backstory: Silence
Hammamet, Tunisia, August 5th, 1924
Hugh's never understood what was so special about sunsets that made poets fill page after page about them. They were nothing but the sun and the sky and colours: people saw sunsets every day, yet somehow they deemed it romantic. Girls swooned in men's arms because of them. Hugh's never understood any of it.
If Hugh concentrates, he can hear the waves crashing against a shore of white sand. Then the muezzin's "Allahu akbar" rings over the roofs of the quiet town, and Hugh closes his eyes. It's strange how fast he's become used to the daily calls. He's not alone in the room, and he wants to ask the man why he doesn't kneels down to pray. But in the end he doesn't. Hugh didn't pay him to answer questions.
It's getting cold fast now with the sun disappearing, and Hugh shivers beneath the thin cotton shirt. He closes the window and turns toward the man standing in the middle of the room, naked and watchful. The oil lamp on the small table by the bed flickers, making light and shadow dance over smooth ebony skin. The man's tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair. He's beautiful, but his skin is too dark and his eyes don't have the right shade.
It's not him.
So when the man steps close and smiles and reaches out a hand, Hugh flinches away. The man lowers his hand, still smiling, and regards him silently. Hugh barely resists the urge to explain how it won't work, that Hugh doesn't truly want to forget; instead he says, "I'm sorry."
The man simply shrugs, his face seamlessly sliding into an immobile mask. Hugh watches him dress with precise, efficient movements, snatching the money laying on the foot of the bed and putting it in the pocket of his trousers.
The man leaves without a word, pulls the door shut behind him without a sound. Hugh blinks and turns back toward the window and, pulling a blanket around his shoulders, watches the last traces of the sunset.
Hugh's never understood what was so special about sunsets that made poets fill page after page about them. They were nothing but the sun and the sky and colours: people saw sunsets every day, yet somehow they deemed it romantic. Girls swooned in men's arms because of them. Hugh's never understood any of it.
If Hugh concentrates, he can hear the waves crashing against a shore of white sand. Then the muezzin's "Allahu akbar" rings over the roofs of the quiet town, and Hugh closes his eyes. It's strange how fast he's become used to the daily calls. He's not alone in the room, and he wants to ask the man why he doesn't kneels down to pray. But in the end he doesn't. Hugh didn't pay him to answer questions.
It's getting cold fast now with the sun disappearing, and Hugh shivers beneath the thin cotton shirt. He closes the window and turns toward the man standing in the middle of the room, naked and watchful. The oil lamp on the small table by the bed flickers, making light and shadow dance over smooth ebony skin. The man's tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair. He's beautiful, but his skin is too dark and his eyes don't have the right shade.
It's not him.
So when the man steps close and smiles and reaches out a hand, Hugh flinches away. The man lowers his hand, still smiling, and regards him silently. Hugh barely resists the urge to explain how it won't work, that Hugh doesn't truly want to forget; instead he says, "I'm sorry."
The man simply shrugs, his face seamlessly sliding into an immobile mask. Hugh watches him dress with precise, efficient movements, snatching the money laying on the foot of the bed and putting it in the pocket of his trousers.
The man leaves without a word, pulls the door shut behind him without a sound. Hugh blinks and turns back toward the window and, pulling a blanket around his shoulders, watches the last traces of the sunset.