the_cupbearer | shit-talking the glitterati

Entry tags:

armand,
psl

shit-talking the glitterati

Sitting on a convenient bench in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Ganymede crosses his ankles, legs outstretched in front of him. It's a mix of snow and drizzling, misty rain outside through the wide glass windows, and he's enjoying playing tourist in his own city. The art is magnificent, he remembers much of it being made--and in front of him is a painting of his own story. The Abduction of Ganymede.

"I know it's supposed to be beautiful art," he murmurs. "But most of what I remember is the artists groping me. And most of them were bad at it to boot," he chuckles. "They all thought they were so irresistible, do you remember?"

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"I do happen to have lived on several, with varying degrees of isolation," he murmurs, still staring at the bit of painting before he turns away from it, concentrating on a set of jewelry displayed in a case nearby. Anything to deaden the shock he felt like a live wire touching his chest at the sight of that. Nothing had ever correctly been unearthed from Troy; the excavations had always been a few miles off in one direction or other. And Ganymede liked it that way, because with as many people and questions as modern archaeology could bring to the effort, his history might not stay hidden.

And he needed it to be hidden if he wanted anything like an easy life.

"This...that is the only image of me as I really was back then," he whispers, watching Armand's reflection in the glass of the case in front of them. "Not like people think, because of the myth." In its many retellings and translations and versions, the story had been sanitized, rewritten, twisted to fit what modern thinkers felt was best to portray of an ancient civilization. Very few of them were accurate, and none were entirely true.

"I don't know if-- But I don't want it here." Here where so many thousands of people could see his face, and would ask questions, and would dig and pry and research, and he knew beyond any doubt that there would be someone, some several dozen someones most likely, who could piecemeal a connection between him and it. And his life--friends, lovers, family who all thought he was normal, a mortal man as any other--would be gone. Even those like Armand who knew what he really was couldn't easily risk being associated with such a bombastic story.

"You should tell me the reason why you chose them, or if you had a favorite."

Ganymede looks away, but Armand studies the painting some more, his vampire eyes catching on details a normal human might miss, even studying the flow of the paint strokes and their texture. Whoever made this painting did it with purpose and care. The theme and style are different, but he feels as if he's looking at one of Marius's paintings, only for the devotion imbued in it.

He turns away, now also looking at the jewelry set. After Ganymede confirms that he would rather not have his image exposed in one of the most famous museums in the world, it takes Armand less than 10 seconds to decide he's going to steal it.

Not now, but eventually. So he can offer it to his friend, to whom it belongs by virtue of the painting having the man's own face in the painting. That is as special as it is dangerous.

He's already orchestrating a plan when he asks,

"At what time does the museum close?"

It will be easier to do this if he is already inside than to break in during off hours. He'll have to trick the minds of the remaining guards present before the museum closes, then switch the painting for another and leave. There are hi-tech sensors and cameras, of course, but he can move at supernatural speed, and that is no match for the naked eye or for modern technology. Perhaps things will change in the future, but for now, Armand is confident that he could pull it off.

Of course, he won't be saying any of this to Ganymede just in case it goes sideways and to not spoil the surprise if it works as intended. Instead, he tugs gently at Ganymede's hand.

"Let's gets some fresh air. They serve some pretty good cocktails on the Cantor Roof garden bar." They all taste like liquid cardboard to Armand, but Ganymede might appreciate them. And it's better if they don't stay in this room for much longer.

"Oh, my favorite...that's easy. Rabbit Island. I own it, but I haven't gone back in years. But it's cose to my home, and technically it's still uninhabited." He doesn't mind it being lonely, but it was and is so close to his first home that it's hard to stay there. But he can't quite give it up.

"I chose them...most of them because I could be alone, and in control of my own life, for however long. However I wanted to live it," he murmurs, purposefully not looking at the fresco again, but turning a fraction to look at Armand. His friend looks steady as ever, face gentle and smooth save for the tiniest furrow between his brows. If Ganymede were paying attention, he'd remark it, but the sight of his own face so properly rendered from so long ago still has him rattled.

