"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."
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.
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.
"You say that like it's some kind of miracle," Ned observes, "I don't think. you're that hard to stand." When Ginsberg misses his footing Ned reaches out automatically, though his support wasn't really necessary. It's a little moment, but it sets his heart to racing with fear.
"Please be careful," he murmurs, fervently, "Because that'd be just my luck, meet a great guy, buy him some drinks, invite him back to my place only to have him slip and fall and break his neck on the way up the stairs."
Ned visibly shudders, thinking of that, because it isn't much of a stretch to imagine. He knows that misfortune seems to follow him like an evil cloud, and he'd hate for it to impact Ginsberg.
He laughs, but he's secretly grateful for Ned's concern, because most people would mock him for nearly falling down the stairs, and Ned hadn't done that. He'd actually told him to be careful, and it had seemed entirely genuine. Sure, Ned could be bullshitting, but he'd like to believe he isn't. Ginsberg doesn't have much faith in humanity, overall, but he wants to. And he likes Ned. Maybe Ned really is one of the good ones.
"In my nearly twenty four years of life," he says, almost dramatically, as though that's a very very long time, "I've fallen down and up countless flights of stairs, and never once broken my neck. Admittedly, I've never tried to walk up stairs while both soaking wet and intoxicated, but I'd like to think my luck's going to stay with me until I get safely into your apartment, at which point I may do my damnedest to trip over something immediately, just so I can get it out of the way, because it's inevitable that at some point, I will anyway."
"Maybe your good luck will counteract my bad luck," Ned suggests, but they make it up the rest of the steps without incident. From there, it's a short walk to his door, and it takes him longer than it ought to fish his keys out of the right pocket. When he opens the door, Digby is sitting patiently a few feet off, his tail sweeping back and forth against the floor, clearly having heard him coming. The dog looks quickly between Ned and the stranger, but doesn't rush at them, barking or sniffing their crotches or doing any of the other usual less-than-appropriate canine behaviors.
"If you're going to trip, there's a rug in the hallway that will do nicely. If you change your mind, there's a hook just there for your coat."
"I think the rug's kind of an expected thing to trip over. A little cliched. I'm looking for something with a bit more panache."
Or, really, he's just looking to hang up his soaking wet coat -- it really is kind of an atrocious plaid, something that he seems to have a penchant for -- and then shrug out of his cardigan, hanging that up, too. That done, and nothing tripped over yet, he turns to look at the dog. It's an appraising glance, but not a judgmental one. The dog seems well behaved, and as he'd said, individual dogs are much, much better than groups of them.
Unfortunately, he now has no idea what he's supposed to do. They've spoken, they've had drinks, he's followed Ned back home and hung up his coat and done all the expected things, and he suddenly feels at a loss. So he crosses over to Digby, offering him a hand to sniff, and then scratching his head gingerly.
Edited (Because we don't end our sentences with commas) 2013-10-16 04:43 (UTC)
Ned, too, feels slightly at a loss. He follows Ginsberg in, shuts the door behind them, hangs up his wet things as well. Now that they're actually here, actually in private, it all seems so much more terribly real. Without showing much outward sign of it, Ned can feel his heart starting to go a bit faster, and there's a nervous quality to his movements
Digby, he sees, is already making friends with his usual canine ease, panting with happiness at the attention, his tail. Ned, meanwhile, ducks quickly into the kitchen, comes back with two hand towels, handing one to Ginsberg.
"For your hair," he says, rather unnecessarily, since he's using the other to soak up some of the excess water from his own hair. He leans his hip against the wall as he does it, feeling unsteady on his feet. "I think this is the bit where, if I were cleverer, I'd come up with some smooth line about getting you out of your wet clothes before you catch a cold." Ned says it conversationally, but there's no masking the hint of nervousness behind the humor.
He accepts the towel with a little smile and starts rubbing it across his hair to dry it off, maybe a little too enthusiastically, since it starts to stick up in all directions, little curls springing up that he's never going to be able to tame back down. Oh well, at least his hair is relatively dry now, and he scrubs the towel across his face to dry that off, too. He's trying not to stare at Ned as he does so, but Ned's comment makes him both laugh and look a little flustered, which is a strange combination.
