the_cupbearer | shit-talking the glitterati

Entry tags:

armand,
psl

shit-talking the glitterati

Sitting on a convenient bench in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Ganymede crosses his ankles, legs outstretched in front of him. It's a mix of snow and drizzling, misty rain outside through the wide glass windows, and he's enjoying playing tourist in his own city. The art is magnificent, he remembers much of it being made--and in front of him is a painting of his own story. The Abduction of Ganymede.

"I know it's supposed to be beautiful art," he murmurs. "But most of what I remember is the artists groping me. And most of them were bad at it to boot," he chuckles. "They all thought they were so irresistible, do you remember?"

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Armand has always loved art in a way that could be difficult to describe. Passionately would be a good word, maybe, if one could call that to the kind of passion that led someone to stare at a painting of the three Wise Men for five hours. Bit insane, too.

He didn't show it always, and he didn't use that passion in the same way as Louis. Armand didn't much care for art as a form of trade, even if he was well aware of its merits as another means of currency. There was always so much more behind a piece of art- a display of power, a snapshot of a moment in time in history told, a song dedicated to life and death, the exaltation of one's religious faith...and in this case, what was in front of him was reality turned myth and a reminder of how gross some artists could be.

"All too well."

The answer is curt and dry as a bone, but the sharpness is not directed at Ganymede but at their past abusers. Too many of them to remember all their faces, names, or bad habits, but some left a stronger mark. A stain, in Armand's case, something that felt indelible. He doesn't want to think of those now, but given what their current activity is, it's inevitable. They can be casual about it. His tone shifts in time with the movement of his legs, also getting crossed so he can rest an elbow over one knee, the corner of his lips upturning in a smile.

"At least the smell of paint and turpentine covered their stench. Do tell me, how happy were you when indoor plumbing and mechanical showers were invented?"

"Oh, fuck," Ganymede laughed in reply, shaking his head. "They haven't invented a word that strong yet." He loved this ability, newfound as it was with someone like Armand--he wasn't even close to the same age, not really, but he understood far more than anyone else Ganymede had met. What it was like to pose for endless hours, to be seen as beautiful beyond reason, to be the gift in-kind for repayment of favors.

To be the muse, at once untouchable icon and accessible whore for any who wanted them.

It was a large part of why he could stand being so close to Armand, letting him in on the recollections he can dredge up like fine silt from a riverbed. Armand knew. "I remember Caravaggio, and all his drama. He loved nothing like he loved fucking and painting." Sometimes even in that order.

That reaction gets Armand to smile properly too, and it's one of his rare, honest ones. There's still an abysmal difference in age between them, but much like it happens to Ganymedes, he feels a closer connection to him than to most of his brethren. they have seen humanity change like no other, and they know their highs and lows. There had been a lot of lows at times, but they also have learned to make fun of them to cope.

"There's a lot to be said about humanity, most of it not great, but their endless capacity for innovation is one of its best traits if you ask me."

They're both stuck in time; there's no way to update themselves to grow old, but they can keep up with the times. It's why Armand has never buried himself underground to sleep the centuries away; there's too much going on around them to ignore the world. He already wasted enough time when he was living int eh catacombs, dissatisfied with his no- life.

"Somehow I am not surprised about Caravaggio; his paintings show a particular character and his choice of muses too. The most dramatic are always the most memorable in bed, either for their success in bed or their failure. At least the second one, while frustrating, was at times amusing. "

Armand leans in; his tone is almost conspiratorial, even if it's unnecessary.

"Rubens, the poor man, got the worst case of whisky dick imaginable even after only a couple of drinks, but he made it up for it with the talents of his tongue. And I'm not talking about how eloquent he was. Thanks to him, I got to meet his most talented assistant, Anthony van Dyck. An appropriately named man."

"Oh, no, I absolutely believe that, he was wordy enough to be amazing with his mouth," Ganymede replied, watching the people mill about them between the paintings. "Caravaggio was amazing when he wasn't angry, but he was hot as hell any way you got him. He could fuck like there would be no tomorrow, but you'd feel it all the next day, too."

Ganymede loved watching the world change, and learning all the things people had discovered, had come up with--and he'd kept up with sciences and arts the whole of his life. "Leonardo was easier for that, he'd just let you suck him for hours while he worked. But he loved telling you he liked what you did."

He stretched out his legs to cross his ankles, thinking back. "Not the worst lover I've ever had for that--at least he could carry the conversation for you."

"Frankly I liked it better that way. Quieter nights, and it was rather funny if he was in a festy way."

Fewer issues having to handle bruises or worry about hickeys if men left him goddamn alone. Armand enjoyed the company of Rubens because they could discuss and talk about paintings all night long and also —like he was doing with Ganymede— they would also trash talk other painters.

"That so? Caravaggio sounds like someone I would have enjoyed meeting. Back then I was a bit of a terror myself. I hope you also made sure he never forgot you."

He was young and therefore childish, but also stubborn in a way that made him challenging and playful. Armand was fascinated with life in a way he's not anymore now; maturing as well as centuries of trauma do that to you.

"Da Vinci? That Leonardo?" Armand perked up, his eyes glinting a brighter orange for a moment. "It's amazing that you got to meet him, not just intimately. He was before my time only by a narrow margin. Did you inspire many of his works?"

"Rubens always sounded like fun, from what I'd heard of him," Ganymede murmured; he'd kept relatively abreast of what was going on in the world no matter where he went, and however long written letters took to reach him, he always got them. "Oh, I don't think he forgot me. It wasn't a long affair--his heart belonged elsewhere--but it was enjoyable."

Hearts and minds were one thing to have and hold; sex was entirely different, at least for him. Ganymede had had much of the latter, and relatively little of the former given his age. But he nodded when Armand had to confirm which painter he meant...the polymath had been a close friend for quite a while. "A few. Not many, because I asked him not to. But some have my face in them. He was one of the few who listened when I told him I was no angel, real or otherwise."

"He was more tolerable than most. I think you might have liked him. He definitely would have enjoyed painting you. He loved plum women, elegance, and sensuality. You fit two of these three qualities, not bad."

For a moment, the way Armand smiles makes his fangs a little bit more visible than usual. He's in a good mood, and he means what he told Ganymede as praise.

"Ruben also had the talent to paint people as people: women with curves or double chins, men with wrinkles or messy beards if that's what their bodies looked like. Sure, his paintings were also idealized, but when I looked at them, I could still see myself as a person, not just a thing."

And that's why he still enjoys Rubens's art these days. They only have two or three paintings of him in the Metropolitan, but Armand now feels the urge to go seek them and look at them for a while. He doesn't, as to not leave the present company, of course.

"Ah, I see. Such is life." Love, honest one, is such a rare thing for them. The longer they live, the faster it seems to slip between their fingers. "That's good to know. It's such a rare thing. Did you ever got to meet
Lisa Gherardini, by any chance?"

"Sadly, I have never been able to pass as a woman from any perspective but the back, and only with my hair down," Ganymede said gently, and an echoing smile graces his features when he can see the little peeks of Armand's fangs. He likes the moments when Armand is free to be happy and to show it, no matter who's watching, or may be nearby. "Rubens was a celebrity. The more people perfect you to fit their own terms, the more you value others' flaws. It's what makes them real."

He spoke from experience, yes, but it wasn't tinted with sadness, it was simply the way Ganymede had lived.

He nodded at the question about the woman he'd met. "La Gioconda, I met her several times, yes. She was a wonderful woman, she loved life, and loved to laugh and smile. I will tell you that I have posed for two sculptures on purpose, and one of the two results is much closer to real than the other." But he won't give Armand any more hints than that; he knows exactly how sharp Armand is and he wants to see him figure it out.

"Nothing to be sad about. You are a gorgeous man."

Something Armand is sure that Ganymede has heard ad nauseam, but he means in the most nonsexual way possible right now. Not to say that G isn't gorgeous and sexy and that Armand would love to get lost in the sheets with him again and suck on his neck until both are left a pleased, writhing mess, but the point he's trying to make here is different.