There's no artistic license there, no tweaking his face to make his eyes lighter, his lips thinner, his nose less. And what that means--that someone knew him, that someone knew what he looked like when he was mortal, and marked it down--is terrifying. The implications are even more so. So when Armand suggests they leave the art and go get a drink, he smiles.

"It tastes awful for you, I know," he says lightly, a small smile touching his face as he laces their fingers together and squeezes at the tug. "This place closes at nine, every day but Sunday. Five on Sundays. Why?" he asks.

It took Armand a second to realize Ganyemde wasn't talking about the Rabbit Island off the coast of Hiroshima but the one near Italy. Not like Ganyemde surrounded by a small colony of adorable rabbits isn't a cute mental image.

"We could visit it one day if you are in the mood. You can play host." When one lives as long as they do, there's an infinity of time to make plans. When Armand says 'one day,' it can be either within the next days or the next decades. Ganymede's reasoning has Armand nodding lightly in approval, smiling.

"It's a good sentiment. And see, that's exactly why I want to go island shopping too." It took him a long time to realize that the home he had in Dubai wasn't really a home at all, that things were falling apart long before Daniel entered the picture. He's still bitter about how everything ended between Louis and him, but it was doomed to fall from the start.

Only an idiot would miss how affected Ganymede is by the painting, and Armand is quick to redirect him out of the room and toward the nearest elevator once his friend agrees. He keeps their hands entwined together, and she shrugs at the remark, acknowledging the truth of the statement but making it clear he's gotten used to it.

"I can still smoke. Nicotine does nothing for me, but I still enjoy it. And no reason, really. I just wanted to know how long we have left before they kick us out."

The sun has started to set by the time they go out, and it makes Armand realize that they really lost track of time when they were chatting and watching the first paintings. Ah, nothing like surrounding yourself with art and forgetting about everything else. However, there's still an hour before the MET closes, and that gives them plenty of tiem for both have a drink and to later be somewhere else when the painting eventually disappears. The bar is busy with both local visitors and tourists alike, but Armand can get anyone's attention pretty quickly, and that obviously includes the bartender.

"What are you in the mood for, G?"

"I'd be happy to host you. And provide whatever you need." He has dietary requirements himself; he can't blame anyone else for having them, however strange they may be. It isn't as if the Aegean has a shortage of horrible people nearby that need removal from the general populace, now or in whatever future they may travel in.

Ganymede smiles at the idea of the museum kicking them out--as if they could, given both of their skill sets. If Ganymede can't get them to reconsider, Armand can. But they'll play nice for a little while longer. "You might like the cigarettes I have, then," he murmurs. "They're...technically tobacco," Ganymede clarifies. They're also technically something a hell of a lot stronger, and that hasn't been popular since the 1700s, but he still likes it. It's hard to get addicted to anything for him, no matter what it is or how he tries it.

"I think...I'm in the mood for something dark. But sweet," he amends with a little smile at his friend. "Maybe with some bite."

"I don't really need that much or that often." Armand appreciates how thoughtful that has been, but he's quick to reassure Ganymede it won't be necessary. He also doesn't want to cause trouble. "I can actually go a long, long time without having to eat. Perks of the age."

Young vampires need the blood often and feel the thirst with more intensity because their bodies are slowly growing used to their new nature. After 500 years, Armand is beyond having to suffer the disadvantage, but he does enjoy a good meal. Or freeing the world of the scum it won't miss.

The museum could never kick them out, no, but Armand will try to get Ganymede out of it before it closes so he can later come to collect the painting and meet with his friend again. With some luck, he won't have to try too hard to convince the other man that he needs to excuse himself for half an hour.

"A generous offer, G. I do enjoy these kinds of technicalities, thank you."

He won't say no to trying pretty much anything. What's the worst that could happen? It's not as if drugs could get him addicted or tobacco could give him a pulmonary disease. In that regard, both Ganymede and he are very lucky.

Armand leans in to gently assault Ganymede's personal space, pressing himself close to the other man and tilting his head, sharp gaze meeting the other man's eyes before flicking briefly to his mouth and then back up.