"If you wanted to get me out of my clothes," he says, looking around for somewhere to put the towel without getting anything else wet, although he's pretty sure he's dripping a puddle onto the floor as it is, "You don't have to say anything clever. Besides, if you were clever about it, it'd probably go over my head, and I'd miss any possible innuendo."
He's nervous, too, that much should be obvious from the way he's fidgeting, but he figures honesty is generally the best policy, and besides, it's not like he's capable of stopping himself from blurting things out anyway.
"I would have made some joke about carpet - because of what you said about that ad - only there's no carpet in here and so I thought it would probably just make me sound like a crazy person."
Ned, too, is nervous, but it's muted somewhat by the alcohol in his system, and by Ginsberg's obvious, corresponding nerves. Twisting the damp towel between his hands he comes a step or two closer and suddenly it all seems to be happening terribly fast. But there's no backing down now, and even if he could, he wouldn't want to.
So he says, in a low voice, "I think I... might kiss you now. If. That's alright with you." He's close enough that he can count the small beads of water that are still forming at the tips of Ginsberg's rather messy curls.
"You might have sounded a little crazy. But I like crazy. Crazy's okay. I mean, it'd be hypocritical of me not to at least appreciate crazy, right?"
Okay, now he's actually babbling, and even for him, it's a little excessive. It takes a herculean effort to keep from blurting out anything else that sounds inane, but he somehow manages, especially when Ned takes a few steps closer. He's not sure whether he should freeze in place or step towards Ned, but he's almost certain that if he does take a couple steps forward, he's going to trip over his own feet and that's going to completely ruin the moment, if, indeed, there is a moment. So he stays still and lets Ned approach him.
He has to blink at Ned a few times, though, before Ned's next sentence can even process through his brain, but then he nods very quickly. "Yes. Yeah. That's alright with me. That's, um, that's great with me."
For just a split second, as Ginsberg blinks up at him in seeming surprise, Ned wonders if he's made a misstep. It's one thing to joke and flirt and bring him here, but this is something else entirely. But then he's saying it would be great and Ned beams. With a nervous half-laugh, and one last moment of hesitation and fear, he closes the distance between their faces, kisses Ginsberg gently, curiously.
It's a little odd, because the two of them are both damp and cold-nosed from being outside, and Ned's never kissed a man with a mustache before. Odd, but not unpleasant. The kiss is a short one, and when they break apart, Ned leaves their foreheads touching.
"I've, uh. Been wanting to do that for a little while now," he admits. Ned lets go of that damp towel with one hand, brings it up to cup the side of Ginsberg's face as he kisses him again, tilting his head to the side a little, eyes slipping shut.
At least he knows how to kiss, and he's perfectly capable of reciprocating, even if he's only ever kissed one guy before, and it had turned out terribly, but Ned doesn't need to know that. It's probably obvious that there's still a whole lot of jitteriness and nervousness all pent up inside him, so the fact that the first kiss is short is probably good; it gives him time to catch his breath, to center himself, to listen to Ned saying he's been wanting to do that for awhile now and be appropriately flustered by it.
"I've been wanting you to do it for awhile. But I kind of thought it'd be weird if I just said that. I mean, I guess I'm saying it now, so I..."
Maybe it's for the best that Ned leans down to kiss him again. It effectively cuts off whatever he's saying, makes him focus on the kiss instead, although he's still not quite sure what he's supposed to do with his hands. Still, for all his inability to know where to put his hands, his kiss is as eager and effusive as his personality -- a bit flustered, perhaps, but undeniably enthusiastic all the same.
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.
It's hard to quiet his mind down long enough to stop worrying about whether he's doing this right and just concentrate on doing it, but his confidence grows slightly as he realizes that he is doing it, and that Ned isn't pulling away or shoving him away in disgust or laughing at him or doing any number of things that he could possibly and perhaps expectedly do. He leans into the kiss, finally allowing his hand to rest on Ned's shoulder -- it's somewhat of an awkward gesture, but it's where his indecisive hand had landed.
When Ned breaks away, grinning, and takes him by the wrist, the only logical thing to do is follow, mind spinning, and the room around them spinning just a little, too. That thing he'd said about not tripping over the rug because it was totally cliched apparently doesn't apply, because as they head down the hall towards Ned's bedroom, he manages to catch his feet in the rug and stumble, though he stays upright. It's the alcohol. It has to be the alcohol. Either that or the excitement of everything else.
