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.
All in all, Ned thinks it was the best possible outcome for him, too. He's glad providing his perspective seems to be some small reassurance for Ginsberg. Ned thinks that one of the unexpected consequences of last night, particularly since it was Ginsberg's first time, is that he's feeling uncommonly protective, now. Wants to keep doing what he'd done before, guiding him through and making things as easy as possible.
When Ginsberg asks his rather abrupt question, Ned laughs, clearly surprised. Ginsberg doesn't say it in a way that sounds like he's passing any judgments, so he doesn't hesitate to answer, though it takes him a moment to think back and calculate how old he would have been at the time.
"Sixteen, just barely." It had been over the Christmas holidays, he remembers, after most rest of the boys disappeared to go back to their respective homes. He adds, in a meaningful sort of way, "Boarding school," as if this is explanation enough.
"See, I knew I should've gone to boarding school. My dad wouldn't let me. He never wants to let me out of his sight. From what I hear, people get up to all kinds of things at boarding school. At least, that's what I've been lead to believe. You're just corroborating that belief right now."
Of course, then he wouldn't have had his first experience be with Ned, and now that he looks back on it, he's awfully glad it was. He wonders if he's turning red again, just from thinking about it. It's hard not to, when he can picture it all so vividly in his mind, and when it had just happened so recently. He has to admit, too, that he's hoping to have the chance to do that -- or some variation of that, anyway -- again.
"I went to normal high school. Everyone was losing their virginities in the back seat of uncomfortable cars or on prom night or whatever it is normal kids do, and I was, well..." He shrugs, laughing, not looking bothered by it, not now that it's all a thing of the past. "You know. Doing what abnormal kids do."
He realizes that Ginsberg is mostly kidding, but he can't let him get the wrong impression, has to correct him right away, speaking quickly, "Oh, no, don't believe that, please. Your dad made the right call, boarding school is horrific. Better your dad never letting you out of his sight than a couple dozen teachers and priests never letting you out of theirs. And the 'things' that people get up to at boarding school are mostly just... vicious pranks and bullying and bullshit. You didn't miss out on anything, there."
It's a curious feeling, listening to Ginsberg talking about all those milestones, the common narrative of the American teenager. He might not volunteer this on his own, but it's different, if Ginsberg goes first. If, by talking about himself, he's offering a degree of solace or solidarity to a man that he really rather likes, so far. "I do know. I didn't do any of those things, either, or any of the things that normal kids did at Longborough- at the school where I grew up. I was about as abnormal as they came."
"I'm sure you're right about all of that. I think it's pretty common, though, to wish we'd had a different experience than we'd had, no matter how we grew up, right? Is anyone ever really satisfied with the things they did as a teenager?"
It's almost a rhetorical question. There have been times that he's thought he'd've been a lot happier if his dad had occasionally let him out of his sight, let him have a little bit of freedom, but in actuality, he's sure he would have been unhappy with whatever reality he'd lived. Maybe it's just in his nature, to be dissatisfied by things, or maybe that's in every teenager's nature. Things are better now, he feels more settled, even though he's pretty certain he doesn't want to live with his father forever.
"You were abnormal because you were nice. Are nice. That's a good kind of abnormal. People take advantage of that, I know, but better you be nice than the alternative. I didn't have any friends in high school. I don't have many friends now, either. If I were nicer, I might have had some."
He realizes, with some surprise, that he could probably count Ned as a friend now. It seems only fair, after all.
That is certainly one way of looking at it, and Ned's consoled himself with a similar thought process before now. Sure, he might have had a miserable and loveless span of teenage years, but if no one enjoyed it, that didn't make him completely different, did it? He finds it interesting that Ginsberg mind works in the same way, follows the same logical route.
"I was abnormal for a lot more than that," Ned mutters, but he doesn't elaborate any further. "I didn't have any friends at school. At least... not really. Not for long." There had been Eugene, for a little while, and he'd clung to even that failed example of friendship as a sign that it was possible, for him, if he was just careful enough. "And I don't think it's only down to niceness, because you keep saying I'm nice but I don't really have any friends now, either."
At this Digby perks up his head, makes a small noise of complaint in his throat. Ned, as if anticipating this, immediately says, "Digby, you don't count. I meant human friends." The dog, appeased in this finer point, lays his head down once more, staring up at them once more with soulful eyes.
"I was abnormal for a lot more than that, too," he says, seeing a certainly solidarity between the two of them, although of course he's not nearly as intimately familiar with Ned's oddnesses or lack of normalcy as he is with his own. He could give a long speech about all the ways he'd failed to be the normal person that his father had wanted, that his classmates had wanted, even that his work had wanted. "I was born abnormal. I don't actually know what normal is. I mean, I know it when I see it, but I know I'm not it."
