[ Marcel's clothes rustle behind him as he takes off the rest and Jean Louis moves with precise, efficient movements, stripping down to his boxers before stripping them off as well, unbothered. In they go, in the pile, and it's all very neat, isn't it, in sharp contrast to - yes. Marcel's jeans, sailing through the air and landing on the fucking laundry basket, only to slide down pitifully because halfway there is also nowhere near. Turning towards the other man, he pauses. Looks him over, as he's being looked over in turn.

The other man's basically a disaster, the various bruising and swelling standing out to maximum effect due to the paleness, near whiteness, of his skin. The tattoo on his front, only about a third of the way drawn up at this point, looks exactly what it is, a work in progress, only in its very beginnings. Unfinished. Then, there's his ridiculous cock between his legs, heavy but un-engaged, which really says it all at this point. The man's nowhere near himself, no matter how much he's playing at it.

With a shrug, he steps around him and into the shower stall, leaving the sliding glass door standing wide open in invitation. He thinks about Verlinden, chasing Marcel around the house with a fucking rolling pin because he can put two and two together quite easily, thank you, even without a long and expensive education. He steps into the spray, water rushing down his face and front and suddenly, he actually can't quite stand it. The thought of it. He's going to visit Marcel's old man tomorrow and he's going to make certain the idiot doesn't sleep this off any time soon. ]