He feels a touch guilty at how glad that Ginsberg, too, has other stuff. Some of it Ned's had a glimpse of: his father not being his 'real' father, never having met his mother, putting up with constant surveillance, and apparently being sent to a psychoanalyst. Some of it, he's sure, he has no notion of. It would be wrong to say that he's happy, precisely, that Ginsberg has his own helping of problems, but it eases him. It's a kind of solidarity Ned is unaccustomed to.
"You're doing it again," he murmurs, "Being nice to me. It's very alarming." But from the touch of tentative humor and gratitude in his voice, Ned is anything but alarmed. Cautious, maybe, but that's hardly Ginsberg's fault.
Ned swallows, his heartbeat finally beginning to slow down to a more normal rate. "Same deal. You can tell me stuff, too, I mean. If and when you want. I don't... I'd hate it if you thought just because I freaked out just now that you can never talk about your dad in front of me or I'll flip my lid. That was uh- a one time thing. Promise."
"You'd probably better get used to me being nice to you," he says, smiling
a little, because he can hear the gratitude in Ned's voice, and he likes
it, likes that he can bring some happiness to Ned's day, however
momentarily. "Because I intend to keep being nice to you. It's about the
only way I can balance out being an insensitive loudmouth the rest of the
time, right? Well, that and I like being nice to you, but I'm also hoping
my being nice will make up for some of my, uh, countless flaws in my
ability to talk to someone without upsetting them."
Because despite Ned's offer that he can talk to him any time -- and he
doesn't think the offer is false in any way -- he's well aware, now, that
there's an emotional charge to the discussion of fathers that he hadn't
been privy to before. He may be hopelessly blunt, and very likely to
complain about his own father again (old habits die hard, after all, and
he's been complaining about his father ever since he met the guy) but he
does understand now why it might bother Ned, and he vows to handle it just
a little bit better in the future.
"Yeah, sure, sometime I'll tell you stuff," he says, with a flippant little
quirk of his mouth that completely minimizes how serious anything he could
have to tell would be, "and then you'd run screaming in terror, most
likely."
Ned thinks (without a hint of irony) that for the kindness Ginsberg is offering him now, he'd be willing to put up with a lot more than just the occasional moment of loudmouthed insensitivity. If he looked too hard at that inclination, he'd probably see that it might not be the healthiest attitude to have. Would probably see that it, too, is threaded through with the self-doubt and belief that he deserves to have everyone leave him sooner or later.
"Doubt it," Ned says, and his voice is increasingly normal, so that there's a hint of humor and challenge in that. At the same time, he's serious, really does mean it. After all, as far as Ned's concerned, no amount of having gone through bad things would drive him away, and as for doing bad things, he suspects the worst thing Ginsberg's ever done wouldn't even register on the chart of what he has.
"And don't be so hard on yourself," he adds, detaching one hand to poke Ginsberg very lightly in the stomach reproachfully, "Everybody's got flaws, and a kitten could've upset me, today. And by could, I mean did."
"I'm not sure if I should be offended or pleased that I'm equally as scary as a kitten. I mean, kittens can be pretty terrifying, I guess. Unless that's an editorial statement about how cute I am, in which case, I definitely like it."
He's glad to see that Ned seems to be regaining some of his humor, and although he's obviously not completely back to normal -- probably won't be until the day's over with, he'd bet -- it's a good sign that Ned can joke around with him. Maybe that means the worst of it's over, and it's going to get better from here. He sure hopes so. That's why he's here, isn't it, to make things better? He can't fail Ned now.
And, of course, the appropriate response to being poked in the stomach is to poke Ned back, although he can't quite reach his stomach, so he settles for poking him in the upper arm, not too hard, but teasingly, figuring that since Ned started it, he can't not return the gesture. Besides, it's another excuse for physical contact, which Ned seems to be soaking up at the moment, like he desperately needs it but isn't quite sure how to ask for it.
"Well. You are pretty cute." Ned might not have intended the statement as a commentary on Ginsberg's potential kitten-like qualities, but he's certainly not afraid to go there retroactively. Slowly, that knot in his chest is loosening, and he finds that he feels better than he has since he woke up this morning. Not yet good, exactly, but at least some portion of happiness has insinuated itself past his defenses to lie alongside the sadness.
"And-" he adds, as if sensing the other man's thoughts, "-you give great hugs. Which is saying something, because I'm not usually a fan." He rests his cheek on Ginsberg's shoulder, can't help but wonder how what he's learned about Ned tonight will color the way he sees him from now on. Even a remark as small as that one becomes weighted, he imagines, with a variety of meanings and possibilities. What he knows will confirm what he probably already picked up on; that Ned is unaccustomed to being hugged.