"I used to have longer hair, too; when I was much younger, I could easily pass as a woman. Frankly, I found people's confusion amusing sometimes." Other times it had caused issues, but Armand's life in 90% of its totality has always been problems in some way or another. One learns how to handle them with more or less grace. In Armand's case, usually less grace and with terrible coping mechanisms, but what can you do?

"You really think so? That flaws can be valuable? In my experience, they're dangerous things to show others."

It makes you too vulnerable, and that's a risk if you want to survive. One that Armand can't always afford. People are always looking for weakness, in his experience.

"It's a pity I never had the chance to share a moment with her then. Or a few more." Frankly, Armand would have probably flirted with her back then. He was even more of a menace when he was in his twenties. He gives Ganymede's words some thought, reminiscing about the gorgeous sculpture he's seen in all his centuries of life. One in particular comes to mind, and it might be one of the most famous statues ever created. Armand gives Ganymede an intense look, considering how he can stay without blinking for a long time, intense really is the right word. The statue's hair i different, and the nose is more straight, but he knows that even the greatest artists took liberties with their muses.

"You lived in Florence at some point, correct? Was it Michelangelo, by any chance, who tried to capture your likeness?"

He has the grace (or perhaps the ingrained habit) to duck his head at the compliment, though he knows he can hardly deny it. Ganymede doesn't really intend to, because he knows he isn't horrible to look at--that much has been made unerringly clear to him over the millennia. But he knows what Armand is getting at anyway, that he is at least as attractive as a man than he ever would have been as a woman; he's never particularly felt the need to try blending in with the fairer sex visually. He seeks enough refuge among them every other day. "I was told the last time I gave it any sort of attempt, at a friend's behest, that I look less like a woman and more like a man in a very uncomfortable dress."

It had been, and he had been, and the laughter was merry while it had lasted. And then he'd gotten back into his own clothes.

"I think flaws...are what makes people people, not mannequins. It's the scars, the bad haircuts, the unsettling looks, and the strangeness of those little out-of-place things about people that makes them unique. Flaws are valuable, for me at least, because they are what I like to find in people. I don't need perfect--I've lived a long time, and perfection is largely overrated. Perfect is boring, partly because it's impossible to achieve naturally. But I am not interested in making anyone else vulnerable, honestly. It's better to be given something than to take it, most of the time." Ganymede is at ease talking like this with Armand, and he doesn't mind the unsettling look his friend is giving him when he confesses that he has indeed posed on purpose for some artwork. But he won't give away the exact statue quite that easily. He knows Armand likes a challenge.

"I have lived in Florence at several points, yes. And I did know Michelangelo quite well. He was one of the people I posed for. He gave me a little wax doll and a sketch of what he intended to sculpt from my posing for him. I'm not sure which museum that's in, anymore...they might have been split up." He meets Armand's burning orange gaze evenly and without fright, watching his friend watch him carefully and almost seeing the wheels in his head turn. "You seem to have an idea of what statue I posed for."

It's cute that, after more than a few millennia, that's how Ganymede reacts. He shouldn't be surprised to know that he's gorgeous, no, but the gesture says a lot about his personality. Armand smiles at it, his expression tinted with fondness.

He, by contrast, doesn't have it in him to be modest. Armand always likes compliments, honest or not, but he hardly reacts to certain ones that are only said to him with the intent to seek something more. That's been overdone, and he now has the strength to decide who is deserving or not of his touch. Maybe that's why he likes Daniel's brand of praising—hardly being able to be considered as such and mostly consisting of bitter or sarcastic comments with double meaning.

"No point in wearing anything that makes you uncomfortable then. I was never fond of dresses myself, but I do like silk stockings still. And lace." He does not wear any of those often; in fact, he really doesn't remember when was the last time he had lacy underwear. He tried it, for Louis, some time ago to spice things up, but the man wasn't very appreciative of it, so Armand didn't bother again.

"You're a romantic." It's not an accusation, but it's maybe not a compliment either. Armand has bitter thoughts about love. "The scars and the unsettling looks can be too much for many. Most don't want a partner with that much baggage. That said, I agree that some imperfections have their appeal, especially for people like us who are frozen in time. Grey hairs, laughter or stress lines around eyes, a bit of a tummy, a personality with just the right amount of viciousness to be wickedly interesting..."

He really needs to stop describing Daniel, more so to a man who knows him as well. Armand looks around the room, they have stayed here for a little while now, and the guard in the corner hired to look over the painting safe is glancing at them occasionally. Of course, Armand could steer him into ignoring them with a telepathic command, but perhaps they should visit the next room.

"You really met the most interesting fellows. It's a pity you couldn't keep the memento. Perhaps we should look around and see if there is any chance that it's in this museum." After that, he nods. "I know not all the features match, and you are way more captivating in person, but I was thinking the David."

"Well. I like some things in silk," Ganymede teases gently, though he will leave exactly what he prefers wearing in silk to Armand's imagination. He knows the man will pick it out of his brain or the ether sooner or later. In his defense, he doesn't like underwear at the best of times, and if he wears it he wants the fabric soft. "You'd look lovely in lace, you know. We should go get you some. Black lace, maybe gold against your skin," he murmurs, picking up on the need to move on and offering a hand to Armand, listening to him describe their mutual friend. Somewhere, he just knows, Daniel's ears are burning and he doesn't know why, but the amusement of hearing Armand describe their sometimes-caustic friend and lover wins out.

"I am a romantic," he admits readily, when he's told however gently what he is. He knows already that he loves love, he loves the quick flare of emotion and the flash of affection that blooms afterward. He's had more than his share of being burned by it, too, but then...he loves being wanted, if only for a while. "And you have it bad for him. And I'm glad you've got someone you enjoy so much," Ganymede says lightly. He knows he is not the love of anyone's life--least of all either of the two men in question who so thoroughly belong to each other. He's just glad he gets to borrow them occasionally. "I like being a romantic. It keeps me sane, largely." Beyond the drudgery of the day-to-day, it really does.

And when Armand guesses, he just smiles. "No one's ever really guessed it, you know. And I never told anyone it as me. The face looks a bit different, and the hair. And some other things. It's been years since I've seen it in person."

"Do you, now? Yes, we could go shopping after we're done here, and you can help me pick out something new. Finally, someone who can appreciate the fine things in life."

Armand might be willing to dress up for Ganymede or buy things for him if he's the one who wants to wear something nice too. Because, as he said, he likes a partner who actually appreciates his efforts. More so when they're not totally unhinged, that almost deserves mention. He will pay because he's absurdly rich at this point, even if he imagines Ganymede's fortune might be just as high or even much more. If one knows how to take advantage of immortality, one can make quite a bank.

"The world still needs those." Armand concedes, not sounding judgmental but refusing to acknowledge that he is one too, not so deep down. A vampire he might be, but he still enjoys simple gestures like bringing your loved one flowers. Going out for dinner at a fancy restaurant is out of the question, though, even if Armand doesn't mind watching others eat. It's fascinating on its own, and it reminds him that life is full of simple pleasures for those who are still human enough to experience them.

Ganymede pointing out something Armand is reluctant to acknowledge about Daniel has the vampire standing up rather than giving a straight answer, hands in his pockets 'It's complicated' doesn't even begin to explain what they have going on. In a big part, it's Armand's fault, but good luck getting him to admit that.

"You're more important to us than you realize." Is what he does say, less because he directly read Ganymede's mind (although he could) and more because he's learned to pay attention to people and their body language. He smiles at getting the answer right, somehow.

"There's always a first time for anything, they say. We could travel to Florence and see all the ways it doesn't compare to the real thing."

"I'd absolutely help you pick out something nice," he says lightly, and though the words are soft and easygoing, his tone is anything but. He knows precisely what Armand looks like unclothed, and the titillation of seeing him in lace and silk is not lost of Ganymede in any way at all. And it isn't just about the looks of him either: Armand is a powerfully sexual man, and he knows it, and he knows exactly how to leverage that. Ganymede would be a liar indeed if he didn't find that a hell of a turn-on. The suffusion of pleasure through him at the idea is undeniably intimate, and he shifts while they're walking to brush Armand, halfway through the next room on their wandering journey. The museum is set up well, the rooms are in a vague enough sequence to feel random as they walk, though there is gentle steering in the layout for the crowds. It's not quite packed with tourists today, though the gentle and insistent rain outside may draw more of them as the hours wear on.

