Ned thinks, without saying so, that he is exactly the kind of person who sits by and listens, who doesn't say anything and doesn't help. He'd never been under the impression that silence did help, but helping to fix things had never been high on his agenda. Not in that way, not in those kinds of situations. The priority is, simply put, to save as much of his skin as possible.
Holding his nose, he watches Ginsberg pacing back and forth, half expecting him to turn at any second and redirect all that rage at him: for questioning his judgement, for interfering, for who knows what. Ned's not always been the best at distinguishing generalized anger and anger that might be redeployed in his direction at any second.
Ned's not angry, though he is glad that Ginsberg let him have his space; he isn't sure he could have stopped himself from flinching, otherwise, and that might give the wrong impression. When Ginsberg apologizes, though, it starts an instant process of self-doubt in Ned. Ginsberg is probably right about this. It might have gotten them thrown out of the museum, but what he did was probably right, and what Ned did was merely cowardly.
"You did what you thought was right," Ned concedes, softly. He lifts a badly shaking hand (the one that's not bloody) to touch the already-swelling area around Ginsberg's eye, very softly. "We should get you some ice."
"I did what I thought was right, looked like an idiot, and got us kicked out of the museum. And got you punched in the face. I told you, I have no idea how to do this dating thing. None at all. It'd be laughable, except it's just pathetic. What does it matter if I'm willing to tell someone that what they said is ignorant and idiotic if it gets someone like you hurt, too? No matter what I do, I can't avoid causing harm."
He knows that he's impulsive, knows that he blurts things out without thinking about the consequences, but that's always been okay before, because it's always been simply himself that he's been endangering. In this case, though, he'd dragged Ned into the middle of something that had gotten him hurt. Doesn't that make him just as bad as anyone else? Worse, maybe, because he hadn't even been thinking about what might happen to Ned when he threw himself into the confrontation headfirst. He hadn't been thinking about anything except his own righteous anger.
"You need ice, too. We both need ice."
And he doesn't possibly feel like he can apologize enough, which is probably evident from the abashed look on his face. He doesn't think that what he said to that guy was wrong, believes his opinion is still the right one, the only one, but he feels now, especially seeing the blood on Ned's hand, that he could have approached it a different way.
"I didn't have to step in. It's my fault I got punched in the face, not yours." Logic which, to Ned, is perfectly reasonable. He thinks of it as taking responsibility for his own actions, like men are supposed to do. (There is, of course, very little that he can't reason out to be his fault, in the end).
Ginsberg is right about the ice, though. Ned gets to his feet, legs still shaking, but now steady enough to keep him upright. He saw a corner shop on the way here that will probably do; he is worried about Ginsberg's eye (and his own nose is none too comfortable). He's also worried about that shamefaced expression on Ginsberg's face, especially since he brought up his own rather bad track record with dates. It helps to shake Ned out of the bad moment, remind him why they'd been in the museum in the first place, why he'd woken up this morning so happy he could hardly get out of bed.
"Okay, maybe not the best date ever so far, but it's only," he checks his watch, "a quarter past eleven. I think we have time to save it, don't you?" He smiles, and it's a little dimmer than usual, but genuine.
But he can't shake off the whole thing that quickly, and the smile slips from him a few seconds later. There's something digging at his thoughts, like a thorn, and he asks abruptly, "Do you think I hurt him?"
At Ned's question, he shakes his head emphatically. "I think he hurt both of us a lot worse than you hurt him. You might have startled him a little. He'll be fine, he'll just keep being pissed off at the two of us for the rest of the day. He's probably talking about us right now, about kids these days, that kind of thing. He didn't seem hurt."
And he's not just saying that because he doesn't want Ned to worry about it. He, too, is loathe to cause injury to anyone, and that's part of the reason he's never been good at fighting, because the very idea of hurting someone is almost alien to him. He likes that Ned's concerned about it, that even after being punched in the face he can worry about whether he'd hurt someone else.
Maybe that's part of the reason he offers Ned a smile, and it's a broad smile, and not at all a phony one. "The next thing we do, I promise I won't get us kicked out of anywhere. You can choose what we do, and I can try to salvage the mess I've made of this." He wants to put his arm around Ned, partially to steady him, because he can see that he's still shaky, partially for the sake of feeling comforted by his presence, but they're outside, and he doesn't like the idea of people watching them, so he keeps his hands to himself.
