"Hi," he says, having explored Ned's kitchen well enough, at least, to make coffee and find coffee cups. He pours them both a cup of coffee, suddenly feeling a little underdressed, considering that Ned's got real clothes on now. Trying not to let any sense of awkwardness show, he holds Ned's cup out to him.
"I don't know how you like your coffee," he apologizes preemptively, "I mean, I don't really know a lot about you, actually. I'd like to. Know more, I mean. And yeah, you woke me up. Well, not exactly. I didn't wake up until I noticed you were gone, because I got cold. I guess I got used to you being there. But it's okay, it was time to get up anyway. Maybe I should go put some pants on."
It seems that the chattering tendency is still alive and well, even before he's had his morning coffee.
Ned listens to Ginsberg chattering, smile never diminishing, waiting for him to pause for a breath. When he does stop, Ned says, "Black's fine. As for pants, you can if you want to, but I don't think there's any particular hurry, unless you've got someplace you have to be."
Sipping at his mug, he eyes Ginsberg with appreciation. He's more awake, after his shower, and pleasant little memories from the night before are drifting through his head like a particularly dirty movie. Ned's glad he stayed the night, glad he's here this morning to have coffee and ramble at him in that nervous way of his. "I'd like to know more about you, too."
Because if Ginsberg had wanted this to be a one-off thing, Ned would be alright with that. Not happy, but... used to it. Resigned. The fact that he doesn't seem inclined in that direction, that he's not ashamed of himself or angry or condescending the next morning, are all marks in his favor.
"I don't need to be anywhere, I'm not in any hurry."
Which, apparently, has him deciding that that doesn't mean he needs to put pants on, either. Ned doesn't seem to be complaining, in any case, and there's something oddly comfortable about being in the kitchen with Ned, casual like this, drinking their coffee and talking to each other. He doesn't know how he'd imagined it, but he'd somehow always thought that, after a night like that, he'd be asked to leave. For Ned not to kick him out, and for Ned to offer him breakfast, that puts a smile on his face.
"Yeah, breakfast sounds great. Thanks. And truthfully, you already know a lot about me. You've probably noticed that I have the tendency to share more than I should."
Ned pulls an apron from a hook on the wall, throws it on over his shirt without fuss and gets to work. Unsurprisingly, Ned is completely at his ease in the kitchen, starting preparing the ingredients for omelettes like he could make them blindfolded (which, truth be told, he probably could). That leaves him free to keep talking with Ginsberg.
"Come on, I don't know that much," he says, cracking eggs into a bowl and then setting to them with a whisk. "You live with your dad, you work in advertising and you love it, your coworkers are backstabbing neurotic alcoholics, you don't drink a lot, and you've had a lot of bad dates." He shrugs, starts dicing onions with quick, practiced strokes. "Hardly an overwhelming amount of information if you ask me."
"Well, those're really the important things. What else is there? I've
worked for a lot of companies for short periods of time, but I've been at
the one I'm at for nearly two years and don't intend to get fired any time
soon. I never went to college and never wanted to. My birthday's in
December, and I'll be 24. I'm Jewish. I was born in Germany. I'm relatively
convinced that I'm actually an alien, and that everything I know about my
past is a lie. I can't pick one favorite color because I like all colors,
but I guess I like pink and red the best. I've never owned a car, but I
know the subway like the back of my hand. I failed chemistry in high school
and had to retake it twice. I'm terrible at sports."
He grins at Ned, watching as Ned whisks the eggs and slices the onions,
shrugging. "How's that? That's the thirty second summary of my life.
Anything else you need to know about me?"
The information he provides is, as always, a strange combination of very
personal details, and completely irrelevant facts about things he likes.
It's hard, talking about himself to other people. People always stare at
him like he's crazy, when he divulges that much at once, but hey, Ned had
seemed curious.
Well that is just... a lot of information to take in, in thirty seconds. Ned's fairly certain that, at the rapid clip Ginsberg was speaking at, he might have missed an important detail here or there, but he's too busy trying to assimilate all the rest of it to go back and ask for clarifications - at least, not just yet. He'd already gotten the impression that Ginsberg's an open book, but this exuberance takes him aback a little. Not that he doesn't like hearing all of it, but some part of himself is nervous that now he'll be expected to reciprocate. He's not sure he can fill thirty seconds with details about his life, off the top of his head. At least, not details that he's willing to share just yet. Because it's one thing to agree that the two of them should talk and get to know each other better, and it's another to actually do it.
But he's managed to navigate the conversation nicely so that they're talking about Ginsberg and not him for now, and Ned's far more comfortable with that. He's known plenty of people who, in a conversation, would always chime in and make the topic personal or offer their own anecdote or one-up, but he's rather the opposite.