"You know I'm happy to be your friend, Armand. However that happens," he says. It may never be more than that again, and Ganymede can live with such a future, though of course he would enjoy things otherwise as well. "Romance is not only confined to the sexual adventures in my life, you know." He'd love to take his friend out dancing sometime, to see him smile among the people who are by nature welcoming and buoyant with easy affection while they swap partners all night. He's not professional at it by any means, but it's fun, and Ganymede enjoys the company while it lasts.

He smiles at the thought, and on nothing but a whim takes Armand's hand to lead him into a little twirl as they walk. It doesn't go any further than only that, he isn't looking to make it a full dance in the middle of the room, but he chuckles as he watches his companion turn gracefully. "We could. I haven't been back to Florence in years. I fear the authorities might not take kindly to me posing in-kind for the comparison, though. Considering how I posed for it back then," Ganymede chuckles.

Edited 2025-03-20 20:50 (UTC)

"You need to tell me what your favorite color is too so I can pick something extra you'd enjoy as well." Armand is nothing if not adaptable, and he does like to please, on occasion, if his partner deserves it.

Ganymede has been one of the rare good ones, and Armand always had a thing for older men, heh. They can both make things fun and exciting in ways most people can, either thanks to their experiences or their powers. It's not like Armand wants to be particularly rough with Ganymede, but human beings are so fragile, and in the past, he always had to help back. It's refreshing to be with someone with a stronger capacity to bounce back, too, and Armand doesn't treat him with kid gloves or as if he's a breakable thing.

He smiles as the small contact walks, pleased by the little displays and enjoying the evening. He's surrounded by beautiful pieces of art all around, and that includes the man walking alongside him.

"And that goes both ways. I never had many real friends."

And those who once were held dear to his heart when he was human were murdered. His own best friend fell by Armand's own hands after being looked up and left to slowly go mad from thirst by the Children of Satan. Poor Riccardo, thrown in the same cell as Armand without knowing that there was a monster instead of his good friend. Murdered by blind desperation. It's why Armand won't let others cage him up ever again. But those were darker times that he'd rather not think about; it hurt too much.

"I do know. But maybe it's not safe for you to be that close to a creature of darkness."

He has to at least warn Ganymede about it, because he holds the man in high regard and would hate to see him hurt. His boon of immortality makes him more willing to survive than many, but there are things worse than death.

Ah, dancing. He will truly love that. It feels like the last time was decades ago. It might as well be. He misses that sort of thing and would absolutely be charmed if Ganymede took him to such a place.

Since he's trying to stay away from the other man's head, he's a tad surprised by the spin. Armand goes along with it easily, his natural grace and his vampire reflection making it an elegant spin despite being caught off guard. If the other visitors give them curious looks, he can't find himself caring enough.

"What a charmer you are. Ah, where were you 350 years ago? And neither did I, but the good thing about Florence is that the heart of the city still remains after so many centuries, even if the layout changes." He laughs at the mental image of Ganymede undressing in front of the David and causing a scene. "Wouldn't that be something to see, though? That day, the entrance ticket should triple the price for the live show."

"It's blue," he chuckles. "Dark blue, like the ocean in a storm." He's always loved storms, and the wilder they were, the more he loved standing in them, letting the rain pelt his skin and the wind buffet him this way and that. Even now, in modernity, he reespected the power nature had. Humankind thought itself the master of all things, but even they took shelter at the unyielding ferocity of storms. Armand was much like that, and it was captivating in all the senses.

"I like making my friends enjoy themselves," Ganymede says with a little smile as he watches Armand spin and can see the surprise replace the sadness on his face. "Light cannot be light without its balance of darkness, Armand. I can love the dark all the more knowing what used to be in it. And what still is." They both know he's never shied away from the darker things in life, and derives pleasure from many of them. Armand has bitten him before, and it hurt, but god, did it feel breathtakingly good. He playfully swatted at his friend for the suggestion of having him strip in front of the statue he'd posed for, a gentle dusting of color settling atop his cheekbones as he chuckled.

"You should tell me what your favorite color is, too. So I know." He likes knowing things like that about people; favorite colors, drinks, the way they wear their hair, what they named the dog or cat.

"Cold tones, you look good in those too. I like the ocean and storms too. They're frenzied and uncontrollable, moody, and almost seem to have a mind of their own. Did you know that there was a time when I used to go treasure hunting? It was a fun and adventurous way to make cash."

It happened a long time ago when Daniel was young. Another of those past memories he'd rather not think about now that he's with the present company, as sweet as those brief moments of happiness had been. Ganymede deserves all his attention.

"So sweet in that regard. You're too generous, G." He doesn't say that one, that such a thing might come to bite him in the ass because Ganymede has lived for more than a millennium now. Either it has already happened, and he either learned the lesson or didn't mind, or he managed to avoid getting in that sort of trouble before.

And what he says next has Armand feeling some kind of way; it's hard for him to decipher it and put it in thought, much less in words. It's a good feeling. Comfort, perhaps, at hearing proof that he could be loved despite his many horrific failures. Ganymede truly is a romantic.

"I feel like you're determined to discover if someone like me can blush." Like me, meaning either 'a vampire' or someone as broken as Armand. It's said teasingly, but the answer is obviously a yes. It just hadn't happened in a while, but Armand does have the capacity. And it's easier to joke than to accept that someone might see him for who he truly is and not be immediately horrified by what lies beneath the mask. So far it's been like that with Ganymede, and hell if it doesn't disarm him at times.

It was good to know he could cause a similar reaction still towards someone who was as used to being flirted with as Ganymede. He didn't laugh, but Armand grinned after that playful swat. He actually hates sharing deep secrets about himself, but his favorite color, his favorite music, the movies he enjoys, and what opinions he has on certain poets (lots of them!) are all that he enjoys casually talking about. It makes him feel as if the constant death and loneliness that surround him take a step back in the face of lighthearted conversations.

"I like violet. Maybe not a color that most people will think about, but I find it really beautiful. Violets are also symbols of faithfulness and loyalty. That's in short supply nowadays."

Ganymede laughs at that revelation. "Did you now?" he chuckles, brightly amused at the idea. He can picture his friend barefoot in the dusk of the caribbean, ready to go looking for the buried riches under the water. It's impossible for several reasons, but a private little image that makes him grin.

"Maybe I want to know you," he murmurs gently, as softly as he can utter such a thing in public and still have it be private conversation. "I like you, you are my friend, and I like knowing my friends. It's what keeps me from...going mad. AFter all the years." He knows how long eternity is--he's lived through several. Longer than lifetimes, longer than any realistic imagination can stretch, and still here he is. "I know you think little of yourself in some ways. But I don't share that," Ganymede says.

Violets, hm....he likes violets himself, a pretty and unpretentious little flower, something that reminds him of a little garden, simple and lovely. And even if Armand isn't simple in the slightest way, he is lovely, and he is a good friend. Ganymede has long since learned not to judge people for being good moralists or not. It gets boring far too shortly.

"I would love you in Byzantine purple. You'd look royal."

"I did; it was a long time ago, around the early 80s." Armand smiles back, clearly recalling some fun memories of those times. "You pull a sunken treasure or two from the deep ocean, and you're set for a long while. I also used to track cartels, pirates, human traffickers, black market dealers... that sort of scum."

And then he took everything they had and killed them. Armand got money, and the world was rid of that scum; everybody won. He has the feeling that Ganymede might not be too heartbroken about these kinds of people missing. The man sounds so sincere when he calls Armand his friend and so open in his reasons for wanting to keep socializing that he really wants to believe Ganymede.

"I get it. The biggest enemies of the people who are like us are time and loneliness. I've met a lot who just couldn't keep up, both with the changes in the world and the changes in themselves. Sleeping your problems away for a century or two can be tempting, too, but I never much liked that sort of escapism for myself. It's much harder to reconnect with reality and progress once you're awake again."

