"You-" It pulls him out of his reverie, the moody pouting and pining and moping, a suggestive eyebrow. "You let yourself be fucked." Interest gleams happily, messily, and the wry smirk of having one up on Cesare. "No shit." He laughs.

At Cesare's question he gives a sharp shake of the head, the sole of his boot catching on the curb and sending him stumbling for a moment. "Not physically, no. Not that I know of." He sounds more like a wounded dog than anything and it irks him.