Hurt Me Like You Mean It [BL]-Chapter 27: A different brand of cruelty but cruelty all the same

Chapter 27: Chapter 27: A different brand of cruelty but cruelty all the same
Lance froze.
His whole body went rigid, breath caught in his throat, mind blank and panicky.
A kiss? After everything? After the pain, the fear, the humiliation?
He didn’t move.
He couldn’t move.
Was this some kind of sick joke? One of Ansel’s games?
And Ansel’s eyes narrowed knowingly.
Like he could see every emotion running through Lance’s body in real time.
A single second passed.
Then another.
Lance still didn’t lean in.
Eventually, Ansel exhaled slowly... and pushed him off his lap.
Not roughly but firmly, decisively.
As if making a silent conclusion about something in his head.
"Get dressed.." he said.
His voice had gone cold again, unreadable, shutting itself back behind its iron walls.
Lance scrambled off him, wincing as a sharp ache shot through his hips and lower back.
He hissed quietly, unable to sit properly, shifting his weight to accommodate the pain.
He tugged his clothes back on with trembling fingers.
Meanwhile Ansel opened the back door, stepped out without another word, and walked around to the driver’s seat.
Lance sat stiffly in the backseat, lowering himself carefully, trying not to cry again at the throbbing soreness.
He wasn’t expecting an apology.
But whatever Ansel said earlier... could that even be counted as an apology?
It felt like something someone says just to make a crying child stop.
There was no real remorse.
Lance let his head fall back against the seat, exhausted.
Every man in his life really did have their own special way of treating him like trash.
Henry...
Professor Valentino...
Trevor...
And now Ansel.
A different brand of cruelty, but cruelty all the same.
He didn’t know how he’d face Henry once he returned.
Didn’t know how he’d survive another day of this twisted "contract."
His love life wasn’t a love life, it was a disaster zone.
Ansel didn’t speak the entire drive.
The silence was thick. Heavy. Almost suffocating.
Lance had questions clawing at his throat:
Why was Ansel even on campus?
How did he know he was in the storage room?
Or that Trevor touched him?
Or that he needed saving?
But he stayed quiet. He couldn’t risk it.
Not when Ansel’s mood was unreadable.
He might be dealing with a stalker. A dangerous one.
But bringing that up would be suicidal.
Being quiet.
Being obedient.
Being small.
That was the safest option for him now.
Lance turned his face toward the window, watching the campus blur as the car drove off.
For once... he wished he really had disappeared like everyone wanted.
Ansel had gone quiet long before he pulled the car over.
No warning or no explanation, just a sharp flick of the indicator as he eased the car to the side of the road.
"Stay.." was all he muttered before he got out and shut the door.
Lance sat there, confused and sore, watching Ansel’s silhouette walk off until it disappeared behind a row of shop fronts.
Ten minutes ticked by.
Maybe twelve.
Long enough for Lance’s anxiety to claw at his chest, but not long enough for him to convince himself Ansel wasn’t coming back.
When the door finally opened again, Ansel slid into the driver’s seat with a small pharmacy bag and a warm, heavy Chipotle takeout.
He didn’t look at Lance, didn’t explain where he’d gone or why.
He just placed everything on Lance’s lap with a controlled, clipped motion.
"Take it."
His tone wasn’t angry, it was too flat for that. More like someone forcing their emotions into a box and locking it.
Lance swallowed and nodded, clutching the bag.
He didn’t dare speak.
Ansel started driving again, the silence thick and uncomfortable. About five minutes later, he slowed the car once more.
This time, he pulled into a quiet street a short distance from Lance’s neighborhood.
"Get out.." Ansel said.
Lance didn’t say anything, didn’t even act surprised, he did as Ansel commanded and got out of the car.
The moment he closed the door, the car sped off, Lance sighed slightly but he didn’t say anything.
He hailed a taxi, Ansel had dropped him close enough to his neighbourhood, if his ass didn’t hurt so bad, he could walk it.
But not today.
Five minutes later, he was outside his building, greeting neighbors automatically even though his mind wasn’t present.
Inside his apartment, he let everything drop.
The food. The bag. Himself.
He collapsed onto the couch, face-first, his body heavy.
Everything hurt. His heart. His ribs. His choices.
But he couldn’t blame anyone.
Every wound he carried...
he’d walked into it himself.
Lance pushed himself off the couch with a low hiss, shuffling toward the pharmacy bag Ansel had shoved into his hands earlier.
He set it on the coffee table and took a breath before opening it.
Inside were a few things: painkillers, a cooling gel, some kind of medicated ointment specifically labeled for sensitive areas. Lance stared at it like it had personally wronged him.
"...Great," he muttered. "Fantastic. Love that for me."
He dropped his head back against the couch for a second, then sighed.
Before he could even think about rubbing that stuff anywhere, he needed a shower.
A long, hot one—well, warm, because hot water on torn skin sounded like a new form of torture.
He glanced at the Chipotle bag next. It smelled good, stupidly good, but he shut it quickly and carried it to the fridge.
No way in hell was he eating beans and meat right now. He was already one wrong move away from crying.
He kept it inside the fridge, he would have some of the soup his mother made instead.
Beep!
Beep!
His phone vibrated, as the gentle violin from [War Of Hearts] started playing.
He looked at the caller and sighed again.
Henry was calling.
Lance stared at the phone as it rang, he so didn’t want to pick up the call but he exactly didn’t have a choice.
It was Henry calling.
"Hello.."
A soft laugh was heard from the other end.
"I thought you weren’t going to pick up.."