[ 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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