If Ned sits down on the bed, that means that he's within his rights to close any distance between them and, still standing, lean down and kiss Ned again, right? And he's definitely allowed to put his hand on the back of Ned's head to pull him closer, he thinks -- it's that thing about touching he has, and right now, he feels very inclined to touch Ned.
He wasn't expecting to go back to kissing so quickly, but he's happy to do so, immediately tilts his head back and reciprocates warmly and without hesitation. His heart is racing with excitement and he buries his hands in Ginsberg's hair, running his fingers through it, not caring about the damp. For all that he said he hadn't been on a lot of very successful dates, Ned thinks he is really a rather good kisser. Maybe he's just a natural at it.
"This was a great idea," Ned murmurs in the tiny gap between kisses. He reaches between the and grabs hold of Ginsberg's tie, loosening it just a touch with a questioning kind of air, waiting for some kind of permission that he can go on.
He's had a whole lot of first dates, and kissing's generally as far as things ever get on first dates, at least for him. Maybe that explains where he's gotten all of his practice. He's not thinking about being good at it, though, any more than he's consciously thinking about Ned being good at it -- although Ned is good at it, and were he thinking more rationally, he'd probably be saying something vaguely embarrassing along those lines.
"One of the better ideas I've ever heard," he agrees, nodding for Ned to keep on undoing his tie, suddenly finding that he wants nothing more than to get the tie off; he feels like it's practically choking him, but maybe that's partially the jitteriness that's still coursing through his body, the same jitteriness that makes him move his hand from the back of Ned's hair to his cheek to his shoulder, never staying in one place for too long. He has far too much energy, and he hopes it doesn't make him seem too inexperienced, too nervous.
He eases the tie looser until he can slip it free from Ginsberg's collar. That restless energy of his makes it a small challenge to unhook the small top button of his shirt, but Ned manages it - he has always been rather deft with his hands.
"So you're, uh. A creative guy and all that. Have any good ideas about what we should do next?" Ned murmurs against Ginsberg's mouth, thinking he rather likes that shade of jitteriness in him. It makes Ned feel good, not to be the only one who is a touch nervous with proceedings. It allows him to be the solicitous one, rather than always the other way around.
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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."
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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.
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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?"
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"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."
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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.
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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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"Please be careful," he murmurs, fervently, "Because that'd be just my luck, meet a great guy, buy him some drinks, invite him back to my place only to have him slip and fall and break his neck on the way up the stairs."
Ned visibly shudders, thinking of that, because it isn't much of a stretch to imagine. He knows that misfortune seems to follow him like an evil cloud, and he'd hate for it to impact Ginsberg.
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"In my nearly twenty four years of life," he says, almost dramatically, as though that's a very very long time, "I've fallen down and up countless flights of stairs, and never once broken my neck. Admittedly, I've never tried to walk up stairs while both soaking wet and intoxicated, but I'd like to think my luck's going to stay with me until I get safely into your apartment, at which point I may do my damnedest to trip over something immediately, just so I can get it out of the way, because it's inevitable that at some point, I will anyway."
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"If you're going to trip, there's a rug in the hallway that will do nicely. If you change your mind, there's a hook just there for your coat."
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Or, really, he's just looking to hang up his soaking wet coat -- it really is kind of an atrocious plaid, something that he seems to have a penchant for -- and then shrug out of his cardigan, hanging that up, too. That done, and nothing tripped over yet, he turns to look at the dog. It's an appraising glance, but not a judgmental one. The dog seems well behaved, and as he'd said, individual dogs are much, much better than groups of them.
Unfortunately, he now has no idea what he's supposed to do. They've spoken, they've had drinks, he's followed Ned back home and hung up his coat and done all the expected things, and he suddenly feels at a loss. So he crosses over to Digby, offering him a hand to sniff, and then scratching his head gingerly.
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Digby, he sees, is already making friends with his usual canine ease, panting with happiness at the attention, his tail. Ned, meanwhile, ducks quickly into the kitchen, comes back with two hand towels, handing one to Ginsberg.
"For your hair," he says, rather unnecessarily, since he's using the other to soak up some of the excess water from his own hair. He leans his hip against the wall as he does it, feeling unsteady on his feet. "I think this is the bit where, if I were cleverer, I'd come up with some smooth line about getting you out of your wet clothes before you catch a cold." Ned says it conversationally, but there's no masking the hint of nervousness behind the humor.