Armand keeps his voice level and cautious, while not too worried about being overheard. He can just mess with the minds of those who try to pry too much or eavesdrop on them. Ganymede's words are touching, which is all the more confusing to Armand. People flirting he can handle. Disdain and anger? Old acquaintances, too. This...not so much. It leaves him feeling a bit out of his depth, which is why Ganymede also gets a sincere answer in return.

"I don't know how to handle your warmth sometimes."

And he is a cold-blooded person, in the most literal of ways, so to offer him this and not expect him to cling to it desperately would be foolish. Armand knows himself, though, knows how he gets when he turns obsessive and devoted to a partner, and while Ganymede would do nothing but be a good one, he's not so sure about himself. It's why he sometimes tries to keep his distance, even if he fails miserably at it at every turn.

"Look who's talking. I was never royalty, unlike someone I know. You look good in anything. And without anything."

"Doing the world and yourself a favor?" Ganymede chuckles, quite at ease with the notion of his friend killing--probably with extreme predjudice--these pirates and pillagers. He has done the same himself, for varying reasons. He doesn't mind knowing someone else has the proven capability for violence: to be capable of dealing harm is one of the requisites for being peaceful. Anything less is to be harmless.

"It...has taken effort on my part, and I make no bones about that. Society changes, and either people change with it, or they fall behind, and I can't say I have always been in the former category." He's fallen behind plenty of times and he doesn't often adapt the easiest. It took him years to stop telling people who he actually was, and or them to stop thinking he was insane.

He knows that their extraordinary ages have taken a toll on Armand, and it will maintain that toll as his friend grows older, unless he can find something he likes enough to keep him occupied, so the enormity of change will be easier, and taken in smaller pieces. And in some ways that grieves Ganymede, but he retains hope. "I know it's difficult to trust someone that could mean you no harm, but I promise, I don't. I could gain very little by hurting you that would not lose me something dearer."

Ganymede laughs at the gentle-hearted jibe about being royalty, shaking his head. "It has been a long time since I was anything royal," he murmurs. "But I remember it. they're supposed to have exhibits from around where I lived here. Something new and on loan," he suggests. "Maybe it'll give you some good visuals, though I can't promise anything about me being in any of it. With or without clothes," he adds teasingly.

"In this life, multitasking is key." He should not have such a smug, cat-like expression on his face while confirming Ganymede's questions, but there it is. Besides, when Armand lets go, he's also really good at looking smug; he could put Lestat to shame.

It's a relief that Ganymede doesn't get too put out by his vampiric friend doing what's in their nature; otherwise, this friendship would not have lasted. Armand can hide what he is only for so long, and lately, after the mess with Louis and Daniel, he got tired of pretending.

"Ah, it happens to the best of us. Sometimes it's easier to just give up. I'm glad you didn't." He can understand. Armand was, after all, stuck in the old ways when Lestat and he met in Paris and the other man 'enlightened' his coven. He's happy to see Ganymede perfectly blending with society after so long, or they would never have had the chance to meet. "Do you miss anything from the old times?"

The problem with vampires is that, as they grow older, their bodies also change and make them even less human. The resistance against the sun is an advantage for sure. The hardened skin can make them look more like statues than flesh, not so much.

He considers Ganymede's reply and can't find anything but the truth in that statement. The logic behind it is as comforting as the declaration of friendship. Rather than answering immediately, Armand presses himself a little closer to Ganymede, obviously pleased.

"The sentiment goes both ways." He almost playfully adds, 'Don't tell anybody, I have a reputation,' but the kind of reputation Armand has is questionable at best, and they only have a handful of friends in common, so it doesn't matter much.

"We must find them." The exhibits, he means, are now determined in that weird, intense way Armand gets about him when he's excited about something. He wants to know as much about Ganymede as possible; that's how friendship works, right? "A pity, but also that's good, actually. You should get to choose who sees you naked. I'm happy to be one of the lucky ones these days."

"That it is," Ganymede chuckles, amused at the smug expression his friend wears. He loves seeing any joy on Armand's face, whatever form it takes, rare as it is. And the catlike grin suits Armand's face as much as the matchingly rare expressions of cold brutality suit Ganymede. And they're equally difficult to spot on them both.

"Sometimes, I do," he answers to the question of whether he misses things: his cheery smile falls a little, gentling as he remembers the things he's gained and lost over the years. "I miss my friends, my lovers. My children. I miss the cities I used to live in--I certainly miss my home. And the music sometimes--it's so loud nowadays, but it's all just noise, not music. I remember when you could hear songs all through towns from people singing as they worked." He loved hearing the busy-ness of people around him, knowing their lives were bright and joyful as his, for however long they both lasted. "I miss the food sometimes--tastes have changed, though I can still get some things the way they used to be made, deep in the middles of the old neighborhoods. But I've gotten to see so many things change--cities grow and merge, and rivers change course, and such industries! I can buy new clothes, from the skin out, and it costs me a fraction of what it used to. Even the expensive ones."

He chuckles and plucks at the button placket of his shirt. "Sometimes...I think I miss the old days, and the pace of the world before clocks were popular and people didn't divide up days and weeks into hours, minutes, seconds. It seems to be so rushed now, but there are trades. Electric lights--I can make my house as bright as noon at midnight, with only the flip of a switch? That's a hell of an exchange."

They make their way towards where the Ancient World exhibits are, and Ganymede seems to straighten his posture, to walk differently when they surround themselves with the gold and rubies and crystals and pearls of the jewelry, the marble statues and reliefs oh-so-carefully preserved or recreated. "I have some of the tiles from the courtyard of the palace where I grew up in a shadowbox. Little glass tiles, they used to make up a sun mosaic around a little fountain."

"I'm sure I could still find a treasure or two if you ever wanted to go sailing with me for a little bit. God knows, pirates are aplenty." But they're not as fun as they used to be years ago, and nothing like those in films, so entertaining to watch. Far more vicious and better armed. A pity. Then again, that makes getting rid of criminals all the more satisfying. They're not the sort of scum the world will miss.

He has yet to see Ganymede angry in that icy way that makes it show as terrifyingly calm, but if he did, he would probably find it pretty hot, actually. It's not difficult to find anything Ganymede does attractive; it comes naturally to the man. It's only that Armand is also fond of humans' darker parts; as long as they don't abuse the wrong people, they make them just as fascinating as having a good heart.

Arm wrapped around Ganymede, he gives it a light tug when his friend's smile wavers, understanding all too well that kind of loss. Nothing can really replace certain people, certain places, experiences you wished you had the chance to enjoy one last time, but you know it will never happen. Even the most heartless of vampires or the most casual of immortals suffer from the same affliction.

"I do remember that kind of music, the one that came from the people. The world seemed so much smaller back then, not in a bad way."

He doesn't have proper words of comfort because nothing had ever worked for him either, so he hopes that the proximity helps, that being someone to talk to and lending his ear might soothe the sting of loneliness for the times gone by. He agrees with Ganymede on the matter of clothes and food; they just don't do things the same way anymore, and sometimes it's for the best, and other times it's one less good thing in the world. He does love technology and how it separates and brings people closer at the same time, but it can be that Armand's fondness of it is interwoven with his fond memories of Daniel teaching him how to use all sorts of machines so many decades ago.

"Tell me about your children." Armand says instead, knowing that memories are painful, but thinking of them can also bring up the moments when life felt lighter and kinder. "Please."

He adds it a moment later, as an afterthought, but not unkindly or manipulative. Armand is more blunt when he's not putting up a front, and those happen when he's with people he trusts, hence why he can be a bit curt when asking for things even when he's trying to help. If Ganymede doesn't want to share that part of himself, though, Armand won't ask again.

Once they make it to the Ancient World exhibit, he can see immediately the change of behavior in his companion and can't help the smile poking at the corner of his lips. They should have come here sooner.

"After so many years? That's a good memento to keep. I never got to keep anything that mattered from..." He almost says 'my time in Venice,' but amends at the last moment. "...before. But the memories are enough." Meager as they are, but this isn't about him. Ganymede's arm gets another tug, playfully now.