"Plenty of other things. I should write you a list. I think the most urgent one is going to be what do you want in your omelette?"
If he notices that Ned doesn't take the opportunity to divulge more about
himself, he doesn't mention it. That's not to say it escapes his attention
entirely. He often sees far more than he ever lets on, and he's under the
impression, somehow, that Ned isn't nearly as eager to share facts about
his life. It doesn't bother him -- people handle their private affairs in
different ways, and although he's curious about Ned's life, he's not going
to push it. Let him say what he wants in time, or say nothing at all. It's
his choice.
So he just offers up a smile at Ned's question, and shrugs. "Whatever
you're putting in yours. I'm not picky. Onions are good. Mushrooms are good
if you have them. Everyone likes cheese. That's the first question on your
list answered."
"Good choices," Ned says, adds bell pepper to the list, working in silence for a moment as he thinks what he should ask Ginsberg next. He settles on something related to his job, because he always seems to eager to talk about that, and because it's still quite interesting to Ned, who had never really thought about the people behind ads before he met Ginsberg.
"Next question, I guess, is if you could do an ad for any product in the entire world, what would it be?"
He puts a pan on the stove and puts a small dab of butter in it, assembling in his mind what he could say about himself, what he wouldn't mind saying, what will make him sound like an interesting and worthwhile person. Because he wants Ginsberg to like him, doesn't want to scare him off or make his curiosity turn into scorn.
It's a good question. He really has to think about it, combing his fingers
through his unruly hair as he does, then rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
People don't usually ask him things like that. They ask him whether he
likes his job, whether it's exciting to design ads for airlines or luxury
cars, but they don't ask him what he wants to do.
"I've always liked doing ads for food. There's something satisfying about
it, selling people something that'll actually make them happy and
not just make them think they're happy. And there're less moral concerns
with food than there are with luxury products. We do some ads for companies
owned by Dow Chemical, and I hate it, because they contribute directly to
making the war worse, but I still take the paycheck, so I'm not exactly
innocent, either."
He shrugs. "Anyway. Food of any kind. Or something futuristic that hasn't
even been invented yet. Time machines. Spaceships."
A tiny furrow forms on Ned's brow when Ginsberg mentions the war and his own scruples. It's not the kind of thing he can really offer advice for, or knows what to say to - what DOES one say? He never has to deal with situations like that. Pie is simple. Pie is, as far as he's concerned, never morally questionable. Ned is glad of that, and the certainty that comes with it.
Ned gives a little laugh at the 'time machines and spaceships' part of his answer, because who wouldn't want to write an ad for those? He likes Ginsberg's sense of imagination, thinks it sounds not incompatible with his own.
Which is why, even though he thinks of it as a calculated risk, Ned says, "I can't think of any more questions off the top of my head, so... I guess it's your turn."
He smiles and cracks his knuckles dramatically, like he's going to ask really tough questions, but in actuality, he's just curious about the basics. "Okay," he says, ruffling his hair one more time and finally giving up trying to fix it, "How old're you? Where're you from? What's your favorite color?"
Those seem like important things to know about someone. Those are just the building blocks to learning who they really are as a person. But there're other questions, too, things he wonders about Ned in a more deep and intimate sense, and he figures he might as well tack those questions on, too.
"What was the first pie you ever made? Why pie and not cake -- why'd you decide to be the pie guy? If you could serve pie to anyone in the world, living, dead, famous, or unheard of, who would it be?"
A small degree of the tension that crept into his shoulders after he made his offer abates. Nothing too bad, there. Nothing he can't answer. Some of them are even interesting questions, but he isn't surprised by that. Interesting people ask interesting questions.
"24, turning 25 in November, so I'm a year older than you. I'm from a tiny town called Coeur d'Coeurs, originally. Nowhere near here and nowhere you'd have heard of. Favorite color is... green, I suppose."
Here the answers get a bit stickier, and he conveniently has to tend to the omelettes closely for a few seconds while he settles on what he'll say, "I don't remember what the first pie I ever made was, it's too long ago. As for the cake thing, I'm assuming you're looking for an answer other than pie is infinitely superior cake, thanks very much?" He turns a quick grin on Ginsberg. "Besides, technically, it's not like I can't make cake. I can. I went to pastry school, so I can make pretty much anything."
Ned folds the first omelette over on itself, flips it in the pan with ease. His reasons for being the pie guy are, though there's no way Ginsberg could know it, deeply intimate, so he settles on a fraction of the truth. "Pie's my favourite, and it's what I was always used to."
