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"It is what people do. I mean, I think it's what people do. I don't think anyone's ever bought me a drink before."

And it's kind of a nice feeling, actually. He could take or leave the alcohol -- although at the moment, he seems to be taking it, albeit slower than he was with the first drink -- but the sense of having someone around interested enough in him to actually buy him a drink is unique and not at all unpleasant. He could get used to this.

He notices that Ned's a little pinker in the cheeks than he had been moments before, but he's just as likely to chalk it up to the alcohol as he is to anything else. Somehow, despite the fact that Ned has essentially verified that this very much counts as a date, he's not quite consciously aware of the fact that this probably means Ned is attracted to him.

"Everyone's drunk at the office -- or high at the office, there's a lot of that, too -- because everyone's miserable at the office. They think I don't see it, because I'm not drunk with them, or high with them, but I do. They're all trying to escape from something. That's why they work so much. That's why they drink so much. I think that's normal, for advertising agencies. Every place I've ever worked has been like that."

"That's horrible," Ned says, leaning forward with his arms resting on the table. There's a faint voice, somewhere in the back of his mind, saying that it's not just advertising agencies where people go to escape from things. Some people cope with it by drinking and getting high and working all the time, some cope by baking pies and living quietly in ways that don't draw attention to themselves.

"So why are you different?"

He realizes after the fact that, in some ways, it might be a very intimate question. If he were entirely sober, he might regret saying it in silence, but there's a pleasant buzzing in his head, loosening his lips, "Is that a rude question to ask? It probably is. Nevermind. Forget I said anything."

"I've just always been different. I can't escape from my own mind no matter how hard I try, and sometimes trying just makes it worse. The first time I ever got high, I thought I was going to die. It really makes you crazy. Well, it makes me crazy. There're people that I'm sure it's great for. I'm not one of them. I was paranoid for days."

And he's already paranoid by nature. Drugs didn't help that tendency, not one bit. He obviously doesn't mind that it's an intimate question, since he's answering it -- it's just that he's not entirely sure what the answer is.

"I'm not saying that I'm not miserable or that I'm not trying to escape. I just don't do it the way they do. Which is probably hard to believe since you see me sitting here with a drink in my hand, but it's true. This is the first drink I've had in months."

"It's not hard to believe. I'm the one who put the drink in your hand, after all." Interesting, though that Ginsberg doesn't claim to not be miserable or not be trying to escape. Ned files that information away as he prattles on, "Can't say I've ever tried anything outlandish, in terms of mind-altering substances. I'm not very adventurous. Or... at all adventurous." He gives a nervous little smile, sips at his drink. "I've never been a big fan of taking risks, which is probably hard to believe since I asked you here, but that's actually quite a departure from the usual for me." He smiles faintly at his echo of Ginsberg's own line.

It was a gamble, after all. Asking a strange man he'd never seen before if he wanted to get a drink. Flirting with him. "Not sure what's gotten into me today," he admits.

"So what way do you do it? Just writing?" he asks, less worried this time about the intimacy of the question, since Ginsberg had answered the first one without complaint.

"I'm not very adventurous, either. Mentally, maybe. I think about a lot of stuff people don't wanna think about. But in terms of what I actually do? I'm the least exciting person you'll ever meet. I still live at home with my father, for Christ's sake."

Maybe he shouldn't have said that. That makes him sound both very young and extremely uncool. He takes a sip of his drink to disguise his sudden nerves. Will he ever stop blundering through conversations and just have them without concern of sounding ridiculous?

"Whatever's gotten into you, I like it," he hurries to say, trying to redeem his previous statement by sounding a little flirtatious, although even that's a gamble. "And yeah, mostly writing. I stay at the office late. And when I'm all alone, and I'm writing by myself, my brain feels a lot less cluttered. You do it by making pies, right? That's what keeps you sane. Relatively sane. I don't know that any of us are entirely sane."

Ned flushes a little more with pleasure at Ginsberg's remark about liking whatever's gotten into him, biting the inside of his lip to keep from grinning too much.

