[ Was bound to happen, JL comments, always the fucking brains between them. He's right, though, Marcel should have expected it, sooner rather than later, shit, if he'd had a leader back in the day who fucked other men, he'd have used it for a little quick promotion, too. Except, Marcel would have made it fucking work, none of this shit. Once he finds out who it is, they're done player drug dealer or errand boy or whatever lame-ass function they've managed to obtain, yeah. He'll make sure of that.
For now, he meets JL's eyes as the man steps closer and gives him a look, taking in his bruises, his busted lip, his maybe broken nose, his black eye. He wasn't ever any fucking beauty to begin with, but Pa might just have messed up the rest, too. Marcel breathes out slowly, carefully, hands balling into fists at his sides. The bags get no real reaction, not that he'd expected they would. JL and he have been living together since they were 10, right, this it just the final fucking extension to that agreement. If you've got my back, I've got yours.
JL's got his, yeah. He's still got it. Also as he pokes his arm (gonna fucking break your finger, man) and Marcel follows him with his eyes first, for just a few seconds, before breaking into a trot behind him. ] We weed out the weak ones pretty regularly anyway, guess it's just time. [ Marcel isn't fancy or deep or shit like that in his word choice, it's pretty plainly obvious that he's talking about their little rat as well as his Pa. The weak come, sure, and the weak are the first to fucking go. ]
[ They walk down the hallway, past the living room and the kitchen. The bathroom is right opposite the bedroom and Jean Louis pushes the door open unceremoniously. He can't make out what's what on the other man, whether he's got a broken nose or a thousand dislocations and he needs to know whether to ship him off to the ER. He doesn't particularly want to and for himself, he wouldn't have considered it - but Marcel needs to be functional, going forwards. He needs his body, his legs, his feet, his hands.
Can't be Superman without your fucking legs, can you.
Stepping inside, he slams down the toilet lid with his foot and turns towards the other man. He nods at the toilet. ]
Sit. [ Pause. Eyes narrowing slightly. ] And take all that shit off.
[ He knows they have a first aid kit somewhere in the apartment, probably under the bed but they'll deal with that later, once he figures out whether the man actually needs that kind of attention in the first place. Right now, he needs a different sort. He looks at Marcel who was talking about weeding out the weak seconds ago, like he'd ever truly place his father in that category, no matter what the old fool subjects him to. It's just that Marcel's loyal, the type you can count on if he's yours and sadly, Monsieur Verlinden's had a claim to him since his wife died in childbirth. It's that old, peculiar human condition - family, blood ties - and they both know how that goes, don't they, even if Jean Louis hasn't seen his parents for over a decade. As an adult, you can choose to own your children. Your children, on the other hand, are born to helplessness and dependency.
It's never been a fair battle, no matter what sort of family you end up with. ]
[ JL's apartment isn't huge, but neither is it small, he's poured real money into this shit with only basic help from the Girard family. Because JL's grown up in the sort of shit system he has, drunk dad, off the fucking hinges mom, he knows, right? You can't get too tied up with people who want to call themselves family, because half the time they don't act like it, they don't even fucking understand the concept. That's what his Pa doesn't get, he thinks, walking over to the loo and sitting down on the closed lid, giving JL a long look out his one good eye - that JL's more family than anyone else Marcel's ever known. You'll stop seeing him, a blow to his upper body punctuating each word, you hear me, boy. Oh, Marcel heard. That was where the roundhouse kick came from.
He shrugs out of his t-shirt. His chest's got blue and black splotches everywhere, in ugly dot-to-dot patterns. Dropping it on the floor, he looks down at his ankle boots, face remaining expressionless. His right foot is throbbing now, hard. ]
Gotta take off the right boot for me, foot's swollen. [ A shrug, like it's nothing when it's vulnerability and they don't deal in that shit, not between the two of them. ] Got in a decent kick to his head.