He slides Ginsberg's omelette onto a plate, offers it to him with a look of playfully deep contemplation, "Anyone in the world?" He thinks of various celebrities, dignitaries, but none of them is really the truth. A faint blush creeps across his cheeks and he says, "You. Sometime in the future. Because it'd mean seeing you again. Which I'd like. A lot."
"You're right, I've never heard of Coeur d'Coeurs. Must not have been as good as New York -- I can't really imagine being anywhere else. I mean, I've been other places, it's not like I was born here or raised here my whole life, but now that I'm here, you know, you meet really interesting people. People like you."
Is that too forward of a comment? Well, it doesn't matter, does it? He's already said and done far more forward things in the time he's spent with Ned, and he hardly thinks that a little bit of flirtation is going to make Ned get uncomfortable now. He's never been good at flirting, but nevertheless, Ned's responded well to his somewhat offbeat comments throughout the hours they've spent together. He likes that.
"Well, pie is definitely better than cake. I'd have accepted that as an answer, too." He looks at the omelette, smiling, then looks back up at Ned, smile growing wider. "And I like your answer about who you'd serve pie to. Because I'd like that too. A lot."
Ned nods along with Ginsberg's little ramble about New York, though it leads him to qualify his answer, "It was very... small. I didn't spend my whole life there, either. I lived there 'til I was nine, then I lived in a place called North Thrush, then here. This is definitely the most interesting." He might not be born and raised a city boy, but he's certainly acclimated to it, gotten used to the way of life.
Ginsberg's smile is infectious, and all of a sudden Ned's heart seems to have decided to beat a bit faster. "Good."
He turns to start making his own omelette, pink-cheeked and grinning from ear to ear. All of this has gone so much better than he would have imagined. If he stopped to think about it, he'd start to worry, wonder when that other shoe is going to drop. But for now, just for now, he wants to enjoy his unfettered, uncomplicated happiness. It makes him bold.
He has to think, because Ned is offering him what he instinctively
recognizes the rare opportunity to ask him personal questions, and there
are so many things he wants to know about Ned that he doesn't even know
where to start. Ned isn't an open book like Ginsberg is, he can see that
much; they may have been very intimate the previous night, but that didn't
mean that Ned was inclined towards being intimate in discussing himself.
It's easy to worry, to think about all the ways this could still go wrong
-- he could still offend Ned, could still be kicked out and never see him
again, someone could find out about it somehow and it could get back to his
job or, worse, to his father, any number of things could happen -- but he
tries to put that worry aside as he asks one more question.
"Yeah," he says, picking up a fork and taking a bite of his omelette, even
though he knows it would be more polite to wait until Ned's eating, too.
"What's your favorite thing about yourself? And you can't say pie. That's
too easy."
It's such an unusual question, as far as Ned's concerned, that he isn't prepared for it. There's a telling moment, just a second or two, when he looks at Ginsberg and honestly cannot think of a single thing to say. It's not just, he thinks, the blankness of being put on the spot, though he hopes it comes off as that. Ned doesn't exactly have the best track record when it comes to thinking good things about himself, having good self-esteem, all that jazz.
But the silence stretches painfully and he has to say something, "That's a hard question," he muses out loud. And now, even though he can think what he wants to answer, it's difficult to come up with phrasing that doesn't sound painfully arrogant. "I think I'm- at least, I try to be..." No, he's messing it up. Ned tries again, "I think... kindness is very important." He doesn't say that he's kind, but the implication is there, that it's something he strives towards, if nothing else.
He's glad his own omelette is done, now, because it means he can sit down and poke at it with his fork rather than look at Ginsberg at that moment.
"If kindness is very important, then you're doing a great job of it."
It isn't meant to be a meaningless compliment, but he thinks it sounds a little glib, the way he phrases it. Anyone can tell someone else that they're kind, and of course, he'd be incredibly rude not to say it. Ned has probably already noticed that Ginsberg doesn't care a whole lot for social convention, but he very much wants to make sure that his compliment and acknowledgement of Ned's kindness comes off as genuine, so after taking a few more bites of his omelette and a few more sips of his coffee, he tries again.
"People aren't usually as kind to me as you were. I mean, usually, if someone saw me get pie thrown in my face, they'd laugh at me. You actually talked to me. You took interest in me. That's more than I can say for 99.9% of people. So thanks."
Ned, never all that good at taking compliments, ducks his head forward and takes a bite of his omelette, cheeks going pink again with embarrassment and pleasure. But along with that feeling of warmth and validation comes the desire to add further disclaimers, explanations.