That answer reassures Ned; he doesn't think Ginsberg would lie to him, and the thought that he might have hurt the man - however belligerent and ignorant he was - in front of his wife and kids was making Ned's stomach churn. He's starting to calm down: the walking helps, as does Ginsberg's smile.
"The museum was fun while it lasted," Ned points out, with the air of helping him salvage what he can, "I mean, I was never under the impression that dinosaurs were small, but actually seeing the bones up close is kind of extraordinary." He doesn't know why, in his years of living in New York, he hasn't just gone and seen some of these wonderful things on his own. "Maybe... a different museum? There's more than one of them, right?"
They've reached the corner store now. When she sees Ned with his bloody face and hands, the young woman behind the counter points in the direction of the small bathroom in the back without needing to be asked. Ned says he'll be right back, disappears for a minute or two to clean himself up. When he emerges he's washed off most of the blood (though there are a couple flecks on the white cuff of his sleeve that he'll deal with later) and looks not all that much worse for wear.
"You're going to have a real shiner," Ned points out to Ginsberg, as he goes in search of frozen peas.
"Sure, there're a lot of museums," he replies, "and with any luck, I won't get us kicked out of them. When I was a little kid, my dad used to take me to the museums, to try to give me some kind of cultural education. I never really understood the art, especially the modern art, but I liked it. The dinosaurs were my favorite, though. I used to pretend that I could go back and time and really see them in person, even though they'd eat me. I'm pretty sure one of my first words in English was 'dinosaur,' come to think of it. Museums were always more fun than going to school, so sometimes my dad let me do that instead."
Having chattered on for probably far too long, he's almost surprised when they arrive at the corner store, but glad that Ned's able to go get cleaned up. While Ned's in the bathroom, he wanders around the place, wondering if the woman at the cash register is assuming that he's the one that had given Ned a bloody nose, and trying not to look suspicious or harmful in any way.
When Ned comes back, he nods, walking towards the frozen food, half of him not wanting to bother to ice his eye, but knowing it'll be better in the long run if he does. "I know," he says, shrugging, smiling, not looking bothered. "I'll just pretend I got in a fight I actually won."
Ned likes listening to Ginsberg telling stories about himself as a kid. It's a way to get to know more about him and, quite frankly, they're heartwarming. He has a half-formed picture of it in his mind, even though he hasn't any idea what Ginsberg's father looks like - the two of them staring at baffling works of non-representational art, going to see the dinosaurs afterwards. Ginsberg as a small child, with his overactive imagination, daydreaming of pteranodons.
(It hasn't escaped Ned's notice that Ginsberg's never mentions having a mother, but he's hardly the person to ask about that. The absence of mention tells him plenty, if not the exact details.)
"You can regale your coworkers with tales of valor," Ned suggests, bringing two bags of the peas to the counter and paying for them while the young woman gives the two of them a knowing look.
As they walk back out to the street Ned admits, with more than a touch of reluctance and embarrassment, "You know, you're going to think I'm a complete philistine, but I'm not sure I've ever been to an actual art museum." He probably would be blushing now, were it not for the bag of frozen peas that he's pressing to the center of his face. "I've seen famous paintings in books and all that, but never..." he trails off, with a shrug.
"You're right, I think you're an absolute philistine. I have no idea how I
can even be seen in public with someone so uncultured."
He really tries to keep a straight face as he says it, but the bag of
frozen peas he's pressing against his eye makes it a little difficult to
take anything particularly seriously, and before the sentence is even out,
he's laughing, shaking his head.
"Do you want to go to an actual art museum? You're in the right place if
you do. Seriously, pick any building around here, and there's at least a
sixty percent chance that it's some kind of museum. Do you like classical
or modern art? Or both? Or neither? Because no matter what you like, I'm
pretty sure we can find a place that'll educate you all about art you won't
really understand, but will probably like looking at."
He gestures expansively to the street around them, and then to Central
Park, one of the entrances to which is close by. "If we cut through the
park, we can go to the Met. Classical sculptures, a bunch of portraits, and
the best part is that I've never once been punched or even threatened
there."
That surprises a laugh out of Ned and he readily agrees, "Excellent. Let's go to that one." As for being seen in public with one another, he's sure that two grown men wandering the streets of New York with bags of frozen peas pressed to their faces are bound to look disreputable. They only draw a few glances, however. That's something Ned's noticed, in his time living in the city. People have so much to do, so many ways to occupy themselves, that they don't have the energy to be too nosy about complete strangers.