For all that Ginsberg seems to expect the detail about living with his father will make him seem young or uncool, it doesn't seem to deter Ned one bit. "Why would make you unexciting?" Ned asks. "I've only known you for half an hour but you already seem like a very interesting person to me. I'm a baker, and you're a writer at some fancy ad agency. Doesn't that automatically make me the less intriguing one?"

He grins a little, liking the idea of making it a competition, which of them is the least interesting. "You write ads for an airline company, and I've never even been in an airplane."

"Think about it this way -- I go home tonight, right? And my dad's waiting up for me, because of course he is, and he asks me how my date goes, and what am I supposed to say? That it went terribly, but that I ended up having drinks with a really sexy piemaker? His reaction would be both terrifying and hilarious, and personally, I prefer reactions that aren't terrifying at all."

If he notices at all that he'd referred to Ned as sexy, it's only notable in the sense that his voice got a little quieter when he said it, so that no one could overhear. Otherwise, he's just his animated self, shaking his head when Ned insists that he's the less interesting one.

"Just because I work for a fancy ad agency doesn't make me a fancy guy. You make pies. You make people happy all day. I make ads, and I convince people that they're unhappy so that they can buy a product that'll make them happy. Besides, I've only ever been on an airplane once, and I don't remember it, so we're even there."

A look of genuine surprise flickers across Ned's face for just a moment, because 'a really sexy piemaker' isn't exactly how he was expecting to be described. It's not that he's unaware of the fact that certain people seem to find him attractive, but sadly they are often not the sort of people he wants to spend time with, not the sort of people he's this (relatively) comfortable speaking to.

He supposes that the whole scenario he's supposed to be picturing, with Ginsberg's dad interrogating him, is meant to seem unpleasant. "You could always tell him that you had a good date, right? He doesn't need to know it was your second one. Or that it was with... someone like me."

Even though he's only been sipping at it, Ned finds that his glass is empty again. He feels that characteristic loosening of his muscles and his thoughts, making him bold.

"Lemme guess, if you didn't come home until morning, he'd already be putting up missing posters?" From the sound of it, the man is a bit protective. Ned thinks that sounds rather nice, actually, but Ginsberg doesn't look like he agrees. There's also a hint of suggestiveness, to that question. Testing the ground, at least.

"Actually, if I didn't come home till morning, he'd be overjoyed. He'd've assumed I spent the night with my date. I'd hear a whole lot of congratulations, mazel tov, blah blah, you're a man now, Michael." He slips into a thick accent to imitate his father's voice, and then laughs, shaking his head and switching back to his own voice. "He'd think I was finally doing what he's been telling me to do all along, and meet someone nice. So yeah, I'd tell him I had a good date. And I wouldn't tell him who it was with. No reason for him to know, anyway, since he's so nosy."

That's a pretty roundabout way of noting that he's noticed the hint of suggestiveness, and that he appreciates it. No, he doesn't care for his father's overprotective nature, but he's been used to it just about his whole life, and it's not going to change any time soon.

Maybe it's bold of him to be flirting so much, too, as clumsily as it's been, but why the hell not, right? He's already had a pie thrown at him. The night can only get better from here.

Edited 2013-10-15 21:01 (UTC)

Ned smiles at Ginsberg's impersonation of his father. It is sweet: affectionate, if exasperated. There might be plenty of people who would find a person of his age living with his father to be unusual, and the aspect of surveillance doesn't sound too appealing. All the same, for someone who's been living on his own for... well, for a long time, it has a certain appeal.

He also takes note of what Ginsberg says: the phrase 'you're a man now' has certain implications, but even Ned isn't drunk enough to just flat-out ask whether or not his father would be correct in saying that.

"I think I like the idea of being kept secret, or at least, part-secret. It's all very mysterious."

"You can be a secret. Or a part-secret. I don't have anyone to tell, anyway. Not that I would tell, if I had someone to tell, but just so that you don't worry, I'm very good at keeping secrets. Secrets seem to like me."

He stares down at his empty glass almost accusatorily, wondering when he'd run out of his drink and if it was obvious that he was feeling the effects of it. What a lightweight Ned must think he was! Most guys would be able to handle more than two relatively light drinks before feeling this intoxicated, but then, he wasn't much like most guys in a lot of ways.

