Work Text:
My master’s only concession to the sweltering air in Bangkok was a delicate tug at his collar.
“I was unaware that the Siamese had a custom of pouring water on each other,” he remarked as we passed an assembly of monks engaged in said activity.
After a quick conversation with a local — though it took me three attempts before finding someone with a common tongue — I relayed that we had arrived just in time for Songkran, a New Year's festival of cleansing and purification.
“I approve,” he pronounced, an Englishman bestowing his blessing upon the natives, and then lifted an eyebrow. “Though I prefer cleansing myself less publicly.”
I hastened my efforts to find suitable accommodations.
Rooms secured and bath drawn, I helped Monsieur Fogg out of his coat and shoes. To afford him privacy, I averted my eyes as he undressed, but not before noticing that our many travels — and travails — had not yet made an appreciable difference in my master's lean, pale limbs.
“Perhaps you too would like a bath, Passepartout?”
“Perhaps later, monsieur. But do not rush on my account.”
“Very well,” he answered. To my ears he sounded oddly disappointed, though I could not fathom why.