[ While waiting for the other man to decide whether to help him or laugh in his face as would be his right, not that the latter wouldn't make Marcel want to kill him anyway, Marcel starts loosening his belt and unzip his jeans, letting them fall open around his hips. There's an ugly, bloody bruise along the slope of his hipbone.
[ As Marcel shrugs out of his clothes, baring many more inches of blue and blackened skin, Jean Louis looks him over briefly before turning towards the shower, turning on the spray with a swift jerk of his wrist. He's had the shower stall enlarged since Marcel moved in with him and it fits the two of them easily now, the spray heavy and broad as it slaps down onto the dark-grey tiles. At Marcel's comment - did he break his foot on his father's head, good God, that's epic - he turns and watches him wordlessly for a moment.
Marcel never looks small, not with those pumped-up muscles, but sitting there with his jeans un-zipped and his upper body bared, bruises and blood everywhere and something even worse lingering in his expression, it's hard not to remember that they used to be kids together, too. It's just how it is. Jean Louis doesn't think about it further, he simply notes it, discards it, moves along. Pulling his shirt off his head and toeing out of his socks, he leaves his clothes in a neat pile on the floor before crouching down in front of Marcel.
His ankle definitely looks swollen. Eyes narrowing dangerously, he runs his fingers up along the back of his calf, then down, his touch uncharacteristically light, before grabbing onto the boot and inching it off in firm but careful movements. He takes care not to twist it too much because, well, if the foot is broken, he doesn't actually need to cripple him on top of everything else. One jerk, two, three, and it comes off. He throws it out the door, hearing it land in the hallway with a dull thud.
Then, still wordlessly, he works off Marcel's sock as well, fingers slipping over skin and bone on the way. ]
[ Really, if you should divide Marcel's life into categories, they'd be talking 55 percent violence and 45 percent sex. As JL starts undressing, the good half of him that isn't completely, utterly focused on the fight he's just been in, adrenaline pumping, body sore and victory hollow as all fuck, is thinking about JL, naked, kneeling between his legs. Yeah, now, see, that's a thought worth fucking pursuing, all right. Managing a wry smile as the man crouches down in just his trousers and touches Marcel's ankle like it was made of glass, he ignores the urge to hurry him along, only because he knows it's gonna hurt like a bitch to pull off that boot. It's leather, it doesn't fucking give.
Neither does JL, though, so he gives the shoe a good yank and grunting only a little bit, Marcel shifts on the lid of the loo in response. The shoe goes flying, off into the hallway once off... Looking down, past JL and all that fucking chest, he studies his foot for a moment. It looks bigger once JL gets his sock off, definitely swollen, though there are none of the bloody bruises that should indicate bone fractures anywhere. Probably just a serious sprain. He'll be walking funny a few days and it'll be fine. Smile growing wider, he looks JL over again. Leans back a little, hands coming down to push his jeans down his thighs, baring underwear and skin as the fabric slips downwards. ]
Looking good. [ JL, not his foot. Fuck his foot. He tilts his left foot a bit to the side, still largely unharmed. Might be jeopardizing that now, though. Fucking shoot him. ] Let's see you do the other one.
[ 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. ]
[ The other boot comes off, because apparently JL isn't turning him down yet - things can change fast in their line of business, sure, and between them, too. Just how it goes. Gotta take your fucking chances. And instead of kicking him in the nuts, JL pulls off his other sock, talking to him about his damaged reputation (like the rest of the world wouldn't fucking tremble in front of his Pa in a foul mood), as if this were any other day of beating the crap out of someone, getting your ass kicked in turn. Like Marcel hasn't moved in for real now. Like Marcel won't have to build it all up from scratch, going forward.
Hey, it might be what they need, right? A reset of work affiliations and a complete upheaval of the gang, here and now... Anyway, he was never one to worry, like, shit. He shrugs and gets to his feet while JL turns around and works off his trousers. Marcel watches him through one narrowed eye, nosebleed finally completely dried up. ]
He ain't gonna be able to hold on to no fucking rolling pin for a while.
