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."