"Not a fan of hugs?" he asks, faux-shocked, as if he's never heard something so ridiculous, but truthfully, he thinks, he understands it, based on what Ned's told him about his past now. An absent father, and a mother that had died, probably hadn't given him much opportunity for hugging. And it makes sense now, too, that Ned had gone to boarding school, and he highly doubts he got many hugs there, either.
"Well," he says, snuggling Ned a little closer, trying to be as affectionate as possible without stifling him -- because he knows that for someone who isn't usually a fan of hugs, too much contact can be just as bad as not enough -- "There's a couple things I'm good at. I think hugging is one of them. I don't get much of a chance to do it, though, because would you believe it, but people're not usually fond of getting hugged randomly, especially at work. I've almost done it a couple times, but it just never goes over well."
"What, really?" Ned asks with just a dash of sarcasm, but it's softened by the fact that he's smiling - really smiling, on that day, of all days. How like Ginsberg that is, though, he thinks. Getting the urge to hug people at work, even if he does manage to restrain himself. There's such an energy, such a flamboyance to him that Ned envies at times. He's not like that - whether by nature or by long practice he doesn't know. He thinks it might be the latter. That for so many years he had suppressed and withheld himself, had bleached out all (or most) outward show of eccentricities, that he's stuck that way. So it's nice, to be near Ginsberg, with all his flair. To appreciate it, the way it ought to be appreciated.
"I'm better at them than I used to be." Curious, how easy it is to say these kinds of things, tucked up against Ginsberg like this, the two of them locked up here, away from the messy confusing painful world. "A lot, actually. I used to- well, I couldn't stand them. Or touching people in general. For a long time." It's something he still has trouble with, on occasion, but not now. His sensitivity to it varies from day to day, and sometimes in larger arcs. He's gone through months on end when he couldn't bear it, followed by periods of relative indifference, only to slip back into avoiding touch at all costs. Ned's given up hoping for any kind of permanent progress. As an afterthought, he adds, "Touching you is nice, though." Just so Ginsberg's clear on that.
"Well, you're doing a good job of it right now. I didn't used to like them when I was younger, either. Didn't hug, didn't talk... I was a pretty boring little kid, I think. Or just a weird one."
Funny, now, to think back on that little kid he'd been, when his father had found him. He'd been so quiet, so withdrawn, so shut off from everything, and now look at him. He's sure Ned's noticed by now the enthusiastic way he flings himself at the world, arms wide open, even if the world just keeps rejecting him in a variety of ways. It's hard, he thinks, for anyone to imagine him as being normal, not so loud and flamboyant, not so willing to engage in conflict; he wouldn't believe it about himself, either, except that he'd experienced it.
"Touching you's nice, too," he says, and he means it vehemently, because it's even nicer than touching other people he's had the chance to touch. That's always been so fleeting, and Ned's snuggled up to him right now, not seeming like he's about to rush off in a hurry. And Ned's warm, and comforting, and of course it doesn't hurt that he's handsome, too.
Not boring, Ned thinks. As someone who used to be the quietest kid, who refused to interact any more than was strictly necessary, he thinks he knows that Ginsberg had a lot more going on under the surface than people could imagine.
"Can you stay over?" he asks, tries to phrase it as an idle question, without pressure or neediness. He's not quite sure he succeeds, which is why he adds, "I understand if you can't, like if you need to get home or you've got an extra busy day at work tomorrow or you just don't want to-"
He nods, smiles, can't quite hide the fact that he's almost overjoyed in being asked to stay, because he'd been hoping that's what Ned would ask him, been hoping that he'd have a chance to comfort Ned for a prolonged period of time. "Yeah, I'd like to stay."
But because Ned had put all of those qualifications on it, he feels the need to address them all, one by one, ticking off the reasons on his fingers why those possible outs Ned had given him don't apply at all. "There's no reason I'd need to be at home, work is always busy, but if other people can come to work stoned, I can come to work after staying over with someone, and as for not wanting to, now I do think you're crazy. Of course I want to."
He laughs just a little at that; not because he thinks he is crazy, but because Ginsberg agrees so readily, so vehemently. Almost like he really does want to be here. Like everything he's been saying is true, and he doesn't mind seeing Ned in such a low moment.
"We should do something stupid like... watch a movie or play cards or... have you had dinner, I could cook you something?"
Cooking people food is, after all, one of the primary ways of showing affection that Ned knows. It's always worked for him, because it's something he's good at, something that bypasses all his insecurities and neuroses and lets him make people happy.
