leads to the solitary cells. They’re scrawny looking, barely out of their teenage years it looks like, and they’re probably just as scared as Dega. One of them has a hand on Dega’s throat, and even from a distance, Papillon can tell he’s not squeezing hard. Even then, he can feel the anger build up in his chest.
“ Hey, you two!” He calls. “How ‘bout you go play somewhere else?”
The three of them turn their eyes to him, frightened. He can hear one of them curse under his breath. For a moment, they all stand there, Papillon not quite sure whether he should start using his fists yet.
“Didn’t hear me? Get your hands off of him and go back to the yard.”
The one holding Dega steps back, visibly angry. He looks at the other inmate, and they silently debate if attacking Papillon right now would be worth it or not. He can almost hear them thinking. He shoves Dega against the wall, and rushes past him.
“You won’t always be there, you know.” He finally spits, face red and sweaty. His friend pulls him by the arm and they’re gone, rushing to the main yard without looking back at them. He strangely feels as if he just scolded a child.
Papillon turns to Dega. “You should be more careful. For fuck’s sake, what if Celier didn’t see that? Do you just follow anyone who asks?”
Dega’s looking down, wiping his glasses on his striped shirt. “I was only walking around when they got to me. I’m not that naive, you should know.” He says quietly, putting them back on his nose. He paws idly at his neck, still looking a bit distressed.
“Well sometimes, I wonder.” Papillon mutters, more to himself than to Dega. He comes closer, crowding him into the corner. He looks up, still skittish. Papillon puts three fingers under his jaw, lifting his chin up gingerly. The tan column of Dega’s throat stretches before him, bare and inviting. His fingers flex on the other’s face. Dega stands perfectly still, patiently letting him examine his neck, breathing in short huffs. It’s a little red, but the boy truly didn’t put any strength into his hold. In a short, mad moment, Papillon wants to seize that delicate, unbruised little throat and squeeze it, see if any marks would bloom on the skin, if Dega would put up a fight at all. If he’d put his hands around Papillon’s and grasp at his wrists, helpless, or if he’d let him.
“Did they hit you?” He whispers, releasing him from his grip.
“No”, Dega says, looking away. “I don’t think they would have.”
“Stop wandering away. You’ll get yourself killed.”
They walk back to the barracks in silence.
--
He wonders if he’s ever hated anything more than he hates the island and the colony. He hates every bit of it, hates the humid air that suffocates him, the hot, stinging sun and the mud that seems to follow him everywhere. He hates that they all look like scared, dirty dogs, ready to bite at a moment’s notice. He’s kept the habit of running a hand through his hair, somehow still surprised to find it so short under his fingers, and hates that too.
The stale, foul smell of the barracks alone could drive him up the wall.
There’s only a constant thought at the back of his mind- find a boat, keep Dega safe, find a boat, keep him safe, keep him safe keep him safe. Sometimes, it feels like it’s the only thing keeping him from losing it, knowing that Dega is alive, that he’s still able to protect someone other than himself.
They keep working on the road, Dega only growing more and more exhausted every time they go. It should get on his nerves, really, but instead, he works a little harder so that Dega doesn’t have to push himself too much. It’s a foolish thought, but Papillon fears that he might actually collapse from the exhaustion and never get up again.
Sometimes Papillon watches him, watches him readjusting his odd little glasses, tugging at his sleeves, and wonders how someone could want to hurt this vulnerable thing. He can’t help but look at the faded, red stripes that hug his narrow waist, at the dark strand of hair that curls above his forehead, somehow always neatly in place. Under his polite manners and proper behavior, Dega remains a mystery to be solved.
Sometimes, Papillon looks up at the merciless Guyanese skies and thinks of the sea, and of smiling, clear grey eyes.