Ned can't help but laugh at that, his expression one of mingled delight and utter disbelief. Perfect? Him? Hardly. The only conceivable reasons Ginsberg could think that would be alcohol, enthusiasm, and a lack of available comparisons. Not hard to seem perfect without any competition.

"You're exaggerating," he remonstrates.

A small shiver runs through him at that light, exploratory touch. It's been… well, it's been a while since he's been with anyone in this way, and Ned's always been very particular about who he allows to touch him. The intensity of Ginsberg's stare should probably be daunting, but Ned finds he rather likes it. He smooths his hands under Ginsberg's shirts, against his chest, so that once all the buttons are undone, it's the easiest thing for Ned to push the whole lot over his head and off, flinging it away.