"If you ask me, people already laugh at each other too much, and it doesn't seem so bad to laugh at the little misfortunes, but laugh at the little things often enough and it makes it easier and easier for people to start to laugh at the medium-sized things and eventually the big things. Things that shouldn't be laughed at." As far as Ned's concerned, the road from humor at another's expense to outright cruelty is a very short one. He shrugs, poking at his omelette, offers the vague coda, "I guess I see it that way because in my life, more often than not, I'm the guy with the pie in his face."
At that, Digby, still curled on his bed in the corner, makes a small canine noise of agreement, resting his head on his paws and staring at the two of them. The brightness of his look and focus of his attention makes it seem uncannily as if he were listening in, but of course that would be impossible.
"Is it cheating if I ask you the same question?" Ned asks, because thinking about it for his own sake did make him curious what Ginsberg's response would be. He has to have one at the ready, doesn't he? To have asked the question in the first place?
Ginsberg eyes Digby almost suspiciously for a moment. It's impossible to think the dog is really listening in, isn't it, but he seems so very aware of the conversation going on around him that for a moment, he can almost believe that Digby is contributing to the conversation in his own way. Ridiculous, maybe, but then, unbelievable things happen all the time.
"I can't imagine anyone throwing pie at you," he replies, and he means it in both the literal and metaphorical sense. The idea of anyone disliking Ned seems laughable, but then, perhaps some of Ned's kindness comes from knowing exactly what it's like to have people be unkind to him.
"The best thing about me..." he muses. He doesn't have a ready answer, and he's not sure what other people would say if they were asked about him. His concern is that nobody would be able to come up with a response, because he seems to be struggling hard enough to come up for a response for himself. Self-esteem has never been his strong suit, either.
"This is probably cheating, but I think my best trait and my worst trait are the same: honesty. You've probably noticed I'm not very good at keeping my mouth shut when I have an opinion."
Ned gives Ginsberg a wordless look with raised eyebrows that seems to say well you're the only one who can't imagine it. He's under no illusions: he knows that his life could have been much, much worse. That on the total scale of human suffering, he's had a very tiny portion. But at the same time, he remembers every one of the bullies, the letdowns, the people who jeered in the face of his broken childish heart.
Like he'd said, he tries to take those experiences and use them to make himself better, gentler, kinder, more considerate. But there are times when he's aware of a cold sliver of anger in him that is incompatible with that mission. If he could eradicate it, he would, but no matter how firmly he shoves it aside, it remains, buried deep and ready to surface under the right conditions.
That is a part of himself that he likes much, at all.
"If being too honest is really your worst trait, sounds to me like you're a hell of a catch." He says it in a light, teasing voice, but at the same time, he means it. More softly, he adds, "I like that you speak your mind. I think it's admirable. Not everyone has such an easy time doing that." By which he very obviously means himself.
"Honestly, there're probably worse traits I have, too, but most people don't recognize their own worst traits. People say I'm rude, I'm thoughtless, I'm crazy..."
He shrugs and takes another bite. It's obvious he's heard those things so many times that they're practically part of the backdrop of his life, now. Completely unavoidable, but no longer as hurtful as they used to be. You get insulted enough times, you eventually stop listening to it. He'd been more sensitive as a kid, but these days, he didn't take things as hard as he used to. That didn't mean he wasn't unbearably soft-hearted, though. That much was already probably evident.
"Most people don't speak their minds," he agrees, and he knows Ned is referring to himself here, "But at least you're capable of being polite. I speak my mind too easily, with no thought about the consequences at all. And then I've said something, and, well, someone throws something at me. It's an endless cycle."
He does think that Ginsberg rattles through that list of traits quickly, like they are things he is used to hearing about himself. Interesting, too, that he frames it as accusations from outside. For all that Ned has been called bad things by others, they never managed to reach his levels of self-reproach.
"People can be wrong," Ned points out. In this case, he thinks they are. He could see Ginsberg being rude, but never in a malicious way. And thoughtlessness, well, everyone is bound to miss a detail here or there. As for crazy, that's just the insult that gets thrown at anyone who thinks for themselves, who doesn't conform perfectly.
"...you did practically give me a heart attack last night, when we were at the bar and you just looked right at me and asked if I was a homosexual," Ned admits, with a self-deprecating smile. "I thought you were gonna storm out or who even knows."
"Yeah, and the second I said it, I thought you were going to punch me, or make me two for two on the having food thrown at me front. I mean, I asked you because I wanted you to be, but that kind of question doesn't always translate with that intent so well. It would've been worse if I hadn't asked, wouldn't it? I mean, I never would have realized we were on a date. Unless you'd asked me if I was a homosexual. And I'm not sure how I would have answered it, because I'm not actually sure what I am. Is that possible? How do you know?"
