"Not all of them," Ganymede says equably, though he sighs at the conversation anyway. "But enough of them." He knows. And he knows Armand is aware as well. But he doesn't dwell on it, instad choosing to take his friend's arm and make their way out towards the exit; the many exhibits make him smile as they pass paintings and objects and armor, and the every day things nobody would have thought to preserve when they were made. The museum truly is a massive collection, and even Ganymede can feel comforted surrounded by so many bygone items. Things he might have used or owned or commissioned himself, honestly.

"With you, aren't they always?" he teases gently, taking a deep breath of the night air, perfumed with the smell of rained-on leaves and brick pavers and the warring colognes of the tourists from the afternoon. This is the city that never sleeps, so massive and crushed tight to itself that its denizens often have no choice but to assimilate somehow. Ganymede loves it for what it is, the crammed-in humanity coursing like blood through the subways and streets, always going somehere. "Oh, let's take the subway. I like watching all the people." It makes him feel less alone, and he has always desperately wanted to belong somewhere. New York is simply the easiest place to feel that, because the city often gives him no room to refuse. He is here, he is a New Yorker now.

"We can always take a cab home later, if you want." But Armand is fascinated with humanity the same as he is, or Ganymede wants him to be. He wants to see the joy of learning something new bloom over his friend's face.