"We can do all of those things. At once, maybe, if you want, although that might take a lot of concentration, so maybe we should do them one after another. I haven't eaten yet, but you don't have to make me anything. Unless you're going to make something for yourself, in which case, I'd definitely eat something."
And he's not a particularly picky eater, either, although even if he were, he's sure that from what he's experienced of Ned's piemaking abilities, his cooking skills are just about perfect, too.
"We can put something on TV if you want. Something distracting. I bet there's a movie on."
Hopefully a movie that has nothing to do with Halloween.
"How about cooking first, TV after, and cards last." Ned knows he'll have to get up to make Ginsberg dinner, and he's actually happy about having a task, something to focus his mind on, someone to be with him. But that means moving out of his arms, and he's reluctant to do that. So he clings for just a minute more before, with a squeeze of gratitude, he pulls away, nods in the direction of the kitchen, wordlessly asking Ginsberg to follow.
Once they're there he starts pulling things from the cabinets, glad of the activity. As he does, he finds himself saying, "At the school I'd sneak out of bed all the time to cook at night. Most of the time I made pies, but I taught myself to make other stuff, too. This is a recipe I came up with when I was like, thirteen. Don't worry, though," Ned darts a glance over his shoulder, smiles, "It's good. You'll like it."
"Okay, sure, that sounds like a great plan. Anything you want."
Coming from someone else, that almost might come across as sounding sarcastic -- people very rarely say that unless they're being comically deferential or mocking someone, at least, in Ginsberg's experience -- but coming from him, he really means it. Whatever Ned thinks will be the best route towards feeling better is the route he wants to take, and he follows Ned willingly into the kitchen, grabbing one of the chairs from the table and turning it around to sit on it backwards, arms crossed across the back of it to watch Ned as he cooks.
"I like just about everything. And believe me, I trust that your cooking's good. It has to be better than mine, anyway. I mean, I try, but I can only manage the basics. You wouldn't be impressed."
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"You're doing it again," he murmurs, "Being nice to me. It's very alarming." But from the touch of tentative humor and gratitude in his voice, Ned is anything but alarmed. Cautious, maybe, but that's hardly Ginsberg's fault.
Ned swallows, his heartbeat finally beginning to slow down to a more normal rate. "Same deal. You can tell me stuff, too, I mean. If and when you want. I don't... I'd hate it if you thought just because I freaked out just now that you can never talk about your dad in front of me or I'll flip my lid. That was uh- a one time thing. Promise."
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"You'd probably better get used to me being nice to you," he says, smiling a little, because he can hear the gratitude in Ned's voice, and he likes it, likes that he can bring some happiness to Ned's day, however momentarily. "Because I intend to keep being nice to you. It's about the only way I can balance out being an insensitive loudmouth the rest of the time, right? Well, that and I like being nice to you, but I'm also hoping my being nice will make up for some of my, uh, countless flaws in my ability to talk to someone without upsetting them."
Because despite Ned's offer that he can talk to him any time -- and he doesn't think the offer is false in any way -- he's well aware, now, that there's an emotional charge to the discussion of fathers that he hadn't been privy to before. He may be hopelessly blunt, and very likely to complain about his own father again (old habits die hard, after all, and he's been complaining about his father ever since he met the guy) but he does understand now why it might bother Ned, and he vows to handle it just a little bit better in the future.
"Yeah, sure, sometime I'll tell you stuff," he says, with a flippant little quirk of his mouth that completely minimizes how serious anything he could have to tell would be, "and then you'd run screaming in terror, most likely."
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"Doubt it," Ned says, and his voice is increasingly normal, so that there's a hint of humor and challenge in that. At the same time, he's serious, really does mean it. After all, as far as Ned's concerned, no amount of having gone through bad things would drive him away, and as for doing bad things, he suspects the worst thing Ginsberg's ever done wouldn't even register on the chart of what he has.
"And don't be so hard on yourself," he adds, detaching one hand to poke Ginsberg very lightly in the stomach reproachfully, "Everybody's got flaws, and a kitten could've upset me, today. And by could, I mean did."
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He's glad to see that Ned seems to be regaining some of his humor, and although he's obviously not completely back to normal -- probably won't be until the day's over with, he'd bet -- it's a good sign that Ned can joke around with him. Maybe that means the worst of it's over, and it's going to get better from here. He sure hopes so. That's why he's here, isn't it, to make things better? He can't fail Ned now.
