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."