"Is that so? Well, who am I to deny you anything you want? I live to please."

He also lives to cause mischief and trouble, but that's neither here nor there. And Ganymede might enjoy the kind of trouble Armand brings to his doorstep anyway.

"I might have been talking about a bed," Ganymede teases, though he's fully aware Armand can tell what he'd meant when he said it. It's strange, getting used to the idea of his thoughts being so easily heard like the words of a podcast, but....Armand is a friend. And he hides very little from his friends, once he has them. "But it's good to know."

Once they step out onto the balcony in the open air, the weight and compression of having seen his own face staring back at him seems to lessen, and he pulls a slim cigarette case out of his pocket, offering it out. The cigarettes inside are very clearly hand-rolled and a faintly sweet smell comes with them: matches are lit with a neat little one-handed trick, offering the flame out. Ganymede relaxes slowly, entirely, once the first thin ripple of smoke passes through his lips, and he tosses his head just in time to see Armand come up close, head tilting.

He tilts his own the other way out of habit, staring into those captivatingly sunset-orange eyes, leaning in without realizing it until Armand looks back up to his eyes, when he almost loses his balance and takes a tiny half-step forward to catch himself. "Oh," he laughs, absolutely amused at the easy play, "You live for far more than that."

Ganymede glances out to make sure no one is directly looking at them before he tugs Armand in for a playful, short kiss, laughing as they separate again.

"Like that."

Armand snickers knowingly. Sure, a bed.

"We both know that we don't always need one to do...what we feel like doing." Any flat surface is good enough for him, and sometimes not even that. Armand has never been too picky about comfortable sex or whatnot, often by necessity, but with Ganymede, he simply knows he can be playful.

For what it is worth, yes, he could read the other man's thoughts as easily as skimming a newspaper's cover, but because he respects Ganymede and enjoys being surprised by his inputs, Armand mostly stays out of his head. Sometimes humans simply project thoughts and emotions, thinking things out loud even if they don't realize it. It happens more often when they're angry, upset, or excited.

Or in this case, when they are relieved to be away from a painting.

He takes the offered cigarette wordlessly but with a small nod of gratitude, and his enhanced senses let him appreciate the smell of its components even now when the cigarette is still unlit. It doesn't stay that way for long, and Armand appreciates the smell even more once it's Ganymede exhaling it. He doesn't immediately bring his cigarette to his lips because he wants a different taste first.

Their eyes met, and it would be impossible to miss the amusement in Armand's at Ganymede's, well, everything. The man's just so fascinating, for a human. But he's much more than that, of course.

"Perhaps I do. Can you blame me?" It's said with a grin and not an ounce of shame, but with a small degree of reverence. It's a rare thing to even get to understand a creature like Armand, let alone be someone he cares so much about. And oh, how much Armand enjoys getting his way—in this case, that involved a kiss.

He's still grinning when they separate and makes himself comfortable next to Ganymede's side so they can both watch the rest of the visitors here for a moment before going to get a drink.

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."

"Beds? Yes, they are. I've been using them these last decades far more often than my other, smaller choice of furniture when it comes to rest for that very reason too. It's also easier to find bedsheets that fit."

He means the coffin, of course. Armand still keeps one around, but it's really more for sentimentality’s sake than anything else. He has mixed feelings about it and the partners he shared the coffin with in the past, which is why he doesn't bring it up as often as other vampires might.

He could not blame Ganymede for wanting someplace warm to lie on, especially considering how not warm Armand is unless he has recently fed on someone. Young Daniel had complained about that on occasion, he remembers.

"Oh you could blame me for plenty of things, reasonable or not. It's almost a hobby for some." He sounds a bit more bitter than he wanted, but that's what thinking about Daniel does to Armand when he doesn't check himself. He lets that bitterness go; Ganymede doesn't deserve it, and adds, more amicably.

"But I know you would not, because you're far too kind and have the patience of a saint. May that never change."