"I'm sorry, I'm drunk. I can't hide that secret. I'm all red, aren't I? Alcohol does that to me. Makes me look ridiculous." He is, indeed, a bit pinker than he'd been when they'd come into the bar.

He wouldn't say that he'd been worried, exactly, about Ginsberg's ability to keep secrets, but the reassurance is not unwelcome, though whether or not it's true still remains to be seen. Ned's heard that line before and been surprised. Lots of people liked to boast about how great they were at keeping secrets, out of lack of self-knowledge and the desire to appear reliable and, indeed, mysterious.

"A little red," Ned admits, knowing that he's in the same state himself, "Just a touch. Hardly noticeable. Definitely not ridiculous."

Then, without any preamble or explanation, he asks, "Do you like dogs?"

"Do I like dogs..."

He puts his hands to his too-warm cheeks, trying to cool down a little. It shouldn't be a difficult question, but he's obviously trying to come up with the perfect answer to it. Ned has probably noticed by now that with Ginsberg, a question very rarely has a yes or no answer -- everything requires elaboration.

"I feel the same way about dogs that I feel about people," he finally says. "They're usually okay individually, but get them in a group and they become vicious and tear you limb from limb. Individual dogs, though? I'm fine with them. I've never had one, but not because I dislike them, just because there was never space for one."

Ginsberg's opinion on groups of dogs - and groups of humans - strikes Ned as depressingly accurate. But he doesn't let his mind linger on that; he nods his agreement and watches the way Ginsberg is feeling his own face, thinking that it's rather endearing. Should he feel bad about getting him this tipsy, when he'd said his tolerance was low? Is there anything sleazy about his actions, tonight?

Then again, he thinks, Ginsberg is a grown man, and he doesn't exactly seem like a shy, fainting flower. If he'd wanted to go, he would have gone. Bolstered by that thought, Ned draws in a slow breath, bracing himself to go on. "I only ask," he says, deliberately, feeling rather red in the face himself and not meeting Ginsberg's gaze, now, "Because I have a dog. A golden retriever. And if you were allergic or phobic it would be a bad idea to- to invite you back to my apartment."

He shifts uneasily now, hands twisting together in his lap, under the table. Half of his brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea. That this isn't like him, that it's too risky. That he's going to freak Ginsberg out, or at the very least lose his respect. But, just for once, his impulsiveness is winning out over his caution. There are a million factors which contribute to that, none of which Ned feels like examining at present.

His invitation isn't even an explicit one; it is sideways, is implied, is murmured in a hesitant, low voice.

"No, I'm not allergic or phobic, so inviting me back wouldn't be a bad idea. It'd be a good idea. I mean, if you want to. Nobody's ever extended an invitation like that to me before. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to respond to it -- if that was an invitation and I'm not just making assumptions that're going to make me look ridiculous."

His face is definitely red from something other than alcohol now, but it heartens him a bit to see that Ned is blushing, too. It makes him feel a little better to think that this might be uncharted territory for the both of them, although it doesn't stop him from feeling any less out of his depth or any less naive.

He's obviously not freaked out, though, and the awkward smile that manages to break through the furious blush is no less enthusiastic than the rest of his smiles have been. He's been talking about being boring and not adventurous all night, and going along with his instincts here would definitely qualify as adventurous, right? He can only desperately hope that Ned won't think of him as a horrible loser for being so woefully inexperienced in anything relating even tangentially to dating, romance, or sex.

"You're not making assumptions." He has to establish that, first and foremost. Ned can hear himself speaking faster than normal, out of nerves, but he can't really do anything to slow down, "I wasn't being clear. Again. I'm not... really in the habit of extending invitations like that, so I'm not really sure how to- put it. But yes. I was inviting you. If you're interested."

Ned has a grin to match Ginsberg's, shakes his head, "Is it bad if I say that... it's nice, not needing to act like I'm sure of everything and know exactly what to say and do? Don't get me wrong, I'd like to be the kind of guy who could come in with a suave line that would sweep you off your feet, but suaveness and sweeping have never really been specialities of mine."

