"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.