That's a question that's been rattling around in his brain for a long time, too. It's not like there's anyone else to talk to about it. Anyone else at the office that he suspects of having those interests isn't someone he wants to talk to about it, and he definitely can't bring it up with his father. His father already suspected that he might not like girls, and that was bad enough. There'd been a couple other guys, guys he'd been interested in, but that had never gone anywhere, just like his dates with girls had never gone anywhere.
He pokes his omelette again, feeling a little embarrassed for that sudden outburst. Maybe another long sip of coffee will help him feel a little less silly.
"I'd have gotten the point across sooner or later. You just... simplified matters." Ned wouldn't have taken an approach that direct, but he's been with guys before. He knows some of the subtler ways to communicate about that kind of thing, the signals and innuendo. He kind of likes that none of it had been necessary, that they'd sailed right past it with such speed and (relative) ease.
"It's possible," Ned reassures. He knows all about not knowing what he is, in a variety of different ways. Ginsberg's restless playing with his food and uncomfortable demeanor don't surprise him all that much. He's been there, felt that. "I think a lot of people don't know. For me, anyway, I sort of stumbled into knowing by accident. I-" he stops, trying to think of the right way to put this, "-I don't know what it is, but there's something about me tends to attract a certain type of person. Really, um. Forward people, who know what they want and aren't afraid to pursue it. Sometimes it was women, and sometimes it was men. It never really made much difference to me."
Ned is the one staring intently at a dent in the table as he sips his coffee, now. He realizes that, particularly to someone like Ginsberg, that probably makes him sound some mix of promiscuous and weak-willed, maybe even desperate. He had been at times. Not desperate for sex so much as validation, affection in whatever form it was offered. He's not really in that place anymore, mentally, and he's glad of it. But talking about it does make him wince, a little.
"Well, that's one of the things I'm good at, simplifying matters. Either that or making them more complicated. I guess if I'd asked that and you hadn't been interested, things would have been a lot more complicated. I got the best possible outcome, I think."
And he's still amazed at how relatively smoothly it had gone. The whole time, he'd been convinced he was going to ruin something, say something inappropriate, drive Ned away for good, but Ned had enjoyed talking to him, and had enjoyed being intimate with him, too. That was unheard of, and it made him feel bizarrely attached to Ned, perhaps too attached.
He doesn't think Ned's comments make him sound promiscuous or weak-willed, but even if they did, he wouldn't judge him for it. There had been a time when he might have considered himself desperate, too, but it had never worked out. Now, he tries to take things as they come, and it seems to be going better, considering that he's sitting there with Ned, in his underwear, eating breakfast.
"I'm glad it's possible. I mean, I know it's possible, because obviously that's how it is for me, but knowing that it's possible for someone else. How old were you when you lost your virginity?"
Another one of those awkward, blurted, embarrassing questions. Dammit, and here he'd thought he was beyond that point.
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"I don't know how you like your coffee," he apologizes preemptively, "I mean, I don't really know a lot about you, actually. I'd like to. Know more, I mean. And yeah, you woke me up. Well, not exactly. I didn't wake up until I noticed you were gone, because I got cold. I guess I got used to you being there. But it's okay, it was time to get up anyway. Maybe I should go put some pants on."
It seems that the chattering tendency is still alive and well, even before he's had his morning coffee.
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Sipping at his mug, he eyes Ginsberg with appreciation. He's more awake, after his shower, and pleasant little memories from the night before are drifting through his head like a particularly dirty movie. Ned's glad he stayed the night, glad he's here this morning to have coffee and ramble at him in that nervous way of his. "I'd like to know more about you, too."
Because if Ginsberg had wanted this to be a one-off thing, Ned would be alright with that. Not happy, but... used to it. Resigned. The fact that he doesn't seem inclined in that direction, that he's not ashamed of himself or angry or condescending the next morning, are all marks in his favor.
"Breakfast?"
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Which, apparently, has him deciding that that doesn't mean he needs to put pants on, either. Ned doesn't seem to be complaining, in any case, and there's something oddly comfortable about being in the kitchen with Ned, casual like this, drinking their coffee and talking to each other. He doesn't know how he'd imagined it, but he'd somehow always thought that, after a night like that, he'd be asked to leave. For Ned not to kick him out, and for Ned to offer him breakfast, that puts a smile on his face.
"Yeah, breakfast sounds great. Thanks. And truthfully, you already know a lot about me. You've probably noticed that I have the tendency to share more than I should."