"To find your inspired art, we should look for people swooning and fanning themselves."

"It's been years since I went out sailing, more than just around island chains," he chuckles back, and he likes the idea; he likes the sea more than mountains. The Atlantic has always seemed to mirror his moods, stormy and treacherous as the water can be; he remembers crossing the ocean the first time so long ago and how impossible it seemed then. And he's run into his fair share of pirates, with just about every outcome he can think of. Dying--on their part--would seem to be one of the more positive ones.

He hums in agreement to Armand's remembrance that the world seemed smaller, knowing it had. It had been smaller, for a long time when the wilderness between scattered groups of people was still terrifying and untameable, even for cities as great as Rome, and Troy, and Paris. The dark and the unknown had been the masters of travel in more ways than could be easily listed. And sometimes even now they still did. He leans gently into his friend when he's asked to tell more about his children, and he has to think for a moment. "My first child was a little boy--not mine by birth. I remember he wanted to learn to read so badly when he saw me writing something. He'd never seen anyone do it before, he thought it was magic. His name was Azmi, and...he understood at least some of what I was." Few of his children had, even though he couldn't blame them. There was only so much a human, a mortal, could understand. "My only child by blood was a daughter, Melisande. We called her Meli, and...I loved her. She looked so much like me, and she loved to dance if I played music for her. She loved to play, to be happy. I still have her portrait." He's never without it, no matter where or how quickly he has to move. "I've had so many children to raise. Every child deserves someone to love them." It's been an unpopular opinion at many points in time, though he has stood by it.

"The tiles, though...they're the only thing I've ever found that still exists of my home. There are fewer and fewer every time I go back, but these few I have. And they keep me tethered to where I came from." He did not come from Olympus. He will not go back there. But he knows Armand has lived through equally bad--or worse--things, and takes his hand softly, twining their fingers for a moment and squeezing. "Have you ever been back?" he asks, as they round a corner, and Ganymede is faced with an image he never thought he'd see: himself. A restored, frescoed bit of wall with his face on it.

"There's no time like the present to do things you once enjoyed. We could be on a ship tomorrow. I need to go check out an island, in fact." That's a thing too. Armand has been considering one of his many personal plans, but this time he has all the intentions to make something big. Memorable for all the vampire community and other immortals.

There's something magical about the sea; Armand would agree with Ganymede. It feels both welcoming and temperamental, calming and treacherous, cruel and kind, and a force of nature—very relatable for someone like him and his odd moods. He had always found it calming to go to the docks and watch the ships set sail (so to speak) or simply sit by and watch them pass in the distance. He was a slave the first time he set foot in a vessel, but that memory is so old that it doesn't stain the joy that ships brings him.

His mind stays in the present; he listens with rapt attention to what Ganymede shares with him about his family.

"Blood doesn't make someone family; it's about making a connection. Your children sound very sweet, and I agree with you. Children should be loved and protected." He is curious now about what Melisande might look like, but that's a level of personal that not even Armand is blunt or rude enough to ask to be shared. He squeezes Ganymede's hand in sympathy for all he had and lost. "I never sired children. I didn't have the chance when I was...not this. I had many brothers when I was in Venice, none of them blood relatives either, but I had always dreamed of raising a family of my own."

Another of those stupid dreams that died when he did. Unlike Louis, he's not selfish or foolish enough to turn a child into an immortal monster simply to scare away the loneliness. There were many issues between Claudia and Armand, and things ended horribly, but the truth is that he pitied her existence. An adult mind stuck like she was in a body that would never satisfy her, trapped in time and cursed to be a bloodthirsty predator...no. He would never do that to a kid. He didn't sire any vampires for that reason.

Until Daniel. But Daniel, damn him, has always been the exception to many things.

"I understand why you treasure them." The tiles might seem like not much to the common man and invaluable to a historian, but to Ganymede, they have a special kind of worth, and Armand sees that. He looks down at their hands and shakes his head briefly. "I don't remember all that much from my time as a human, even less of my time before Venice and Marius."

And what he remembers, he wishes to forget. He for sure doesn't want to think about it now and bring the mood down. Luckily, once they step into the new room, his attention is quickly caught by the fresco.

"Oooh, I wonder who that handsome fellow must be. They really captured your likeness; it's impressive."

"Go check out an island, he says, as if he's just going to get a new shirt," Ganymede laughs, intrigued by the way Armand just floats plans into existence as if a wave of his hand could plot out the many intricacies of large plans for people like them. Money is usually the least of their worries: while money has to, on paper, always come from somewhere documentable, once you have a certain amount most places stop paying so much attention to it. Ganymede knows it as well as Armand does. "I could go with you, though. I think I'd like that, getting away from...everything."

They function on a different timeline, immortal as they are. Days are inconsequential, but the rhythm of the world, natural and immovable and implacable as it is can be soothing in ways that are hard to put to words. The number of times he's sat on a beach near the shipping yards just to watch the container ships crawl by as if in slow motion are many.

And he wanted to respond to that desire to raise a family: Armand still could, it would be perfectly possible and acceptable even now to adopt children. He'd be a good father, Ganymede has few doubts about that. But the response, and all his attention, is momentarily stolen by the fresco--something he hasn't seen in centuries. It's very clearly him, not someone who looks like him, but down to the way he wore his hair, the holes in his ears, the colors he favors. And if he looks mildly terrified by it, he hopes Armand could understand why; he's never seen an existing portrait of him, none existed to his knowledge save for a precious few that were destroyed in the war, or so he thought. He's never come face to face with that before.

"I...where did this come from?" he asks softly, barely above a whisper. He's already getting looks from a few people, two or three in the passing crowd that double-take at his similarity to the art on display. "I've never...there were never pictures of me. Not outside the city, and they were all destroyed." He knows this. He has always known this.

"Well..." Armand laughs and then shrugs.

To be fair, he'd place the same level of importance on both tasks, finding the right shirt —possibly one that bore a little too much chest—and an island suitable to his tastes. Many doors open to you when you're stupidly rich, and like Ganymede, he had many centuries to amass a little fortune. Nothing that will attract too much attention, but Armand also doesn't shy away from the fact that he's loaded and he's going to use that money as he sees fit.

"Excellent. You know how much I love your company. And your input—you have impeccable taste. I'm sure you have a good eye for islands."

Which is a totally normal thing to say and assume from people. It's a strange topic, but probably better than addressing Armand's nonexistent chances at a family. Adopting is an option only if you don't consider that your children will grow old when you're stuck in time, and you'll have to see them suffer and degrade. He wouldn't be able to bear something like that. He tried with Daniel and they both know how it went.

Either way, that topic of conversation is forgotten pretty quickly because, wow, that painting is something else. The person who did it was clearly skilled and had an almost criminal attention to detail. So much so that Armand briefly wonders if they should find a hat or something for Ganymede to wear before someone stares at the painting, then at him, and does a double-take.

"I don't know, but the colors are beautiful, and so is the subject. Perhaps it was recovered and restored fairly recently? or it was part of a private collection." Armand keeps his own tone of voice low so no one overhears and then does a quick mind reading of the room. So far, everyone's sufficiently distracted. "Do you want it back?"

Aka, should he organize a heist? It wouldn't be the strangest or most complicated thing Armand ever orchestrated.

"I do happen to have lived on several, with varying degrees of isolation," he murmurs, still staring at the bit of painting before he turns away from it, concentrating on a set of jewelry displayed in a case nearby. Anything to deaden the shock he felt like a live wire touching his chest at the sight of that. Nothing had ever correctly been unearthed from Troy; the excavations had always been a few miles off in one direction or other. And Ganymede liked it that way, because with as many people and questions as modern archaeology could bring to the effort, his history might not stay hidden.

And he needed it to be hidden if he wanted anything like an easy life.

"This...that is the only image of me as I really was back then," he whispers, watching Armand's reflection in the glass of the case in front of them. "Not like people think, because of the myth." In its many retellings and translations and versions, the story had been sanitized, rewritten, twisted to fit what modern thinkers felt was best to portray of an ancient civilization. Very few of them were accurate, and none were entirely true.