He is not accustomed to having a loyal friend, you see. Not since he was very young and living with the other boys in Marius' palazzo. It's something that feels so impossible; Armand had honestly stopped trying. Maybe that's why it is affecting him so much now, and why he is so pleased by Ganymede's settling comfortably next to him.

"Thanks. I want to do things that please you." Armand has yet to take a drag of his cigarette, but he has more wonderful things to focus on.

"I'm thinking that I should get you that drink you wanted, and later, once we're done here, I'd like for us to go for a walk. How about an evening stroll through Brooklyn Heights?

Ganymede chuckles at the notion of hunting for bedsheets for a coffin, and gently shakes his head as he blows out a breath of plumed smoke, lettng the tension bleed out of his shoulders as he does. "Why would I? You have survived the circumstances that have changed societies, cities, peoples themselves, the same as I have. No more and no less," he murmurs, turning and brushing the backs of his knuckles under the curve of Armand's jaw. He knows the other man is younger than he is: he's not sure how many years are between them, but however many it turns out to be, he is well aware Armand is a survivor of just as many horrible things.

It is the nature of being like them, of having a longer-than-human lifespan. One of the many exchanges neither of them were ever told about.

"You do that already, though you don't have to. You are my friend whether or not something pleases me. We are both adults--I am far and away too old to be playing such childish games as that." And he means it; his liking Armand isn't dependent on the vampire treading some sort of line to keep himself in check and ensure favor. Ganymede finds that sort of existence tedious at best, and mind-numbingly awful at worst. "I'd like taking a walk with you. Just a stroll?" he asks. "Two old men on a free evening?"

Armand has enough money that he can get anything he needs to be customized without people asking many questions, but it is still somewhat awkward at times; when it involves his coffin, that is one such case. He can smell in the air now what is so special about Ganymede's cigarettes, the mixture of its components, and he smiles. Oh, that's good.

"My life span is, but a drop in the ocean compared to yours, but I see your point." They're both too old for judgment and wasting time on petty resentments or accusations.

Armand leans into the brush against his jaw, always hungry for even the smallest touch when it's sincere. Ganymede is often a light in the darkness, a miracle in itself that it had not diminished in brightness or snuffed out during all those years, and Armand wants to help keep him that way. Another reason why he's so determined to get his hands on the man's painting.

"You would be surprised how many centuries-old men I had to deal with that behaved like children. Maturity is certainly not a matter of age. It's why it's so refreshing to be with you. Also why I am sure you'd hate Lestat."

Enough of delayed gratification, Armand brings his cigs to his lips, then tilts his head to the side and exhales slowly, eyes closed as he listens to this friend. When he looks at Ganymede again, his smile is as honest as it gets.

"Two old men on a free evening, yes. I have a surprise for you too, but that will have to wait until later." And before Ganymede even thinks to ask what it could be, Armand brushes their free hands together and gives them a squeeze. "I'll go get your drink." Don't let the admirers distract you too much."

And with that, Armand grins and leaves. There are people already glancing at them from time to time; Ganymede's a very handsome man, after all, and Armand can read minds. He knows these things are inevitable.

Ganymede shakes his head gently at Armand's rebuttal about his age, grazing the pad of his thumb over the corner of his friend's mouth affectionately. "You aren't that much younger than I am, are you?" he asks, and both eyebrows lift gently as he laughs.

"You know, one day I will have to meet that man, just to see what he's like," Ganymede chuckles. "I've heard a decent amount about him, but never from the man himself." He's got opinions on what he's heard, yes, and he values Armand as an honest friend: so it's likely he will have at least a few issues with Lestat, but currently all of it's unfounded. "Oh--"

He can't help the little unfettered laugh when Armand leaves him to get his drink, and though he knows there are people staring at him, hoping he'll look their way, though he has eyes for no one but his friend right now. Ganymede loves easily, he knows that, but there's something about having a kinship with someone who understands--who knows personally what life has done to them--that touches him quite deeply. And there's relief as well, because whille he knows he may well lose Armand to something, it won't be simply time. He doesn't feel the tug of it like sand through an hourglass the way he does with mortals.