And, of course, the appropriate response to being poked in the stomach is to poke Ned back, although he can't quite reach his stomach, so he settles for poking him in the upper arm, not too hard, but teasingly, figuring that since Ned started it, he can't not return the gesture. Besides, it's another excuse for physical contact, which Ned seems to be soaking up at the moment, like he desperately needs it but isn't quite sure how to ask for it.
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"And-" he adds, as if sensing the other man's thoughts, "-you give great hugs. Which is saying something, because I'm not usually a fan." He rests his cheek on Ginsberg's shoulder, can't help but wonder how what he's learned about Ned tonight will color the way he sees him from now on. Even a remark as small as that one becomes weighted, he imagines, with a variety of meanings and possibilities. What he knows will confirm what he probably already picked up on; that Ned is unaccustomed to being hugged.
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"Well," he says, snuggling Ned a little closer, trying to be as affectionate as possible without stifling him -- because he knows that for someone who isn't usually a fan of hugs, too much contact can be just as bad as not enough -- "There's a couple things I'm good at. I think hugging is one of them. I don't get much of a chance to do it, though, because would you believe it, but people're not usually fond of getting hugged randomly, especially at work. I've almost done it a couple times, but it just never goes over well."
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"I'm better at them than I used to be." Curious, how easy it is to say these kinds of things, tucked up against Ginsberg like this, the two of them locked up here, away from the messy confusing painful world. "A lot, actually. I used to- well, I couldn't stand them. Or touching people in general. For a long time." It's something he still has trouble with, on occasion, but not now. His sensitivity to it varies from day to day, and sometimes in larger arcs. He's gone through months on end when he couldn't bear it, followed by periods of relative indifference, only to slip back into avoiding touch at all costs. Ned's given up hoping for any kind of permanent progress. As an afterthought, he adds, "Touching you is nice, though." Just so Ginsberg's clear on that.
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Funny, now, to think back on that little kid he'd been, when his father had found him. He'd been so quiet, so withdrawn, so shut off from everything, and now look at him. He's sure Ned's noticed by now the enthusiastic way he flings himself at the world, arms wide open, even if the world just keeps rejecting him in a variety of ways. It's hard, he thinks, for anyone to imagine him as being normal, not so loud and flamboyant, not so willing to engage in conflict; he wouldn't believe it about himself, either, except that he'd experienced it.
"Touching you's nice, too," he says, and he means it vehemently, because it's even nicer than touching other people he's had the chance to touch. That's always been so fleeting, and Ned's snuggled up to him right now, not seeming like he's about to rush off in a hurry. And Ned's warm, and comforting, and of course it doesn't hurt that he's handsome, too.
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"Can you stay over?" he asks, tries to phrase it as an idle question, without pressure or neediness. He's not quite sure he succeeds, which is why he adds, "I understand if you can't, like if you need to get home or you've got an extra busy day at work tomorrow or you just don't want to-"
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But because Ned had put all of those qualifications on it, he feels the need to address them all, one by one, ticking off the reasons on his fingers why those possible outs Ned had given him don't apply at all. "There's no reason I'd need to be at home, work is always busy, but if other people can come to work stoned, I can come to work after staying over with someone, and as for not wanting to, now I do think you're crazy. Of course I want to."
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"We should do something stupid like... watch a movie or play cards or... have you had dinner, I could cook you something?"
Cooking people food is, after all, one of the primary ways of showing affection that Ned knows. It's always worked for him, because it's something he's good at, something that bypasses all his insecurities and neuroses and lets him make people happy.
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And he's not a particularly picky eater, either, although even if he were, he's sure that from what he's experienced of Ned's piemaking abilities, his cooking skills are just about perfect, too.
"We can put something on TV if you want. Something distracting. I bet there's a movie on."
Hopefully a movie that has nothing to do with Halloween.
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Once they're there he starts pulling things from the cabinets, glad of the activity. As he does, he finds himself saying, "At the school I'd sneak out of bed all the time to cook at night. Most of the time I made pies, but I taught myself to make other stuff, too. This is a recipe I came up with when I was like, thirteen. Don't worry, though," Ned darts a glance over his shoulder, smiles, "It's good. You'll like it."
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Coming from someone else, that almost might come across as sounding sarcastic -- people very rarely say that unless they're being comically deferential or mocking someone, at least, in Ginsberg's experience -- but coming from him, he really means it. Whatever Ned thinks will be the best route towards feeling better is the route he wants to take, and he follows Ned willingly into the kitchen, grabbing one of the chairs from the table and turning it around to sit on it backwards, arms crossed across the back of it to watch Ned as he cooks.
"I like just about everything. And believe me, I trust that your cooking's good. It has to be better than mine, anyway. I mean, I try, but I can only manage the basics. You wouldn't be impressed."