"I don't know if-- But I don't want it here." Here where so many thousands of people could see his face, and would ask questions, and would dig and pry and research, and he knew beyond any doubt that there would be someone, some several dozen someones most likely, who could piecemeal a connection between him and it. And his life--friends, lovers, family who all thought he was normal, a mortal man as any other--would be gone. Even those like Armand who knew what he really was couldn't easily risk being associated with such a bombastic story.

"You should tell me the reason why you chose them, or if you had a favorite."

Ganymede looks away, but Armand studies the painting some more, his vampire eyes catching on details a normal human might miss, even studying the flow of the paint strokes and their texture. Whoever made this painting did it with purpose and care. The theme and style are different, but he feels as if he's looking at one of Marius's paintings, only for the devotion imbued in it.

He turns away, now also looking at the jewelry set. After Ganymede confirms that he would rather not have his image exposed in one of the most famous museums in the world, it takes Armand less than 10 seconds to decide he's going to steal it.

Not now, but eventually. So he can offer it to his friend, to whom it belongs by virtue of the painting having the man's own face in the painting. That is as special as it is dangerous.

He's already orchestrating a plan when he asks,

"At what time does the museum close?"

It will be easier to do this if he is already inside than to break in during off hours. He'll have to trick the minds of the remaining guards present before the museum closes, then switch the painting for another and leave. There are hi-tech sensors and cameras, of course, but he can move at supernatural speed, and that is no match for the naked eye or for modern technology. Perhaps things will change in the future, but for now, Armand is confident that he could pull it off.

Of course, he won't be saying any of this to Ganymede just in case it goes sideways and to not spoil the surprise if it works as intended. Instead, he tugs gently at Ganymede's hand.

"Let's gets some fresh air. They serve some pretty good cocktails on the Cantor Roof garden bar." They all taste like liquid cardboard to Armand, but Ganymede might appreciate them. And it's better if they don't stay in this room for much longer.

"Oh, my favorite...that's easy. Rabbit Island. I own it, but I haven't gone back in years. But it's cose to my home, and technically it's still uninhabited." He doesn't mind it being lonely, but it was and is so close to his first home that it's hard to stay there. But he can't quite give it up.

"I chose them...most of them because I could be alone, and in control of my own life, for however long. However I wanted to live it," he murmurs, purposefully not looking at the fresco again, but turning a fraction to look at Armand. His friend looks steady as ever, face gentle and smooth save for the tiniest furrow between his brows. If Ganymede were paying attention, he'd remark it, but the sight of his own face so properly rendered from so long ago still has him rattled.

There's no artistic license there, no tweaking his face to make his eyes lighter, his lips thinner, his nose less. And what that means--that someone knew him, that someone knew what he looked like when he was mortal, and marked it down--is terrifying. The implications are even more so. So when Armand suggests they leave the art and go get a drink, he smiles.

"It tastes awful for you, I know," he says lightly, a small smile touching his face as he laces their fingers together and squeezes at the tug. "This place closes at nine, every day but Sunday. Five on Sundays. Why?" he asks.

It took Armand a second to realize Ganyemde wasn't talking about the Rabbit Island off the coast of Hiroshima but the one near Italy. Not like Ganyemde surrounded by a small colony of adorable rabbits isn't a cute mental image.

"We could visit it one day if you are in the mood. You can play host." When one lives as long as they do, there's an infinity of time to make plans. When Armand says 'one day,' it can be either within the next days or the next decades. Ganymede's reasoning has Armand nodding lightly in approval, smiling.

"It's a good sentiment. And see, that's exactly why I want to go island shopping too." It took him a long time to realize that the home he had in Dubai wasn't really a home at all, that things were falling apart long before Daniel entered the picture. He's still bitter about how everything ended between Louis and him, but it was doomed to fall from the start.

Only an idiot would miss how affected Ganymede is by the painting, and Armand is quick to redirect him out of the room and toward the nearest elevator once his friend agrees. He keeps their hands entwined together, and she shrugs at the remark, acknowledging the truth of the statement but making it clear he's gotten used to it.

"I can still smoke. Nicotine does nothing for me, but I still enjoy it. And no reason, really. I just wanted to know how long we have left before they kick us out."

The sun has started to set by the time they go out, and it makes Armand realize that they really lost track of time when they were chatting and watching the first paintings. Ah, nothing like surrounding yourself with art and forgetting about everything else. However, there's still an hour before the MET closes, and that gives them plenty of tiem for both have a drink and to later be somewhere else when the painting eventually disappears. The bar is busy with both local visitors and tourists alike, but Armand can get anyone's attention pretty quickly, and that obviously includes the bartender.

"What are you in the mood for, G?"

"I'd be happy to host you. And provide whatever you need." He has dietary requirements himself; he can't blame anyone else for having them, however strange they may be. It isn't as if the Aegean has a shortage of horrible people nearby that need removal from the general populace, now or in whatever future they may travel in.

Ganymede smiles at the idea of the museum kicking them out--as if they could, given both of their skill sets. If Ganymede can't get them to reconsider, Armand can. But they'll play nice for a little while longer. "You might like the cigarettes I have, then," he murmurs. "They're...technically tobacco," Ganymede clarifies. They're also technically something a hell of a lot stronger, and that hasn't been popular since the 1700s, but he still likes it. It's hard to get addicted to anything for him, no matter what it is or how he tries it.

"I think...I'm in the mood for something dark. But sweet," he amends with a little smile at his friend. "Maybe with some bite."

"I don't really need that much or that often." Armand appreciates how thoughtful that has been, but he's quick to reassure Ganymede it won't be necessary. He also doesn't want to cause trouble. "I can actually go a long, long time without having to eat. Perks of the age."

Young vampires need the blood often and feel the thirst with more intensity because their bodies are slowly growing used to their new nature. After 500 years, Armand is beyond having to suffer the disadvantage, but he does enjoy a good meal. Or freeing the world of the scum it won't miss.

The museum could never kick them out, no, but Armand will try to get Ganymede out of it before it closes so he can later come to collect the painting and meet with his friend again. With some luck, he won't have to try too hard to convince the other man that he needs to excuse himself for half an hour.

"A generous offer, G. I do enjoy these kinds of technicalities, thank you."

He won't say no to trying pretty much anything. What's the worst that could happen? It's not as if drugs could get him addicted or tobacco could give him a pulmonary disease. In that regard, both Ganymede and he are very lucky.

Armand leans in to gently assault Ganymede's personal space, pressing himself close to the other man and tilting his head, sharp gaze meeting the other man's eyes before flicking briefly to his mouth and then back up.

"Is that so? Well, who am I to deny you anything you want? I live to please."

He also lives to cause mischief and trouble, but that's neither here nor there. And Ganymede might enjoy the kind of trouble Armand brings to his doorstep anyway.

"I might have been talking about a bed," Ganymede teases, though he's fully aware Armand can tell what he'd meant when he said it. It's strange, getting used to the idea of his thoughts being so easily heard like the words of a podcast, but....Armand is a friend. And he hides very little from his friends, once he has them. "But it's good to know."

Once they step out onto the balcony in the open air, the weight and compression of having seen his own face staring back at him seems to lessen, and he pulls a slim cigarette case out of his pocket, offering it out. The cigarettes inside are very clearly hand-rolled and a faintly sweet smell comes with them: matches are lit with a neat little one-handed trick, offering the flame out. Ganymede relaxes slowly, entirely, once the first thin ripple of smoke passes through his lips, and he tosses his head just in time to see Armand come up close, head tilting.

He tilts his own the other way out of habit, staring into those captivatingly sunset-orange eyes, leaning in without realizing it until Armand looks back up to his eyes, when he almost loses his balance and takes a tiny half-step forward to catch himself. "Oh," he laughs, absolutely amused at the easy play, "You live for far more than that."

Ganymede glances out to make sure no one is directly looking at them before he tugs Armand in for a playful, short kiss, laughing as they separate again.

"Like that."

Armand snickers knowingly. Sure, a bed.