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"Come on, I don't know that much," he says, cracking eggs into a bowl and then setting to them with a whisk. "You live with your dad, you work in advertising and you love it, your coworkers are backstabbing neurotic alcoholics, you don't drink a lot, and you've had a lot of bad dates." He shrugs, starts dicing onions with quick, practiced strokes. "Hardly an overwhelming amount of information if you ask me."
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"Well, those're really the important things. What else is there? I've worked for a lot of companies for short periods of time, but I've been at the one I'm at for nearly two years and don't intend to get fired any time soon. I never went to college and never wanted to. My birthday's in December, and I'll be 24. I'm Jewish. I was born in Germany. I'm relatively convinced that I'm actually an alien, and that everything I know about my past is a lie. I can't pick one favorite color because I like all colors, but I guess I like pink and red the best. I've never owned a car, but I know the subway like the back of my hand. I failed chemistry in high school and had to retake it twice. I'm terrible at sports."
He grins at Ned, watching as Ned whisks the eggs and slices the onions, shrugging. "How's that? That's the thirty second summary of my life. Anything else you need to know about me?"
The information he provides is, as always, a strange combination of very personal details, and completely irrelevant facts about things he likes. It's hard, talking about himself to other people. People always stare at him like he's crazy, when he divulges that much at once, but hey, Ned had seemed curious.
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But he's managed to navigate the conversation nicely so that they're talking about Ginsberg and not him for now, and Ned's far more comfortable with that. He's known plenty of people who, in a conversation, would always chime in and make the topic personal or offer their own anecdote or one-up, but he's rather the opposite.
"Plenty of other things. I should write you a list. I think the most urgent one is going to be what do you want in your omelette?"
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If he notices that Ned doesn't take the opportunity to divulge more about himself, he doesn't mention it. That's not to say it escapes his attention entirely. He often sees far more than he ever lets on, and he's under the impression, somehow, that Ned isn't nearly as eager to share facts about his life. It doesn't bother him -- people handle their private affairs in different ways, and although he's curious about Ned's life, he's not going to push it. Let him say what he wants in time, or say nothing at all. It's his choice.
So he just offers up a smile at Ned's question, and shrugs. "Whatever you're putting in yours. I'm not picky. Onions are good. Mushrooms are good if you have them. Everyone likes cheese. That's the first question on your list answered."
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"Next question, I guess, is if you could do an ad for any product in the entire world, what would it be?"
He puts a pan on the stove and puts a small dab of butter in it, assembling in his mind what he could say about himself, what he wouldn't mind saying, what will make him sound like an interesting and worthwhile person. Because he wants Ginsberg to like him, doesn't want to scare him off or make his curiosity turn into scorn.
no subject
"Any product in the world..."
It's a good question. He really has to think about it, combing his fingers through his unruly hair as he does, then rubbing his chin thoughtfully. People don't usually ask him things like that. They ask him whether he likes his job, whether it's exciting to design ads for airlines or luxury cars, but they don't ask him what he wants to do.
"I've always liked doing ads for food. There's something satisfying about it, selling people something that'll actually make them happy and not just make them think they're happy. And there're less moral concerns with food than there are with luxury products. We do some ads for companies owned by Dow Chemical, and I hate it, because they contribute directly to making the war worse, but I still take the paycheck, so I'm not exactly innocent, either."
He shrugs. "Anyway. Food of any kind. Or something futuristic that hasn't even been invented yet. Time machines. Spaceships."
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Ned gives a little laugh at the 'time machines and spaceships' part of his answer, because who wouldn't want to write an ad for those? He likes Ginsberg's sense of imagination, thinks it sounds not incompatible with his own.
Which is why, even though he thinks of it as a calculated risk, Ned says, "I can't think of any more questions off the top of my head, so... I guess it's your turn."
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Those seem like important things to know about someone. Those are just the building blocks to learning who they really are as a person. But there're other questions, too, things he wonders about Ned in a more deep and intimate sense, and he figures he might as well tack those questions on, too.
"What was the first pie you ever made? Why pie and not cake -- why'd you decide to be the pie guy? If you could serve pie to anyone in the world, living, dead, famous, or unheard of, who would it be?"
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"24, turning 25 in November, so I'm a year older than you. I'm from a tiny town called Coeur d'Coeurs, originally. Nowhere near here and nowhere you'd have heard of. Favorite color is... green, I suppose."
Here the answers get a bit stickier, and he conveniently has to tend to the omelettes closely for a few seconds while he settles on what he'll say, "I don't remember what the first pie I ever made was, it's too long ago. As for the cake thing, I'm assuming you're looking for an answer other than pie is infinitely superior cake, thanks very much?" He turns a quick grin on Ginsberg. "Besides, technically, it's not like I can't make cake. I can. I went to pastry school, so I can make pretty much anything."
