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?"
no subject
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?"