[ His jeans land around his naked feet and he steps out of them without showing any of the throbbing pain that's really eating away at his fucking right foot now that the blood flow's up and running. Instead he kicks them in the general direction of the laundry basket, in shadow somewhere in the farthest corner. His aim's good, yeah. It lands halfway on top of the thing. Slides down, pooling on the floor. A snort, disinterested and tasting like copper, as he turns his back to it, prying his boxers off. Pulling them down in one careless motion, he leaves them on the floor, mostly to see what JL's gonna do about it.
Speaking of which, he turns his head again and takes a look at the other man, how he's progressing. ]
[ 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. ]
[ It takes JL approx three and a half second to cover the distance between his neat, always so fucking neat, pile of clothing and the shower stall, Marcel following him intently with his gaze, though honestly his eyes are the most engaged part of him right now, his cock hanging limply between his thighs and what, is he fucking sick? Usually it would take one quarter of a glimpse of the other man's body, because you only ever get that much as a fucking treat, to get him hard, but apparently he just can't be assed right now. Might, logically, be the pain, though that hasn't stopped him before.
Whatever.
Scoffing, he follows, rolling one shoulder because it feels prickly and throbbing, muscles definitely tighter than usual. Nah, the pain isn't even really registering, it rarely does with him, yeah, when you've fallen onto cars during parkour enough times to lose count, pain stops being a factor. It's just his body being difficult and Marcel knows how to deal with difficult. Hey, he fucking well fucks JL sometimes. Not right now and why the fuck is he even getting into the shower if he's not in it for the sex (?), but sometimes, sure. He gets lucky.
The water hits his face straight-on when he steps into the spray and it burns there a second, dissolving clots of blood around his nose and mouth, making his black eye fucking pound. Grunting, he reaches up and wipes off the worst with one flat palm running down over his face, the water trickling down his front now turning a pinkish red.
His only reaction is blinking a couple of times, bad eye smarting, and looking JL's backside up and down. Okay, might be gathering enough fucks for a reaction now. ]
[ Marcel steps in behind him and immediately, the space feels loaded, the way it always does between the two of them. Not just in the purely physical sense of proximity but with expectancy, too. The notion of forward-motion, the need for it. They're eager to get from the present to the future, it's how they've been since the very beginning, incapable of standing still for any prolonged period of time and right now, as always, Marcel's waiting for his cue. Jean Louis glances over the small shelf lining the back of the stall, gaze jumping from shampoo to salt scrub to - yes. Soap. The practical things, first.
He grabs the container and puts it on the floor by his feet, within grabbing distance. It's only mildly scented, something clean and un-fruity, it'll do. Grabbing a cloth from the rag as well, he turns towards the other man and steps closer, almost enough to line up their naked bodies. Not quite enough, though their knees are brushing, along with their toes. Marcel looks even worse up close, blood rushing down his face. His nose looks busted. Eyebrow, cut. Lip as well. His right eye's swollen shut. And that's just starting from the fucking top.
Eyes narrowing again, he exhales harshly and squares his jaw. ]
Don't move.
[ With that, he curls his free hand against the side of Marcel's face, fingers digging in slightly to keep his face angled forward. Like this, he's close enough to close that final bit of distance between their bodies, their thighs pressed together along with their crotches, fronts. It's just how these things progress, naturally and necessarily. With the other hand, he wets the cloth and starts dapping at Marcel's face, going from his eyebrow and cleaning out the cut to the uneven line of his nose, making sure not to actively rattle whatever fractures might be there. He's watching his own handiwork critically all the while, gaze snapping back and forth across the other man's features. Slowly but surely, he recognises Marcel in fragments and glimpses, though the patchwork of violence gets clearer too as an inevitable consequence. ]
[ Marcel's been practicing taekwondo since he was a kid. Done parkour for years. He's been in the gang milieu since before he was out of school, taking over the biggest fucking gang in City when he was 16. Violence is par for the course, yeah. Injuries the only natural consequence, well, you know. Either you get injuries or you get death... Avoiding the latter as long as possible, that's life. He isn't the type to moan about this shit. World's just like that, he's survived worse than what his Pa's managed to deal out this time around, too. Usually he patches himself up or makes a doctor do something about it and it'll fucking pass, right? Everything passes.