"I started to wonder if you were coming back," he murmured in gentle teasing once Armand returned, turning his hand out in offer to hold his friend's.

"For a wide definition of younger, I suppose." There are a lot of people around them, most chatting and distracted with their own affairs or conversations, but it still pays to be cautious. More so now that Armand is aware of the Talamasca putting their noses in his business, he's going to have to do something about that soon.

He scrunches his nose at the idea of seeing Lestat ever again, even if Ganymede's laugh is always pleasant to his ears.

"Do not. He has a way to get into people's heads and charm his way out of any problem he himself created."

Not unlike Armand himself, this is absolutely a pot-calling-the-kettle-black situation, but Armand is purposely ignoring the blatant hypocrisy of his reply. He can't help but worry that Lestat's charm, which had caused him no small amount of issues because Armand himself isn't immune to it, will cost him to lose another friend, another companion. Ganymede might not lose Armand to time, but he might want him out of his life if Lestat brought up just how many ways Armand is monstrous.

He's by the bar in only a few strides, using his powers to get the bartender's attention over the rest of the people waiting their turn, and returning to Ganymede's side with two drinks. His wine is mostly to keep up appearances of normality, but Ganymede's drink is one of his favorite ones.

"Oh, sweetheart, I can never part with you for long." He places the drink on the nearby railing with a smile and reaches out to squeeze the offered hand. His expression sobers up a little after a moment, and he adds, because he can't not help it. "I know Lestat might seems like a fascinating subject of conversation to those who had never had the misfortune of meeting him directly. I am also aware that my own opinions about him might be a little biased. But if you have questions about him, I might answer them."

"You'll have to tell me sometime. Maybe later," he murmurs, because he can recognize the caution from Armand. He isn't often one to give details about himself in public either, not that he has many that would cause a stranger alarm. He won't push his friend to be as open as he is, because Ganymede knows Armand is not the same kind of man he is. There are many reasons for that.

And Lestat appears to be one of them, judging by the subtle shifts on his companion's face at bringing up the possibility of meeting him. "I don't mean to upset you in saying that, you know. I like meeting people, and largely...they are only people, despite all our individual quirks." He considers Armand and Daniel slightly apart, yes, but that's more because he personally likes them, less because they're both vampires. He has no interest in interrogating anyone to dig up unsavory things from the past--if he did it to himself, he'd hate it. He won't to someone else, not without a very compelling reason. "He seems like an interesting man, that's all. Whether that is for more than a passing moment remains to be seen." And there are many, many people that are only interesting for a moment: a day, a night, a week. And Ganymede loses interest.

He is aware, uncomfortably so sometimes, that he is a mercurial sort. He wants what he wants, and sometimes he doesn't want to exercise more patience than he already does to get it. "Do you think my head would be so easily turned?" he asks, sipping his drink as he twines their fingers together in reassurance, looking out at the crowd. "I told you once I value your company for many reasons, love. None of them are so shallow as I think you fear."

"Later then, during our walk."

This isn't Armand trying to deflect the subject for once; this time it's a promise. Ganymede knew a few things about his past and how he had lived in Venice, but Armand kept the other, more gruesome details to himself, including his age back then and what happened before he was found by Marius. And especially after the Children of Satan found them. After all, how do you say to someone, 'The last person I considered my best friend died by my hand'? Or rather, his fangs. Blinding thirst after being locked up didn't leave Armand with any rational mind back then, but he still

He's not ready to tell Ganymede everything, but he trusts the man enough to honor all the offered affection with some returned honesty.

"Yes, I know, G. I'm not angry at you. I think that I am mostly angry at myself."

Lestat has always been and always will be a touchy subject. Part of Armand will always feel affection towards the man; it's like trying to get clean from a drug. You try to ignore the pull, sometimes remembering how good it made you feel, which is instantly followed by all the unpleasant things that happened after, and yet you long for some of it.

The other part of Armand wants Lestat's head on a spike.

Complicated doesn't 'even begin to explain what these two have had going on for more than a hundred years.

