When Ginsberg asks that question and looks back at him, Ned only nods. He never intended on going into the matter much more than that simple declaration that he had hurt people before. Just that is a large enough step, for him. Just that is enough to have him nervous. Besides, he didn't come here to talk about himself.
His chest aches when he sees Ginsberg wiping away tears. Ned's never been much good at seeing other people in pain or distress, even if they were strangers. To see Ginsberg fighting back tears like that is so much worse than he would have imagined, and that's before he says what he does about his mother.
They've finally coming to it, to the thing at the roof of all these different strands: Ginsberg's response in the meeting, his feeling of dread and unreality, his fear that he's a bad person, his horror of hurting others. But it turns out that at this most crucial of moments, words absolutely fail Ned. He's accustomed enough to speaking with people about their mothers, even their dead mothers, and doing so with the emotional distance necessary to keep himself safe. He wasn't expecting this, however, and it cuts into him deep, from out of nowhere. Ginsberg blames himself for his mother's death. Well. That's something Ned can relate to, too.
Only he can't seem to find his voice to say that. And besides, what would he even say? What words could possibly be enough? He can't tell Ginsberg it isn't his fault, though he doesn't think it is, because that strikes Ned as not his right (besides which, he wouldn't trust his voice). So he does something that's out of character for him and gathers Ginsberg into an embrace, sudden and fierce, holds him as if he could banish everything bad in just that one act. Ned knows that he's shaking, now, but he doesn't care Ginsberg if notices. He'll say something, something reassuring, something wise and logical, when he can.
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His chest aches when he sees Ginsberg wiping away tears. Ned's never been much good at seeing other people in pain or distress, even if they were strangers. To see Ginsberg fighting back tears like that is so much worse than he would have imagined, and that's before he says what he does about his mother.
They've finally coming to it, to the thing at the roof of all these different strands: Ginsberg's response in the meeting, his feeling of dread and unreality, his fear that he's a bad person, his horror of hurting others. But it turns out that at this most crucial of moments, words absolutely fail Ned. He's accustomed enough to speaking with people about their mothers, even their dead mothers, and doing so with the emotional distance necessary to keep himself safe. He wasn't expecting this, however, and it cuts into him deep, from out of nowhere. Ginsberg blames himself for his mother's death. Well. That's something Ned can relate to, too.
Only he can't seem to find his voice to say that. And besides, what would he even say? What words could possibly be enough? He can't tell Ginsberg it isn't his fault, though he doesn't think it is, because that strikes Ned as not his right (besides which, he wouldn't trust his voice). So he does something that's out of character for him and gathers Ginsberg into an embrace, sudden and fierce, holds him as if he could banish everything bad in just that one act. Ned knows that he's shaking, now, but he doesn't care Ginsberg if notices. He'll say something, something reassuring, something wise and logical, when he can.