It's nothing so fucking philosophical that's making him stand his ground, though, as JL steps closer, their toes touching, knees bumping, thighs and crotches pressing together, his cock hardening more noticeably now, a fucking flag pole between their bodies. It's because JL says, don't move, and JL's the only person who'd ever get to order him about, right, everyone else can fucking fuck off. Marcel's the one to dish out orders here, because he's Pilate when he isn't just himself and Pilate answers to no one. No one except the emperor. There's a chain of command for everybody, just because Marcel's at the top doesn't mean the top hasn't got a fucking skylight.
So he doesn't move his head away, although his instinctual reaction would be to draw back as JL holds him still with one hand and smears a wet cloth all over his aching, throbbing face, for fuck's sake. He winces a bit, more like a lip curl than anything else. A snarl. The other man's body is hard and hot against his front and he wants to drop to his knees. Or turn around, offer himself up. Instead, he lifts one hand and curls it around the base of JL's neck, holds him in turn, making sure he won't suddenly back off.
Unlike just about every other fucking sheep in this crappy world they're taking over, one little bit at a time, you can trust JL to do it right. You can trust him to lead the way and hey, Marcel never minded following the road to power and money.
[ The blood comes off easily enough, though the cloth takes off what little dust and dirt's managed to gather in the wounds between Marcel packing up his shit and traversing the distance between Grund and Jean Louis' apartment. Consequently, the eyebrow in particular starts trickling blood almost instantly once he removes the cloth and the spray will have to take care of that until things coagulate properly. Marcel's hand feels large and heavy against the back of his neck and he doesn't move away, stays exactly where he is. The other man's cock is hard and warm between their bodies. For now, he doesn't pay it any further mind, though the feel of naked skin against his own does spark the beginnings of heat in his abdomen.
They'll get there when the time's right.
Blinking water out of his eyes, he wipes off Marcel's lip. It's split well and good, blood welling up around the edges of the wound seconds after and he pauses. Stares at it, at Marcel's mouth. He's got nice lips, actually, though most people aren't ever in any position to notice or care; he's also pale enough that they look thinner from a distance. Close up, though... Head tilting, he leans in, making eye contact for all of two seconds before pressing their lips together, none too harshly. Instead, he flicks his tongue along Marcel's bottom lip, tasting water and copper in almost equal measures. He doesn't at all enjoy the taste of blood in his mouth, generally speaking, but he likes the feel of Marcel's mouth against his own and he likes swallowing up some of this shit, whatever you call it. This disappointment. ]
[ Dab, dab, dab goes the cloth in JL's hand, against his eyebrow (ouch) and his lip (fuck) and Marcel stands still against him, pressing back against the man's front - for the feeling of warmth and wet smoothness, his skin slipping up the shaft of Marcel's cock. Better be a fucking promise. He's getting needy here, yeah...
While working on his split bottom lip, JL tilts his head to the side for a moment, looking from the swelling of his mouth to his eyes while leaning in and Marcel's already ten steps ahead, knows what's coming, because they read each other like fucking books, that is - if Marcel were a big reader, though he's not. But JL he knows how to read, right? He reads him to the fucking letter and as such, he's already parted his lips a bit in fucking welcome. JL's presence and proximity like this, this close, their lips pressed together and the wound near the corner of his mouth smarting like all hell, but Marcel ignores it easily, grunting into the kiss as JL flicks his fucking tongue along the slope of it, sensing how he's taking some of the blood, some of the dirt and the shit, taking it away, and he's getting so hard at the thought alone that he has to shift from one foot to the other in an attempt not to just rub himself all over the other man's stomach. There's the taste of copper, blood, some clotting still left, sticking to his tongue as he pushes back, meeting JL halfway as is their habit.