Ned folds the first omelette over on itself, flips it in the pan with ease. His reasons for being the pie guy are, though there's no way Ginsberg could know it, deeply intimate, so he settles on a fraction of the truth. "Pie's my favourite, and it's what I was always used to."
He slides Ginsberg's omelette onto a plate, offers it to him with a look of playfully deep contemplation, "Anyone in the world?" He thinks of various celebrities, dignitaries, but none of them is really the truth. A faint blush creeps across his cheeks and he says, "You. Sometime in the future. Because it'd mean seeing you again. Which I'd like. A lot."
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Is that too forward of a comment? Well, it doesn't matter, does it? He's already said and done far more forward things in the time he's spent with Ned, and he hardly thinks that a little bit of flirtation is going to make Ned get uncomfortable now. He's never been good at flirting, but nevertheless, Ned's responded well to his somewhat offbeat comments throughout the hours they've spent together. He likes that.
"Well, pie is definitely better than cake. I'd have accepted that as an answer, too." He looks at the omelette, smiling, then looks back up at Ned, smile growing wider. "And I like your answer about who you'd serve pie to. Because I'd like that too. A lot."
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Ginsberg's smile is infectious, and all of a sudden Ned's heart seems to have decided to beat a bit faster. "Good."
He turns to start making his own omelette, pink-cheeked and grinning from ear to ear. All of this has gone so much better than he would have imagined. If he stopped to think about it, he'd start to worry, wonder when that other shoe is going to drop. But for now, just for now, he wants to enjoy his unfettered, uncomplicated happiness. It makes him bold.
"Anything else?"
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He has to think, because Ned is offering him what he instinctively recognizes the rare opportunity to ask him personal questions, and there are so many things he wants to know about Ned that he doesn't even know where to start. Ned isn't an open book like Ginsberg is, he can see that much; they may have been very intimate the previous night, but that didn't mean that Ned was inclined towards being intimate in discussing himself.
It's easy to worry, to think about all the ways this could still go wrong -- he could still offend Ned, could still be kicked out and never see him again, someone could find out about it somehow and it could get back to his job or, worse, to his father, any number of things could happen -- but he tries to put that worry aside as he asks one more question.
"Yeah," he says, picking up a fork and taking a bite of his omelette, even though he knows it would be more polite to wait until Ned's eating, too. "What's your favorite thing about yourself? And you can't say pie. That's too easy."
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But the silence stretches painfully and he has to say something, "That's a hard question," he muses out loud. And now, even though he can think what he wants to answer, it's difficult to come up with phrasing that doesn't sound painfully arrogant. "I think I'm- at least, I try to be..." No, he's messing it up. Ned tries again, "I think... kindness is very important." He doesn't say that he's kind, but the implication is there, that it's something he strives towards, if nothing else.
He's glad his own omelette is done, now, because it means he can sit down and poke at it with his fork rather than look at Ginsberg at that moment.
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It isn't meant to be a meaningless compliment, but he thinks it sounds a little glib, the way he phrases it. Anyone can tell someone else that they're kind, and of course, he'd be incredibly rude not to say it. Ned has probably already noticed that Ginsberg doesn't care a whole lot for social convention, but he very much wants to make sure that his compliment and acknowledgement of Ned's kindness comes off as genuine, so after taking a few more bites of his omelette and a few more sips of his coffee, he tries again.
"People aren't usually as kind to me as you were. I mean, usually, if someone saw me get pie thrown in my face, they'd laugh at me. You actually talked to me. You took interest in me. That's more than I can say for 99.9% of people. So thanks."
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"If you ask me, people already laugh at each other too much, and it doesn't seem so bad to laugh at the little misfortunes, but laugh at the little things often enough and it makes it easier and easier for people to start to laugh at the medium-sized things and eventually the big things. Things that shouldn't be laughed at." As far as Ned's concerned, the road from humor at another's expense to outright cruelty is a very short one. He shrugs, poking at his omelette, offers the vague coda, "I guess I see it that way because in my life, more often than not, I'm the guy with the pie in his face."
At that, Digby, still curled on his bed in the corner, makes a small canine noise of agreement, resting his head on his paws and staring at the two of them. The brightness of his look and focus of his attention makes it seem uncannily as if he were listening in, but of course that would be impossible.
"Is it cheating if I ask you the same question?" Ned asks, because thinking about it for his own sake did make him curious what Ginsberg's response would be. He has to have one at the ready, doesn't he? To have asked the question in the first place?
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"I can't imagine anyone throwing pie at you," he replies, and he means it in both the literal and metaphorical sense. The idea of anyone disliking Ned seems laughable, but then, perhaps some of Ned's kindness comes from knowing exactly what it's like to have people be unkind to him.