He looks down at Digby, smiling slightly, marveling again at just how smart that dog is, how much he seems to understand human conversation, how Ned talks to him like he's a real person. It doesn't strike him as strange at all, really. If he had such an intelligent dog, he'd probably talk to him, to. To be fair, Ginsberg talks to everyone and everything, including inanimate objects.
"I can be a human friend. I mean, if you want. I mean, I'd like to be."
Born abnormal sounds about right, Ned thinks, though he doesn't say that aloud. Instead he just files it away, along with the bitter mental footnote that out of the pair of them, he is probably the more abnormal. Not that it is a competition, and he certainly wishes it weren't the case. He's simply failed to meet anyone in all his years who can top being born with an unexplained power over life and death. But Ginsberg doesn't need to know about that. No one does.
"You don't think abnormal can pass for normal? Given the proper amount of routines, and strategies, and attention to detail?"
An abstract kind of a question, for a simple piemaker, but he's curious to hear Ginsberg's answer. His offer to be Ned's friend makes him smile, radiantly. "I'd like that. I guess it only makes sense. Us abnormal kids should stick together."
"I do think abnormal can pass for normal. I think if you put on the right clothes, and never deviate from the right script, and pay attention to every little thing you do down to the way you breathe and the way you blink, abnormal can pass for normal. I spent a long time trying to do that. I was miserable. More miserable, I mean."
He takes another sip of his coffee, although it's cooling off quickly. "If you want people to think you're normal, you can. It just takes a lot of work. And I don't think the work's worth it. I may be a freak, I may be crazy, but if I hadn't been a crazy freak, I never would have met you, right?"
Because if he hadn't been a crazy freak, nobody would have thrown pie at him, and even if they had, he never would have been so talkative and bold with Ned. There's a sense of freedom in abnormality that he's only just started to embrace. For years, he'd tried desperately to fit in, despite feeling displaced wherever he went. Now he's started to accept that, perhaps, he's just not meant to fit in. Maybe Ned's like that too.
Ginsberg makes it sound so simple, to stop pretending and be comfortable in his skin. But Ned has already seen some of the qualifications to that narrative, the flashes of uncertainty and self-doubt in Ginsberg the night before, and this morning. It's not entirely possible, perhaps, for people like them to entirely own and accept who they are, give up the act and be happy and confident.
"It takes a lot of work to pass," he agrees, with the air of someone who does it on a daily basis, "but it takes a lot of bravery to decide not to."
Bravery that he doesn't currently have at the ready. He'll take the fear of being noticed - with its costumes and scripts and occasional despair - over the uncertainty of what might happen to him if he did start to own his freakishness. But he likes that Ginsberg doesn't. He's glad of it, and glad they met, and glad they are speaking like this. Glad enough that he caves into a moment of impulsiveness and leans across the small table, kissing Ginsberg quickly.
The smile that breaks across his face when Ned kisses him is nothing short of overjoyed, and he kisses him back quickly, barely unable to believe his luck. He feels oddly comfortable with Ned -- because for all his talk of being fine with not fitting in, he often has a hard time relating to people, but there isn't the same problem with Ned.
When he draws back from the kiss, the silly grin doesn't dim at all. "Can we do this again sometime? All of it, I mean. I don't know how to ask someone on a second date because I've never gotten that far but this is me trying to be brave and do my best."
Somehow, he thinks Ned will probably agree, but that doesn't stop him from feeling nervous as he asks.
"Anytime you'd like," Ned says, without a second of hesitation, grinning to match. He grabs a pen from a cup on the counter, jots something down on a napkin and pushes it across the table to Ginsberg. "My number," he explains, perhaps superfluously, "Or you can just come by the Pie Hole. I'm not a hard guy to find." He's there anytime the shop is open, after all, and it's open most of the time.
Ned finds himself hoping Ginsberg doesn't wait too long; he doesn't ask for his number, doesn't want to presume. It's probably easier this way, anyway. Calls to his workplace might seem suspicious - ad agencies probably have secretaries who would ask why he's calling. Calls to him home would probably be similarly frustrated by the fact that his father, from the sound of it, is a nosy type.
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no subject
"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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
"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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When Ginsberg asks his rather abrupt question, Ned laughs, clearly surprised. Ginsberg doesn't say it in a way that sounds like he's passing any judgments, so he doesn't hesitate to answer, though it takes him a moment to think back and calculate how old he would have been at the time.
"Sixteen, just barely." It had been over the Christmas holidays, he remembers, after most rest of the boys disappeared to go back to their respective homes. He adds, in a meaningful sort of way, "Boarding school," as if this is explanation enough.
