Ned thinks vaguely about how it's interesting that a kiss can be like a person; he likes the way Ginsberg kisses. Likes it quite a bit. He loses himself in it, without anything to see or even really hear, just focuses on his sense of touch. As they are kissing, some of Ned's habitual tension - his hunch of uncertainty and unease - goes away. After a moment of indecision he drops the towel on the rug to be dealt with later, sets his other hand very lightly against Ginsberg's waist. Partly it's a romantic gesture, yes, but partly he needs to steady himself. He's lightheaded with happiness and excitement and even despite that anchor, he finds himself swaying a bit, until the two of them nearly topple over.

That breaks them apart, and Ned laughs, a louder, happier laugh than he has yet that night. "We should do this not standing up," he suggests and, grinning from ear to ear, takes Ginsberg by the wrist and says, "C'mon."

He leads the way down the hall to his bedroom, flipping the light on after two tries and sitting down hard on the edge of his bed. Forward, yes, he knows, but the room is spinning enough that he's more worried about tipping over than he is about rushing things.