"No, it's not bad to say that. I don't like suave anyway. I don't trust it. I always feel like people who're being suave are trying to sell me something. And I don't like being sold stuff, even if that's what I do all day. And in case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly suave myself. The only kind of sweeping anyone off their feet I've ever done is entirely literal, if I've run into someone and knocked them over. And that happens more frequently than it should."

Okay. He seems to have talked out some of his nervousness, and he's undeniably relieved that neither of them have any idea what they're doing. That means he can stop worrying about living up to some kind of ridiculous standards. Ned obviously doesn't have any kind of absurd expectations for him. In fact, he seems oddly charmed by Ginsberg. That's new.

Ned grins, glad they're on the same page. He thinks of offering to buy Ginsberg one more drink before they go, but he decides against it. Too much of a good thing, and all that. So, instead, he reaches for his wallet to pay for the drinks, saying as he does, "My apartment's right above the shop, actually. So it isn't a far walk."

Probably a good thing, too, because once Ned's set the cash on the table and stood up, he wobbles, has to set a hand down to steady himself. He laughs at that, coming right after what Ginsberg said about knocking people over. He does feel swept off his feet - by the other man's lively energy, by the thrill of his own daring, by the fact that things seems to be going his way this evening. It's a rare feeling, and in some corner of his mind, it worries him. The other shoe is bound to drop, eventually.

"Is it because you're so good at selling stuff to people, that you don't like it when the tables are turned?"

When Ned wobbles like that, he reaches out a hand to catch Ned's elbow if he has to. It's an instinctive movement as much as it is a possible excuse to touch him. Ginsberg's never had a problem with casual touch. There have been countless times he's had to restrain himself from flinging his arms around his coworkers, and whenever he talks with his hands -- which is almost always -- he finds himself putting his hand on someone's shoulder or arm. There're a lot of words to describe him, but 'reserved' wouldn't be one of them.

"Yeah, maybe it's that. The thing is, I'm not even that great at selling stuff to people." He's amazed to find that he can walk relatively well, and doesn't feel particularly wobbly, but maybe that's just because his perceptions are altered from the drinks anyway. For all he knows, he could be stumbling as he follows Ned, letting him lead the way.

"I mean, my words are good at selling things. My personality..." He shrugs effusively, laughing. "Some people like it. Sometimes when I do a pitch to a company, my creative director glares at me the whole time so that I don't come off too weird. Seems to be working out okay for me so far, though. Although this is the first agency I've worked at that hasn't fired me. Yet."

"They fire you for being weird?"

That seems a bit harsh, particularly if his ideas have merit. Then again, the pie-making industry isn't exactly strictly merit-based, either. As they step outside into the harsh cold - the temperature seems to have dropped even further, but Ned feels warm with the alcohol, and pleasantly light on his feet - he says, "I got fired once. It was this crummy little hole-in-the-wall bakery and the guy only wanted me there to mop the floors and that kind of thing. I stayed late one night after it was closed and made a pie. I brought my own ingredients, and I was gonna clean up afterwards, but he caught me and sacked me. It was only because he tried some of the pie and it was better than his. He didn't say so, but I could tell."

It's not boasting if it's true, is it? Besides, Ned's ability as a piemaker is the one thing in his life that's really worth boasting about.

"Not always just for being weird. One time I got fired because I called my boss an asshole. Another time I got fired because I told my boss that since everyone got to take Christmas off, I should get to take a holiday of my choosing off, too, since I don't celebrate Christmas. Then there was the time I got fired because my ad ideas were too liberal. That was more than once, actually. It's always either too liberal or too provocative or both."

He shakes his head at Ned's comment about him getting fired. "That's ridiculous. He could've used you as an asset. I know for sure my ads are better than the ones some of the people I work for come up with, and that's why they keep me around -- so they can steal my ideas and take credit for them. At the very least, the guy you worked for should've done that. He sounds like an idiot, though, so it's probably better that you work for yourself."

He doesn't think Ned's boasting is unwarranted, at all. It was damn good pie, and people should be honest about their talents.

