"Yes, she was dreadfully dull," Ansel replied simply, his body stiffening uncomfortably at Lucio's touch. He wanted to melt into Lucio completely, but a block had been put up in Ansel's mind. Paranoia began to work at the older gentleman's mind, gnawing like a rabid pest at his thoughts. Lucio had told him stories of fear, and they sounded true enough. Ansel had felt them, had believed he sensed the genuine emotion in Lucio's voice. He had seen Lucio shed tears for him, for them, for reasons beyond their control. Lucio had opened himself up to him in the rawest, most beautiful way.<br/><br/><i>But then</i>, a voice said,<i>you were drunk</i>. Ansel might have remembered the conversation, but it was covered in a dark veil that colored everything Lucio had said. It was possible, wasn't it, that perhaps Lucio had told Ansel only what he wanted to hear? It was possible that Lucio had used his amazing acting skills to manipulate him, to get him thinking about how much he wanted to care for him, protect him, love him. Having a man like Ansel wrapped around his finger certainly would be an advantage to a young man like Lucio.<br/><br/>But no, no. Lucio wouldn't do that. Not his Lucio. Not his prince, his darling, his sweetheart. The same sweetheart that refused to even be with him for more than an evening. The same sweetheart who acted like maybe he was falling in love while telling Ansel that it was impossible. Conflicting actions, words, emotions. Ansel was sure Lucio felt the same way. He was so painfully sure. But was he fooling himself, seeing only what he wanted to see because he was in love with a boy whose chosen profession was to pretend he enjoyed the affections of others? Had Ansel fallen into the same trap as every other old fool who fucked a younger, prettier man?<br/><br/>Ansel had gotten lost in his thoughts and hadn't noticed Lucio examine the golden rose. When he asked Ansel about a partial relationship, something hollow that mimicked the love Ansel wanted to give to him, Ansel didn't know what to say. A part of him, the battered romantic, wanted to tell him yes. Part of him wanted to wrap Lucio up in his arms and stain his skin with his kisses, over and over until the sun set and they could once again crawl into bed with one another. Part of him wanted to give in, because it was all he could do, because it was the only way to convince Lucio to love him.<br/><br/>But then the other part, it burned. Lucio was taking advantage of him, it said, he was using Ansel's affections against him and doing what he could to keep Ansel on the hook. Keep him close,<i>but not too close. </i>Ansel would be relegated to two days a week, just two days where he could feel the love from Lucio that he gave every moment of every day whether Lucio was with him or not. Lucio was slapping him in the face and expecting him to fall to his knees in gratitude. The voice hissed and spat.<i>Lucio doesn't want you. He wants to use you. </i><br/><br/>Ansel couldn't stop thinking. It was too much. He wanted Lucio so desperately, and it had all seemed so simple when he was sure Lucio wanted him back. As long as Lucio genuinely desired to be with him, he could make it work. He could make anything work. But what did Lucio want? He wanted his clients. He wanted his grades and his power and his solitude, and he wanted to treat Ansel like a pet. He was not a pet.<br/><br/>Without saying a word, Ansel left the kitchen. He quickly made his way to the bedroom and the master bath, his fists clenched as he stared at himself in the mirror. He had never felt more hatred for himself than in that moment. It felt like a hole was being burned through his chest. He looked down at his bandaged fist and felt a pang of horror. He still wanted to beat Buckley within an inch of his life, but what did it matter if Lucio would just go back to him instead of home, with Ansel, where he should be?<br/><br/>He started the shower and climbed inside, setting the water far hotter than he should have. Within a minute his skin was already burning, red and slightly raw, but he didn't care. The scalding hot water was a distraction, and it allowed him to forget, if only for a moment, that the love of his life didn't want to be anything other than temporary.