Obvious as it might seem to Ginsberg, Ned loves hearing it out loud. Thinks that he could stand to hear it a couple times more, just like he could stand to kiss Ginsberg a great deal more. But there's no rush. They have all day together, a long and wonderful stretch of hours. It's strange, but he hadn't realized just how little he looked forward to every day, until he started having something to really, truly look forward to. Ned has Ginsberg all to himself today, and he intends to savor it.
So the two of them keep walking, sipping at their hot chocolates, talking about little nothings. Underneath that chatter, though, is a warmth, a strong current of affection and enjoyment of one another's company. Ginsberg tells him stories about coming to this park when he was growing up, and Ned tells him about how to make the absolute best hot chocolate.
In a fit of particular carelessness and fun, Ned climbs up to walk on the top of one of the low stone walls bordering the path. It's a silly thing that prompts it, really. Some small remark about his height and how he towers over everything. He's laughing, putting one foot in front of one another, feeling weightless and wonderful. The next moment, though, his ankle decides it doesn't appreciate the angle at which he's put down his foot, and with a sickening lurch he goes toppling off the wall and into a cluster of bushes.
Bad enough, yes, just to fall in front of Ginsberg and make an utter idiot of himself; Ginsberg is looking right at him as he does it. That would be galling, but something he could laugh about later. Immeasurably worse, though, is the fact that his hand, flying out automatically to break his fall, lands on something that is not the ground. Ned looks a second too late, spots the dim outline of bloody face that's half-hidden by the shadows of the bushes.
He reels away by instinct, letting out an aborted yell, but it's too late. He can feel that it is too late. There is blood smeared across his palm and the woman in the bushes sits up with a startled gasp of her own. Ned could swear he feels his heart stop, then. She's in a real state, blood all over her face and neck, her pale blue eyes wide, a lurid gash spanning her throat. She tries to speak, but the cut is too deep, so her vocal cords don't work.
Panic seizes Ned and for a few seconds he is utterly paralyzed. Then he remembers what will happen if he leaves her like this, that Ginsberg might die, and he is able to move. He lunges forward, claps a hand to the side of her face and is relieved to see that familiar unearthly flash of blue over her skin. She falls back into the bushes and he's left there, on his knees, gasping for breath.
no subject
So the two of them keep walking, sipping at their hot chocolates, talking about little nothings. Underneath that chatter, though, is a warmth, a strong current of affection and enjoyment of one another's company. Ginsberg tells him stories about coming to this park when he was growing up, and Ned tells him about how to make the absolute best hot chocolate.
In a fit of particular carelessness and fun, Ned climbs up to walk on the top of one of the low stone walls bordering the path. It's a silly thing that prompts it, really. Some small remark about his height and how he towers over everything. He's laughing, putting one foot in front of one another, feeling weightless and wonderful. The next moment, though, his ankle decides it doesn't appreciate the angle at which he's put down his foot, and with a sickening lurch he goes toppling off the wall and into a cluster of bushes.
Bad enough, yes, just to fall in front of Ginsberg and make an utter idiot of himself; Ginsberg is looking right at him as he does it. That would be galling, but something he could laugh about later. Immeasurably worse, though, is the fact that his hand, flying out automatically to break his fall, lands on something that is not the ground. Ned looks a second too late, spots the dim outline of bloody face that's half-hidden by the shadows of the bushes.
He reels away by instinct, letting out an aborted yell, but it's too late. He can feel that it is too late. There is blood smeared across his palm and the woman in the bushes sits up with a startled gasp of her own. Ned could swear he feels his heart stop, then. She's in a real state, blood all over her face and neck, her pale blue eyes wide, a lurid gash spanning her throat. She tries to speak, but the cut is too deep, so her vocal cords don't work.
Panic seizes Ned and for a few seconds he is utterly paralyzed. Then he remembers what will happen if he leaves her like this, that Ginsberg might die, and he is able to move. He lunges forward, claps a hand to the side of her face and is relieved to see that familiar unearthly flash of blue over her skin. She falls back into the bushes and he's left there, on his knees, gasping for breath.