[ Graceful fingers still under the warmth of the emerald eyed god's touch. Although he does his very best to treat his captor with more than a measure of apathy -- as if gods, mortals, and those caught between hold a common ground -- it's brief moments like these that he remembers, and just for a moment he falters. Perhaps it's how Apollo's eyes seem to see him and past him all at once, or the warm press of perfect hands; whatever it is, Ganymede falls quiet a moment, lingering in it, before trying again. ]

I was trying to reclaim my own space.

[ The cutting edge to the words that he works to craft is not there, tempered by a curiosity as he blinks his bright blue eyes, noting that this god cannot bring argument against his accusation. So he is right. The prince's lips part, his chest heaving and falling with a breath as his head tilts ever so slightly to the right in consideration. ]

So what is it that you cannot do ..?

Surely you can dance, sing, recite.

Surely you've courted, yes?

[ His hands linger as he tries hard to think of something small, something trivial, that is his and not Apollo's. ]