Edited 2013-10-16 01:56 (UTC)

Ned thinks, with quiet admiration, that Ginsberg sounds a hell of a lot more brave - and a lot more confrontational - than he could ever manage to be. When he had gotten fired by the envious boss, he hadn't voiced a word of protest. He had just stomped off with burning cheeks and bitter self-reproaches about getting caught and getting himself fired from what had been a steady job.

"They should've let you take a different day off," Ned says. The more he hears about it, the less advertising is sounding like a very glamorous career, "They're really allowed to do that? To just... steal the stuff you come up with?"

They are still a few blocks from his building when it starts to rain - a dismal, cold shower that comes from seemingly nowhere. Ned makes a wordless sound of discontent, walking faster, head ducked down against the downpour.

"They should've," he agrees, "But they told me that everyone celebrates Christmas, and even if I didn't, I should be grateful to have the day off. There may have been raised voices. And swearing. And me storming out. I guess it makes sense they fired me. I only worked there for two months, anyway, so it's not like I was invested in the job yet."

At the agency he works at now, he's somehow able to get away with more than he had been at his previous jobs. Maybe that's because, where he works now, being confrontational and calling people assholes is a whole lot less surprising than anything else anyone gets up to around the office. The fact that people are often drunk, high, or both, and the fact that half of the board members are just as confrontational and rabble-rousing as he is keeps him somewhat safe. He appreciates it. It's the first job he's had where he feels like he even comes close to fitting in.

"Yeah, sure, they can steal it. I mean, they don't really call it that, but if they think you're doing too well and they're looking bad, they'll sabotage you. One of the guys I work for, and I won't name names, because I never do, took one of my ideas and one of his ideas to a pitch for a product, and said he was gonna let the client decide which was better. Mine was better, and he knew it, so he never showed them my idea at all. He "forgot" it in the car." He shakes his head, but it's not bitterly. That's how the advertising world is, and he doesn't much care, anyway. Knowing that his idea had been better is more important than being the one to have his ad published, anyway.

When it starts raining, he walks a little quicker to catch up with Ned's long strides -- this guy is seriously tall, he's realizing -- but he doesn't seem discontented by it at all. Instead of huddling up into his jacket, he lifts his face towards the sky for a moment, letting it rain all over his face, and then looks back down again, letting the water drip out of his hair.

"'Everyone celebrates Christmas'?" Ned repeats, half-incredulous and half-angry, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the rain hitting the pavement, the car wheels rushing through it, the usual increase in cacophonous car horns. "They really said that? Unbelievable." Ned rolls his eyes in vicarious exasperation.

And then Ginsberg is telling him the story about his boss sabotaging his work, and Ned has never been more glad that he works by himself, without interference from anyone. That sounds like a theme of Ginsberg's life from what he's heard so far: interference, benign or otherwise. His father, interfering in his love life, or social life. His co-workers doing the same, as well as interfering with his work.

They are soon at the door to Ned's building, and he opens the front door for Ginsberg, following him inside and shaking his head to get the excess water out. A useless gesture, really. It wasn't all that far, but he's managed to get rather wet. The combination of slippery shoes, stone stairs, and his own intoxication is a bad one, and Ned goes carefully, clinging to the handrail with unusual ferocity, taking the steps with unusual deliberation.

"They sound like bullies, all of them," Ned decides, as he makes his way up towards the second-to-top floor, where his apartment is.

He looks around Ned's building, smiling slightly. "Nice place," he says, and begins to follow Ned up the stairs. "A lot nicer than mine, at least."

The fact that he lives with his father is embarrassing, sure, but at the moment, he's almost glad that he had a ready-made excuse not to take Ned back to his apartment. Even without the presence of his father standing in the way, it's a tiny place, in a not particularly good part of Brooklyn. He tries not to be embarrassed about where he lives, but it's a losing battle, and he wouldn't want to show it to Ned. Bragging about his work is one thing -- then he can pretend that working for a fancy ad agency actually means something.

"They're not all that bad. I mean, a lot of them are assholes, don't get me wrong, but there're a couple people in the office that I can stand and that can stand me." He nearly stumbles on the stairs, realizing that he's more intoxicated than he'd accounted for. The brisk air and the cold rain had made him feel more sober than he was, but as soon as he's inside, he realizes just how tipsy he is.

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