"Besides, I can't control who you decide to hang out with, even if they're bad influences." Such as himself, Armand means this time, showing a little fang as he grins. "Lestat does have some wild, interesting stories to tell, especially about himself. He is his own favorite subject of conversation. Just be careful if you ever meet him. He might look like an angel, but he's more like the serpent in the Garden of Eden."

And now he's being dramatic. Count on Lestat to bring that out of Armand even when he isn't present. Personal issues aside, he understands why Ganymede might want to meet other immortals; there is a degree of understanding about their existence that you can't get with normal humans.

"No, you've lived too much and know far better, but it's just..." And then Armand's voice falters, and he frowns, not exactly sure where the line wanted to end despite his determined first 'no.' Because Armand knows Ganymede is smarter than that, that he has a good eye for seeing people's true nature, and the heart to decide if they are worthy or not...but Armand also knows that there's something truly magnetic about Lestat that defies all logic.

It's hard to believe anyone would pick Armand over him, even for a friendship. Louis sure didn't, nor did anyone else. Even Daniel, who should know better after everything Louis told him about the blond, should know better than to go near him, and yet Armand is sure that Molloy's curiosity won't 'ever be sated until he can talk to Lestat.

He shakes his head.

"You're right. And pondering about what ifs is wasting time."

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?"

At this point, he doesn't know if whatever exists between Lestat and him can be savaged, and he also doesn't know if he wants it. There's too much bad blood between them, literal and figurative, but there's also kinship. Just like Ganymede was thinking when he first mentioned an interest in meeting Lestat, his kinship with Armand is the kind you can only find in those who have lived similar experiences or for as long as you have.

That's why the whole issue with Danniel right now is even harder to deal with than Lestat. Lestat, at least Armand can manage to ignore for the most part. His fledgling, not so much. He can't even hear Danniel's thoughts anymore, and it's the part that drives Armadn up the walls. He's doing Ganymede a disservice thinking about past partners and whatnot when his good friend is the one keeping him company, and he decides to focus instead on the man and his lovely laugh.

"Tell me who was so unkind as to call you that, and I'll make them pay for it. Provided that they're still around and have now been underground for, let's say, a few centuries by now. If it's the latter case, it might be trickier, but I could manage."

The last bit is a joke, but given how there are witches and ghosts in this world, finding ways to torture a bastard's soul might be possible with the correct motivations. Of course, Armand can make a few polite assumptions about what sort of person might say these things about Ganymedes. And granted, gods above are trickier to punish for their selfie misdeeds; it's why so many get away with them, but there must be a way still.

He enjoys the cigarette as Ganymede finishes the drink, briefly studying their surroundings and keeping track of time to make sure he can time their departure from the museum correctly so he can move in to grab the painting. He smiles, taken aback by Ganymedes' so easily offered affection - part of him always will be- and looks at the other man with appreciation. He feels seen and understood, and that's rare. Instead of saying anything, Armand nods and presses himself a little closer.

"It's a nice place at night. I like the views of the city" And it's far away from the museum, so it makes for a good alibi about where they would be at the time of the theft if, for whatever reason, anyone came investigating in the future. "I'm an old man; sometimes I just want to look at the beauty in the world." He made a show of staring at Ganymede up and down and grinning. "But if you want to go somewhere else, we can change our plans."

"Ahh, they are long past now," Ganymede says, shaking his head. "Or I haven't met them yet. Sometimes...turning people down doesn't go well," he murmurs. He has long since made peace with the fact that he is not everyone's type, while his body usually is. It's why he stays around people like Armand. "I can't say I mind being somewhere with a view. Though with you I always have one."

He has made no secret of finding his friend attractive, and Ganymede feels very little shame about it, adjusting his arm around his friend to settle them companionably close. "I want to spend time with you, that's all. Brooklyn Heights sounds lovely." He hums and makes a face at Armand looking him up and down, laughing a the showiness. "Let's go, then. Enjoy the evening."

They have all the time in the world, and while it feels less with Armand and Daniel like he's watching sand slip through his fingers, it's never entirely gone. And sometimes he just wants to spend time with friends doing something simple.

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