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Of course, then he wouldn't have had his first experience be with Ned, and now that he looks back on it, he's awfully glad it was. He wonders if he's turning red again, just from thinking about it. It's hard not to, when he can picture it all so vividly in his mind, and when it had just happened so recently. He has to admit, too, that he's hoping to have the chance to do that -- or some variation of that, anyway -- again.
"I went to normal high school. Everyone was losing their virginities in the back seat of uncomfortable cars or on prom night or whatever it is normal kids do, and I was, well..." He shrugs, laughing, not looking bothered by it, not now that it's all a thing of the past. "You know. Doing what abnormal kids do."
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It's a curious feeling, listening to Ginsberg talking about all those milestones, the common narrative of the American teenager. He might not volunteer this on his own, but it's different, if Ginsberg goes first. If, by talking about himself, he's offering a degree of solace or solidarity to a man that he really rather likes, so far. "I do know. I didn't do any of those things, either, or any of the things that normal kids did at Longborough- at the school where I grew up. I was about as abnormal as they came."
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It's almost a rhetorical question. There have been times that he's thought he'd've been a lot happier if his dad had occasionally let him out of his sight, let him have a little bit of freedom, but in actuality, he's sure he would have been unhappy with whatever reality he'd lived. Maybe it's just in his nature, to be dissatisfied by things, or maybe that's in every teenager's nature. Things are better now, he feels more settled, even though he's pretty certain he doesn't want to live with his father forever.
"You were abnormal because you were nice. Are nice. That's a good kind of abnormal. People take advantage of that, I know, but better you be nice than the alternative. I didn't have any friends in high school. I don't have many friends now, either. If I were nicer, I might have had some."
He realizes, with some surprise, that he could probably count Ned as a friend now. It seems only fair, after all.
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"I was abnormal for a lot more than that," Ned mutters, but he doesn't elaborate any further. "I didn't have any friends at school. At least... not really. Not for long." There had been Eugene, for a little while, and he'd clung to even that failed example of friendship as a sign that it was possible, for him, if he was just careful enough. "And I don't think it's only down to niceness, because you keep saying I'm nice but I don't really have any friends now, either."
At this Digby perks up his head, makes a small noise of complaint in his throat. Ned, as if anticipating this, immediately says, "Digby, you don't count. I meant human friends." The dog, appeased in this finer point, lays his head down once more, staring up at them once more with soulful eyes.
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He looks down at Digby, smiling slightly, marveling again at just how smart that dog is, how much he seems to understand human conversation, how Ned talks to him like he's a real person. It doesn't strike him as strange at all, really. If he had such an intelligent dog, he'd probably talk to him, to. To be fair, Ginsberg talks to everyone and everything, including inanimate objects.
"I can be a human friend. I mean, if you want. I mean, I'd like to be."
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"You don't think abnormal can pass for normal? Given the proper amount of routines, and strategies, and attention to detail?"
An abstract kind of a question, for a simple piemaker, but he's curious to hear Ginsberg's answer. His offer to be Ned's friend makes him smile, radiantly. "I'd like that. I guess it only makes sense. Us abnormal kids should stick together."
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He takes another sip of his coffee, although it's cooling off quickly. "If you want people to think you're normal, you can. It just takes a lot of work. And I don't think the work's worth it. I may be a freak, I may be crazy, but if I hadn't been a crazy freak, I never would have met you, right?"
Because if he hadn't been a crazy freak, nobody would have thrown pie at him, and even if they had, he never would have been so talkative and bold with Ned. There's a sense of freedom in abnormality that he's only just started to embrace. For years, he'd tried desperately to fit in, despite feeling displaced wherever he went. Now he's started to accept that, perhaps, he's just not meant to fit in. Maybe Ned's like that too.
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"It takes a lot of work to pass," he agrees, with the air of someone who does it on a daily basis, "but it takes a lot of bravery to decide not to."
Bravery that he doesn't currently have at the ready. He'll take the fear of being noticed - with its costumes and scripts and occasional despair - over the uncertainty of what might happen to him if he did start to own his freakishness. But he likes that Ginsberg doesn't. He's glad of it, and glad they met, and glad they are speaking like this. Glad enough that he caves into a moment of impulsiveness and leans across the small table, kissing Ginsberg quickly.
"Right," he says.
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When he draws back from the kiss, the silly grin doesn't dim at all. "Can we do this again sometime? All of it, I mean. I don't know how to ask someone on a second date because I've never gotten that far but this is me trying to be brave and do my best."
Somehow, he thinks Ned will probably agree, but that doesn't stop him from feeling nervous as he asks.
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Ned finds himself hoping Ginsberg doesn't wait too long; he doesn't ask for his number, doesn't want to presume. It's probably easier this way, anyway. Calls to his workplace might seem suspicious - ad agencies probably have secretaries who would ask why he's calling. Calls to him home would probably be similarly frustrated by the fact that his father, from the sound of it, is a nosy type.
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