"We both know that we don't always need one to do...what we feel like doing." Any flat surface is good enough for him, and sometimes not even that. Armand has never been too picky about comfortable sex or whatnot, often by necessity, but with Ganymede, he simply knows he can be playful.

For what it is worth, yes, he could read the other man's thoughts as easily as skimming a newspaper's cover, but because he respects Ganymede and enjoys being surprised by his inputs, Armand mostly stays out of his head. Sometimes humans simply project thoughts and emotions, thinking things out loud even if they don't realize it. It happens more often when they're angry, upset, or excited.

Or in this case, when they are relieved to be away from a painting.

He takes the offered cigarette wordlessly but with a small nod of gratitude, and his enhanced senses let him appreciate the smell of its components even now when the cigarette is still unlit. It doesn't stay that way for long, and Armand appreciates the smell even more once it's Ganymede exhaling it. He doesn't immediately bring his cigarette to his lips because he wants a different taste first.

Their eyes met, and it would be impossible to miss the amusement in Armand's at Ganymede's, well, everything. The man's just so fascinating, for a human. But he's much more than that, of course.

"Perhaps I do. Can you blame me?" It's said with a grin and not an ounce of shame, but with a small degree of reverence. It's a rare thing to even get to understand a creature like Armand, let alone be someone he cares so much about. And oh, how much Armand enjoys getting his way—in this case, that involved a kiss.

He's still grinning when they separate and makes himself comfortable next to Ganymede's side so they can both watch the rest of the visitors here for a moment before going to get a drink.

Ganymede grins softly at that answer. "No, no we don't. But they are nice," he murmurs. He doesn't mind the enclosed beds of yore, either; they serve their purpose, and when he has lived where it is cold and damp, he does enjoy the feeling of being enveloped in something warm and soft. But with Armand he finds the idea of needing a bed for any level of intimacy almost laughable; the man could pick him up as easily as a feather, though he doesn't, and even such things as gravity are left behind.

"I don't think I can blame you for much of anything," he says to that question, and Ganymede finds the reverence from Armand easier to take, somehow; perhaps knowing his age, and knowing how many truly impressive people he's known make that easier. But it is a rare person indeed that Ganymede can stand any of that from. He doesn't pull away after they've separated from the kiss, gentle as it was, and he leans back comfortably against the balustrade, settling into his friend's side. "I love seeing that smile," he confesses, letting the breeze flirt with the hairs around his face tugged loose from his braid and brushing his thumbnail thoughtfully over the end of his cigarette. Ganymede can't imagine not doing almost everything in his power to see it more often.

"Tell me what you're thinking about right now."

"Beds? Yes, they are. I've been using them these last decades far more often than my other, smaller choice of furniture when it comes to rest for that very reason too. It's also easier to find bedsheets that fit."

He means the coffin, of course. Armand still keeps one around, but it's really more for sentimentality’s sake than anything else. He has mixed feelings about it and the partners he shared the coffin with in the past, which is why he doesn't bring it up as often as other vampires might.

He could not blame Ganymede for wanting someplace warm to lie on, especially considering how not warm Armand is unless he has recently fed on someone. Young Daniel had complained about that on occasion, he remembers.

"Oh you could blame me for plenty of things, reasonable or not. It's almost a hobby for some." He sounds a bit more bitter than he wanted, but that's what thinking about Daniel does to Armand when he doesn't check himself. He lets that bitterness go; Ganymede doesn't deserve it, and adds, more amicably.

"But I know you would not, because you're far too kind and have the patience of a saint. May that never change."

He is not accustomed to having a loyal friend, you see. Not since he was very young and living with the other boys in Marius' palazzo. It's something that feels so impossible; Armand had honestly stopped trying. Maybe that's why it is affecting him so much now, and why he is so pleased by Ganymede's settling comfortably next to him.

"Thanks. I want to do things that please you." Armand has yet to take a drag of his cigarette, but he has more wonderful things to focus on.

"I'm thinking that I should get you that drink you wanted, and later, once we're done here, I'd like for us to go for a walk. How about an evening stroll through Brooklyn Heights?

Ganymede chuckles at the notion of hunting for bedsheets for a coffin, and gently shakes his head as he blows out a breath of plumed smoke, lettng the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he does. "Why would I? You have survived the circumstances that have changed societies, cities, peoples themselves, the same as I have. No more and no less," he murmurs, turning and brushing the backs of his knuckles under the curve of Armand's jaw. He knows the other man is younger than he is: he's not sure how many years are between them, but however many it turns out to be, he is well aware Armand is a survivor of just as many horrible things.

It is the nature of being like them, of having a longer-than-human lifespan. One of the many exchanges neither of them were ever told about.

"You do that already, though you don't have to. You are my friend whether or not something pleases me. We are both adults--I am far and away too old to be playing such childish games as that." And he means it; his liking Armand isn't dependent on the vampire treading some sort of line to keep himself in check and ensure favor. Ganymede finds that sort of existence tedious at best, and mind-numbingly awful at worst. "I'd like taking a walk with you. Just a stroll?" he asks. "Two old men on a free evening?"

Armand has enough money that he can get anything he needs to be customized without people asking many questions, but it is still somewhat awkward at times; when it involves his coffin, that is one such case. He can smell in the air now what is so special about Ganymede's cigarettes, the mixture of its components, and he smiles. Oh, that's good.

"My life span is, but a drop in the ocean compared to yours, but I see your point." They're both too old for judgment and wasting time on petty resentments or accusations.

Armand leans into the brush against his jaw, always hungry for even the smallest touch when it's sincere. Ganymede is often a light in the darkness, a miracle in itself that it had not diminished in brightness or snuffed out during all those years, and Armand wants to help keep him that way. Another reason why he's so determined to get his hands on the man's painting.

"You would be surprised how many centuries-old men I had to deal with that behaved like children. Maturity is certainly not a matter of age. It's why it's so refreshing to be with you. Also why I am sure you'd hate Lestat."

Enough of delayed gratification, Armand brings his cigs to his lips, then tilts his head to the side and exhales slowly, eyes closed as he listens to this friend. When he looks at Ganymede again, his smile is as honest as it gets.

"Two old men on a free evening, yes. I have a surprise for you too, but that will have to wait until later." And before Ganymede even thinks to ask what it could be, Armand brushes their free hands together and gives them a squeeze. "I'll go get your drink." Don't let the admirers distract you too much."

And with that, Armand grins and leaves. There are people already glancing at them from time to time; Ganymede's a very handsome man, after all, and Armand can read minds. He knows these things are inevitable.

Ganymede shakes his head gently at Armand's rebuttal about his age, grazing the pad of his thumb over the corner of his friend's mouth affectionately. "You aren't that much younger than I am, are you?" he asks, and both eyebrows lift gently as he laughs.

"You know, one day I will have to meet that man, just to see what he's like," Ganymede chuckles. "I've heard a decent amount about him, but never from the man himself." He's got opinions on what he's heard, yes, and he values Armand as an honest friend: so it's likely he will have at least a few issues with Lestat, but currently all of it's unfounded. "Oh--"

He can't help the little unfettered laugh when Armand leaves him to get his drink, and though he knows there are people staring at him, hoping he'll look their way, though he has eyes for no one but his friend right now. Ganymede loves easily, he knows that, but there's something about having a kinship with someone who understands--who knows personally what life has done to them--that touches him quite deeply. And there's relief as well, because whille he knows he may well lose Armand to something, it won't be simply time. He doesn't feel the tug of it like sand through an hourglass the way he does with mortals.

"I started to wonder if you were coming back," he murmured in gentle teasing once Armand returned, turning his hand out in offer to hold his friend's.

"For a wide definition of younger, I suppose." There are a lot of people around them, most chatting and distracted with their own affairs or conversations, but it still pays to be cautious. More so now that Armand is aware of the Talamasca putting their noses in his business, he's going to have to do something about that soon.

He scrunches his nose at the idea of seeing Lestat ever again, even if Ganymede's laugh is always pleasant to his ears.

"Do not. He has a way to get into people's heads and charm his way out of any problem he himself created."

