[ Marcel pushes down his jeans further and and just like that, the mood shifts noticeably. As he throws Marcel's sock off into the shadows - in direction of the wash basket, really, come now - he frowns at the other man's foot. Nothing looks broken but then again, he's no doctor. Marcel tends to know, though. He's had enough broken bones to tell the difference between a sprain and a serious injury. Shifting his attention, he glances upwards slowly. Meets the other man's gaze head-on.

Pointedly, he glances at his crotch. Then, at his left boot. ]

At least he didn't get you in the balls. [ The man wouldn't instigate anything at all if he'd had those types of bruises, Jean Louis knows all too well as he's given him a number of them throughout the years. Eyebrow raised, he shakes his head minutely and plays along (let's it fly), grabbing onto Marcel's other boot and pulling it off. Rougher, this time, and faster. ] Everywhere else, though, it seems. [ Sock off, faster as well, though his fingers do linger just a fraction around his ankles, enough to feel the heat of his skin, the fast pulse of blood underneath. ] You realise the most damaging thing to your reputation here is getting the crap beaten out of you by the elderly, right? If he didn't already have old-people arthritis, I'm sure you've fixed that for him tenfold.

[ With that, he gets to his feet and leaves Marcel to do the rest, turning his back to the other man (very deliberately so) and undoing his own jeans, pushing them down his hips and off. Into the pile they go, neatly folded like the rest. ]