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"If you wanted to get me out of my clothes," he says, looking around for somewhere to put the towel without getting anything else wet, although he's pretty sure he's dripping a puddle onto the floor as it is, "You don't have to say anything clever. Besides, if you were clever about it, it'd probably go over my head, and I'd miss any possible innuendo."
He's nervous, too, that much should be obvious from the way he's fidgeting, but he figures honesty is generally the best policy, and besides, it's not like he's capable of stopping himself from blurting things out anyway.
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Ned, too, is nervous, but it's muted somewhat by the alcohol in his system, and by Ginsberg's obvious, corresponding nerves. Twisting the damp towel between his hands he comes a step or two closer and suddenly it all seems to be happening terribly fast. But there's no backing down now, and even if he could, he wouldn't want to.
So he says, in a low voice, "I think I... might kiss you now. If. That's alright with you." He's close enough that he can count the small beads of water that are still forming at the tips of Ginsberg's rather messy curls.
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Okay, now he's actually babbling, and even for him, it's a little excessive. It takes a herculean effort to keep from blurting out anything else that sounds inane, but he somehow manages, especially when Ned takes a few steps closer. He's not sure whether he should freeze in place or step towards Ned, but he's almost certain that if he does take a couple steps forward, he's going to trip over his own feet and that's going to completely ruin the moment, if, indeed, there is a moment. So he stays still and lets Ned approach him.
He has to blink at Ned a few times, though, before Ned's next sentence can even process through his brain, but then he nods very quickly. "Yes. Yeah. That's alright with me. That's, um, that's great with me."
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It's a little odd, because the two of them are both damp and cold-nosed from being outside, and Ned's never kissed a man with a mustache before. Odd, but not unpleasant. The kiss is a short one, and when they break apart, Ned leaves their foreheads touching.
"I've, uh. Been wanting to do that for a little while now," he admits. Ned lets go of that damp towel with one hand, brings it up to cup the side of Ginsberg's face as he kisses him again, tilting his head to the side a little, eyes slipping shut.
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"I've been wanting you to do it for awhile. But I kind of thought it'd be weird if I just said that. I mean, I guess I'm saying it now, so I..."
Maybe it's for the best that Ned leans down to kiss him again. It effectively cuts off whatever he's saying, makes him focus on the kiss instead, although he's still not quite sure what he's supposed to do with his hands. Still, for all his inability to know where to put his hands, his kiss is as eager and effusive as his personality -- a bit flustered, perhaps, but undeniably enthusiastic all the same.
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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.
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When Ned breaks away, grinning, and takes him by the wrist, the only logical thing to do is follow, mind spinning, and the room around them spinning just a little, too. That thing he'd said about not tripping over the rug because it was totally cliched apparently doesn't apply, because as they head down the hall towards Ned's bedroom, he manages to catch his feet in the rug and stumble, though he stays upright. It's the alcohol. It has to be the alcohol. Either that or the excitement of everything else.
If Ned sits down on the bed, that means that he's within his rights to close any distance between them and, still standing, lean down and kiss Ned again, right? And he's definitely allowed to put his hand on the back of Ned's head to pull him closer, he thinks -- it's that thing about touching he has, and right now, he feels very inclined to touch Ned.
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"This was a great idea," Ned murmurs in the tiny gap between kisses. He reaches between the and grabs hold of Ginsberg's tie, loosening it just a touch with a questioning kind of air, waiting for some kind of permission that he can go on.
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"One of the better ideas I've ever heard," he agrees, nodding for Ned to keep on undoing his tie, suddenly finding that he wants nothing more than to get the tie off; he feels like it's practically choking him, but maybe that's partially the jitteriness that's still coursing through his body, the same jitteriness that makes him move his hand from the back of Ned's hair to his cheek to his shoulder, never staying in one place for too long. He has far too much energy, and he hopes it doesn't make him seem too inexperienced, too nervous.
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"So you're, uh. A creative guy and all that. Have any good ideas about what we should do next?" Ned murmurs against Ginsberg's mouth, thinking he rather likes that shade of jitteriness in him. It makes Ned feel good, not to be the only one who is a touch nervous with proceedings. It allows him to be the solicitous one, rather than always the other way around.
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