Not unlike Armand himself, this is absolutely a pot-calling-the-kettle-black situation, but Armand is purposely ignoring the blatant hypocrisy of his reply. He can't help but worry that Lestat's charm, which had caused him no small amount of issues because Armand himself isn't immune to it, will cost him to lose another friend, another companion. Ganymede might not lose Armand to time, but he might want him out of his life if Lestat brought up just how many ways Armand is monstrous.

He's by the bar in only a few strides, using his powers to get the bartender's attention over the rest of the people waiting their turn, and returning to Ganymede's side with two drinks. His wine is mostly to keep up appearances of normality, but Ganymede's drink is one of his favorite ones.

"Oh, sweetheart, I can never part with you for long." He places the drink on the nearby railing with a smile and reaches out to squeeze the offered hand. His expression sobers up a little after a moment, and he adds, because he can't not help it. "I know Lestat might seems like a fascinating subject of conversation to those who had never had the misfortune of meeting him directly. I am also aware that my own opinions about him might be a little biased. But if you have questions about him, I might answer them."

"You'll have to tell me sometime. Maybe later," he murmurs, because he can recognize the caution from Armand. He isn't often one to give details about himself in public either, not that he has many that would cause a stranger alarm. He won't push his friend to be as open as he is, because Ganymede knows Armand is not the same kind of man he is. There are many reasons for that.

And Lestat appears to be one of them, judging by the subtle shifts on his companion's face at bringing up the possibility of meeting him. "I don't mean to upset you in saying that, you know. I like meeting people, and largely...they are only people, despite all our individual quirks." He considers Armand and Daniel slightly apart, yes, but that's more because he personally likes them, less because they're both vampires. He has no interest in interrogating anyone to dig up unsavory things from the past--if he did it to himself, he'd hate it. He won't to someone else, not without a very compelling reason. "He seems like an interesting man, that's all. Whether that is for more than a passing moment remains to be seen." And there are many, many people that are only interesting for a moment: a day, a night, a week. And Ganymede loses interest.

He is aware, uncomfortably so sometimes, that he is a mercurial sort. He wants what he wants, and sometimes he doesn't want to exercise more patience than he already does to get it. "Do you think my head would be so easily turned?" he asks, sipping his drink as he twines their fingers together in reassurance, looking out at the crowd. "I told you once I value your company for many reasons, love. None of them are so shallow as I think you fear."

"Later then, during our walk."

This isn't Armand trying to deflect the subject for once; this time it's a promise. Ganymede knew a few things about his past and how he had lived in Venice, but Armand kept the other, more gruesome details to himself, including his age back then and what happened before he was found by Marius. And especially after the Children of Satan found them. After all, how do you say to someone, 'The last person I considered my best friend died by my hand'? Or rather, his fangs. Blinding thirst after being locked up didn't leave Armand with any rational mind back then, but he still

He's not ready to tell Ganymede everything, but he trusts the man enough to honor all the offered affection with some returned honesty.

"Yes, I know, G. I'm not angry at you. I think that I am mostly angry at myself."

Lestat has always been and always will be a touchy subject. Part of Armand will always feel affection towards the man; it's like trying to get clean from a drug. You try to ignore the pull, sometimes remembering how good it made you feel, which is instantly followed by all the unpleasant things that happened after, and yet you long for some of it.

The other part of Armand wants Lestat's head on a spike.

Complicated doesn't 'even begin to explain what these two have had going on for more than a hundred years.

"Besides, I can't control who you decide to hang out with, even if they're bad influences." Such as himself, Armand means this time, showing a little fang as he grins. "Lestat does have some wild, interesting stories to tell, especially about himself. He is his own favorite subject of conversation. Just be careful if you ever meet him. He might look like an angel, but he's more like the serpent in the Garden of Eden."

And now he's being dramatic. Count on Lestat to bring that out of Armand even when he isn't present. Personal issues aside, he understands why Ganymede might want to meet other immortals; there is a degree of understanding about their existence that you can't get with normal humans.

"No, you've lived too much and know far better, but it's just..." And then Armand's voice falters, and he frowns, not exactly sure where the line wanted to end despite his determined first 'no.' Because Armand knows Ganymede is smarter than that, that he has a good eye for seeing people's true nature, and the heart to decide if they are worthy or not...but Armand also knows that there's something truly magnetic about Lestat that defies all logic.

It's hard to believe anyone would pick Armand over him, even for a friendship. Louis sure didn't, nor did anyone else. Even Daniel, who should know better after everything Louis told him about the blond, should know better than to go near him, and yet Armand is sure that Molloy's curiosity won't 'ever be sated until he can talk to Lestat.

He shakes his head.

"You're right. And pondering about what ifs is wasting time."

Ganymede watches Armand with a mildly unreadable expression as he speaks, features soft as he considers his friend's words and face. He knows how it feels to be conflicted about a past friend, a past lover, sometimes someone who was in the past both. He knows intimately the push-and-pull of still wanting someone even if you know you shouldn't.

It's hearing him describe Lestat as a snake in the garden that makes him chuckle just a little, fingers squeezing. "You know, I've heard myself spoken of just about the same way," he murmurs, shaking his head. He feels much the same way about Zeus as Armand does about Lestat: he's had enough dealings with the man to know no good will come of it. Ganymede can't help but think of the phantom feel of fingers in his hair, however securely it has been braided all day, or the thoughtless caresses that had never seemed anything but possessive, as if they'd all needed to remind themselves--and him--that he was an object of affection.

But an object nonetheless.

And still, he knows the thoughts he can all but hear echoing behind Armand's face--he understands. The pervasive, insidious idea that they are not enough, despite all evidence to the contrary, is difficult to quiet, and impossible to silence. Ganymede has lived with that voice ever-present in him for millennia, and the unceasing repetition has left him with many of the same problems as Armand. It is one of the many commonalities that drew him to the vampire in the hope that they might be close enough that their loneliness could be relieved. Just for a little while.

He finishes his drink, not bothering to pretend it's going to affect him, and shifts until his arm is pressed to Armand's from shoulder to wrist, affectionate and companionable. He does like the man. "No, I know. It just," he agrees, with the tone that says he truly does know, and no other words are necessary. "So why Brooklyn Heights?"

At this point, he doesn't know if whatever exists between Lestat and him can be savaged, and he also doesn't know if he wants it. There's too much bad blood between them, literal and figurative, but there's also kinship. Just like Ganymede was thinking when he first mentioned an interest in meeting Lestat, his kinship with Armand is the kind you can only find in those who have lived similar experiences or for as long as you have.

That's why the whole issue with Danniel right now is even harder to deal with than Lestat. Lestat, at least Armand can manage to ignore for the most part. His fledgling, not so much. He can't even hear Danniel's thoughts anymore, and it's the part that drives Armadn up the walls. He's doing Ganymede a disservice thinking about past partners and whatnot when his good friend is the one keeping him company, and he decides to focus instead on the man and his lovely laugh.

"Tell me who was so unkind as to call you that, and I'll make them pay for it. Provided that they're still around and have now been underground for, let's say, a few centuries by now. If it's the latter case, it might be trickier, but I could manage."

The last bit is a joke, but given how there are witches and ghosts in this world, finding ways to torture a bastard's soul might be possible with the correct motivations. Of course, Armand can make a few polite assumptions about what sort of person might say these things about Ganymedes. And granted, gods above are trickier to punish for their selfie misdeeds; it's why so many get away with them, but there must be a way still.

He enjoys the cigarette as Ganymede finishes the drink, briefly studying their surroundings and keeping track of time to make sure he can time their departure from the museum correctly so he can move in to grab the painting. He smiles, taken aback by Ganymedes' so easily offered affection - part of him always will be- and looks at the other man with appreciation. He feels seen and understood, and that's rare. Instead of saying anything, Armand nods and presses himself a little closer.

"It's a nice place at night. I like the views of the city" And it's far away from the museum, so it makes for a good alibi about where they would be at the time of the theft if, for whatever reason, anyone came investigating in the future. "I'm an old man; sometimes I just want to look at the beauty in the world." He made a show of staring at Ganymede up and down and grinning. "But if you want to go somewhere else, we can change our plans."

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shit-talking the glitterati

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