"I don't feel worse," Ned says, quietly, and he's surprised to find that it is true. It had been painful listening to Ginsberg speak earlier - painful enough to make him lash out, to push him into spilling the secret. But now that he has, there's an odd sense of relief. He'd always thought the best option was to never mention his father or mother beyond what was strictly necessary, to keep himself insulated from pain by avoidance. But (as tonight has demonstrated) avoidance doesn't always work, and there's something almost like the sense of unburdening of confession, in telling Ginsberg about it. It reminds Ned that, for some unfathomable reason, he's ended up with a friend who is willing to listen. With a friend who would make the offer that Ginsberg made, and really, truly mean it.

He presses closer to Ginsberg, not quite sure if he should return the hug, settles for clinging to the front of Ginsberg's shirt in a way that will probably embarrass him, if he thinks back on it later. Ned is profoundly unused to this kind of physical affection, and it's clear from his every movement that he's starved for it. Ginsberg might be less experienced than him in terms of sexual experience, but this kind of platonic, comforting closeness is something he's gone without for a long time.

"There's other stuff," he murmurs, somewhat ominously, because he wants Ginsberg to be prepared. Ned knows that he's a labyrinth of neuroses and traumas and unhealthy coping mechanisms. But the question is, what does he want to tell Ginsberg, and what does he want to keep hidden? It's such a paradigm shift, to imagine himself disclosing rather than concealing, trusting rather than fearing, etcetera.

After a long beat of silence, he says, "I think the worst part is I don't hate him. I want to. I tried to, for years. But I don't. I just miss him."