I pulled my thin abayah over my wet body, warm mud seeping deliciously between my toes. I paused with my next article of clothing in hand and wriggled my toes in the mud at the sudden thought the dark substance brought to mind. I dropped my garments and bent to scoop up a handful of the damp earth at my feet, which squelched as left its resting place. I heard Holmes turn at the sound and make a sound of protest as I smeared the mud across my cheek.
"Russell," He hissed, disbelief reverting him back to English. "What on earth are you doing?"
"The mud of the Dead Sea is said to rejuvenate the complexion." I mused in Arabic, calmly drawing a dark, wet line down my nose.
"An arab boy has no need of a cosmetic facial masque." He protested.
"Neither does one need a bath, and yet he just had one." I ignored this feeble argument and continued applying mud to my face.
"You'll remove the skin dye."
"Hardly."
When I stretched out on a dry bit of ground, I could sense his glare burning on my face, nearly hot enough to dry the mud on my face. "Relax, Holmes." I soothed, moving my mouth as little as possible to avoid cracking the already drying mask. "Who will see but the jackals?"
I heard a sigh, and then, to my surprise, a squelch. I cracked an eye open. Holmes' grey eyes, barely a glint in the moonlight, were surrounded by the equally greyish mud. I felt the mud on my face crack as I smiled. My usually scrupulously-clean mentor could not resist a face wash.
"Those snorts are most unbecoming, Russell."
"Not for an arab boy."