"The best thing about me..." he muses. He doesn't have a ready answer, and he's not sure what other people would say if they were asked about him. His concern is that nobody would be able to come up with a response, because he seems to be struggling hard enough to come up for a response for himself. Self-esteem has never been his strong suit, either.
"This is probably cheating, but I think my best trait and my worst trait are the same: honesty. You've probably noticed I'm not very good at keeping my mouth shut when I have an opinion."
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Like he'd said, he tries to take those experiences and use them to make himself better, gentler, kinder, more considerate. But there are times when he's aware of a cold sliver of anger in him that is incompatible with that mission. If he could eradicate it, he would, but no matter how firmly he shoves it aside, it remains, buried deep and ready to surface under the right conditions.
That is a part of himself that he likes much, at all.
"If being too honest is really your worst trait, sounds to me like you're a hell of a catch." He says it in a light, teasing voice, but at the same time, he means it. More softly, he adds, "I like that you speak your mind. I think it's admirable. Not everyone has such an easy time doing that." By which he very obviously means himself.
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He shrugs and takes another bite. It's obvious he's heard those things so many times that they're practically part of the backdrop of his life, now. Completely unavoidable, but no longer as hurtful as they used to be. You get insulted enough times, you eventually stop listening to it. He'd been more sensitive as a kid, but these days, he didn't take things as hard as he used to. That didn't mean he wasn't unbearably soft-hearted, though. That much was already probably evident.
"Most people don't speak their minds," he agrees, and he knows Ned is referring to himself here, "But at least you're capable of being polite. I speak my mind too easily, with no thought about the consequences at all. And then I've said something, and, well, someone throws something at me. It's an endless cycle."
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"People can be wrong," Ned points out. In this case, he thinks they are. He could see Ginsberg being rude, but never in a malicious way. And thoughtlessness, well, everyone is bound to miss a detail here or there. As for crazy, that's just the insult that gets thrown at anyone who thinks for themselves, who doesn't conform perfectly.
"...you did practically give me a heart attack last night, when we were at the bar and you just looked right at me and asked if I was a homosexual," Ned admits, with a self-deprecating smile. "I thought you were gonna storm out or who even knows."
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That's a question that's been rattling around in his brain for a long time, too. It's not like there's anyone else to talk to about it. Anyone else at the office that he suspects of having those interests isn't someone he wants to talk to about it, and he definitely can't bring it up with his father. His father already suspected that he might not like girls, and that was bad enough. There'd been a couple other guys, guys he'd been interested in, but that had never gone anywhere, just like his dates with girls had never gone anywhere.
He pokes his omelette again, feeling a little embarrassed for that sudden outburst. Maybe another long sip of coffee will help him feel a little less silly.
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"It's possible," Ned reassures. He knows all about not knowing what he is, in a variety of different ways. Ginsberg's restless playing with his food and uncomfortable demeanor don't surprise him all that much. He's been there, felt that. "I think a lot of people don't know. For me, anyway, I sort of stumbled into knowing by accident. I-" he stops, trying to think of the right way to put this, "-I don't know what it is, but there's something about me tends to attract a certain type of person. Really, um. Forward people, who know what they want and aren't afraid to pursue it. Sometimes it was women, and sometimes it was men. It never really made much difference to me."
Ned is the one staring intently at a dent in the table as he sips his coffee, now. He realizes that, particularly to someone like Ginsberg, that probably makes him sound some mix of promiscuous and weak-willed, maybe even desperate. He had been at times. Not desperate for sex so much as validation, affection in whatever form it was offered. He's not really in that place anymore, mentally, and he's glad of it. But talking about it does make him wince, a little.
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And he's still amazed at how relatively smoothly it had gone. The whole time, he'd been convinced he was going to ruin something, say something inappropriate, drive Ned away for good, but Ned had enjoyed talking to him, and had enjoyed being intimate with him, too. That was unheard of, and it made him feel bizarrely attached to Ned, perhaps too attached.
He doesn't think Ned's comments make him sound promiscuous or weak-willed, but even if they did, he wouldn't judge him for it. There had been a time when he might have considered himself desperate, too, but it had never worked out. Now, he tries to take things as they come, and it seems to be going better, considering that he's sitting there with Ned, in his underwear, eating breakfast.
"I'm glad it's possible. I mean, I know it's possible, because obviously that's how it is for me, but knowing that it's possible for someone else. How old were you when you lost your virginity?"
Another one of those awkward, blurted, embarrassing questions. Dammit, and here he'd thought he was beyond that point.
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