They've got their middle ground. Theirs. Together. Co-rulers that they are gonna be eventually, fuck.
Tightening his hold around the back of JL's neck, he pulls him closer, deepening the kiss, although it's all more of an urging movement than a forceful one. You don't fucking force JL to come, to give, you wait like a good fucking boy and maybe you'll get lucky that he wants to. Such are the workings between them, always, especially naked against each other. Marcel could force him any day, no problem, the miracle is how he doesn't. Doesn't want to either. His other hand comes up, presses against the ridge of the other man's right hipbone, thumb digging in harshly, feeling him out. ]
[ The taste of blood remains as a persistent echo while Marcel pulls him closer, the kiss growing deeper and the mood changing gradually towards something hotter. He exhales slowly through the water running down his face, as Marcel presses his hand over the ridge of his hipbone, a hard grip, very insistent. It's how Marcel works, of course; you either do or you don't. Middle ground's a matter of running fast enough to make the appropriate distance and happily, they always seem to make it, the two of them. Ever since the beginning. He leans in closer, hand holding the cloth dropping down Marcel's shoulder until he simply lets go of the fabric, grabbing onto his upper arm instead. There's bruising here, too, though a lot more on his lower arm (defensive) and while Jean Louis doesn't insult him by gentling his grip, he keeps his fingers well out of the way of the worst damage. He can do that, easily. Be mindful, if nothing else.
Breaking the kiss, he draws back just enough to run both hands down Marcel's upper body, fingers pressing in over his ribs and the hard contours of muscle. Nothing broken, obviously, or the man would be at least struggling slightly for breath but he's feeling him out anyway because he fucking can. Down, all the way to his hips, then up again, pressing over his stomach, gaze once more drawn to the path of his own fingers and the skin beneath them. He licks his lips, tasting the remnants of blood. The water washes it out quickly enough.
He doesn't touch Marcel's cock, though it's mere inches away from his palms. His own cock's hardening between them as well, pressing against Marcel's thigh. Frowning, he traces one, large bruise on the side of Marcel's abdomen, fingertips ghosting over the pattern of discolouration. Then, without further ado, he bends down (past Marcel's cock, thank you, right in his face), grabs the soap and straightens up again, pouring out a generous amount onto his palm. ]
[ They never nurse each other's weaknesses. They don't fucking condone weakness in general, not in others, least of all in themselves. As JL grabs his upper arm, steering clear of the worst bruises with something that better not be indulgence, but acceptance of the status quo, the way of fucking life, Marcel breathes out harshly. It's halfway into the kiss, halfway outside of it, seeing as JL chooses that moment to disengage. He stares at the other man through the rays of water slapping him in the face, watches him slide his hands down his front, following the outline of a whole array of discolorations, some uglier than others. That's fucking nature for you. Not everyone can be a fucking beauty queen, yeah. He always took more after his mom than his Pa anyway, nothing good gonna come of that. Pa didn't think so either, you can really fucking tell now, huh.
A frown, eyes narrowing. He lets his own arms drop as soon as JL makes as if to lean away, giving him ample room to move. Bending down, the other man gets very close, fucking tease, to his cock, though he doesn't touch it, doesn't even really look at it, beyond what you can't rightly ignore because it's so God damn huge. Marcel shifts again, from foot to foot and back again, hands balling into fists at his sides, because JL looks fucking edible when he's soaping in his hands that way. His cock thinks so too, look at it go, nice little jerk...
He thinks about his Pa again. He thinks about his Pa talking about a religious household, doctrine, church, what-fucking-ever. Ridiculous shit. He thought they agreed on silence, his Pa and him, they've always been quiet together, wordless trips to the cemetery every fucking Sunday. Why the fuck would he need to start running his mouth now, just because. JL looks shadowy and glistening in the overhead LEDs. They've got other means of communication as well, but they're fucking useful, all right. No empty threats. No empty promises.
Waiting for his cue, silently, he blinks against the water, staring at the other man through the splashing onslaught of the spray. ]
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