Though part of him wants to forget all about the fight (as much as he can, bloodied nose aside), but at the same time, he feels compelled to ask, "You do that a lot? Get threatened and punched?"
On the one hand, Ned can't imagine how he could not, if he's always that primed for confrontation. Violence seems inevitable. But Ned also can't imagine how Ginsberg could continue to be so brash and so outspoken, if he had been punched often enough. In his experience, the more someone got bullied, the better they got at learning to avoid situations where it might happen.
He knows the park well enough that he hardly has to pay attention as they wander through it. As a kid, he'd gotten lost in Central Park several times, but somehow, he'd always enjoyed it. Those twisting, turning paths, and the sense that you could come across something new and unusual every time you explored, that had always appealed to him. As an adult, it's much more difficult to get lost, and he doesn't want to try to get lost now -- that's probably another thing you're not supposed to do on a date -- but he still appreciates the park, nevertheless.
At Ned's question, he nods slightly, taking the bag of peas off of his eye for a moment, finding that it's become uncomfortably cold if he holds it there too long. "I get threatened a lot. I get ignored a lot. I get punched less than you'd think, but that's because when it comes right down to it, most people aren't actually willing to get into fistfights about that kind of thing. But yeah, this isn't exactly my first black eye, and it's not going to be my last, either."
He's sure Ned has noticed, by now, that he has a terrible inability to keep his mouth shut. He'd never exactly been bullied as a child, but he'd also never developed the desire to avoid confrontational situations, despite the fact that he was a terrible fighter, when it came right down to it.
Ned may not have been in any of the fine museums that New York has to offer, but he's certainly familiar with Central Park. Digby has adjusted to the city, but Ned knows how unhappy he would be if they didn't make it to the park at least once a week, so he could run and roll in the grass and greet the various other dogs of the city.
Ginsberg is just so blase about getting hit in the face that he makes Ned feel a bit ashamed of himself for making such a big deal of it. Perhaps he really is too paranoid, should grow up and accept that altercations - occasional ones - are just a part of life. He doesn't think he could ever manage Ginsberg's level of bravery (and foolishness), though. Ned doesn't have it in him.
"So there's at least a chance your father won't automatically assume that I'm a terrible influence?"
He shakes his head, pressing the bag of frozen peas back to his face. "He won't assume you're a terrible influence. He'll assume that I've been getting myself into trouble, as usual, which is why he needs to keep such a close eye on me, because if he doesn't know what I'm doing or where I am every hour of every day, I'll get seriously injured or die. He's convinced that I'm going to wander out into traffic and get hit by a bus because I'm too absentminded, or get murdered by someone who decides they've had enough of my contradictoriness and resorts to violence beyond just punching me. And I think he can imagine that because I was a pain in the ass as a kid -- still am, I guess, just a little less juvenile about it -- and I'm sure he imagined murdering me more than once. Not literally. Figuratively. He's a weird guy, but he's not actually a murderer."
Just in case that needed to be clarified, apparently. Speaking of being absentminded, he's so busy looking at Ned as he walks and talks that he nearly runs into a bench. Walking with a bag of peas over your eye and not looking where you're going apparently isn't a great combination in terms of depth perception, especially for someone like Ginsberg who's already more than a little clumsy.
"But I'd be okay with you being a bad influence. In other ways, I mean. That was meant to be flirtatious but I don't think it worked."
At least he had the good sense to say that a little more quietly than his normal speaking voice, but he's just come to accept that all his attempts at flirtation are, by and large, failures.
That level of paternal overprotectiveness is completely unfamiliar to Ned, and yet he thinks he can understand it, as someone who constantly plays out worst case scenarios in his own head. True, his worst-case scenarios never result in him being quite so controlling over another person's life, but if he had a kid (and that's a terrifying thought in its own way), he has the sneaking suspicion that if he didn't watch himself, he might end up that exact same kind of a father. And there's something to be said for imagining a smaller, brattier version of Ginsberg. If this is the toned-down version, well...
Ned only just sees Ginsberg swerving to avoid the bench at the last possible moment, grins at it. He doesn't think of it as absent-minded so much as impassioned. Ginsberg just gets to caught up in the things he's saying that his surroundings seem less important.
"Oh. Well, I'm happy to be that kind of a bad influence," he answers, voice also dipping in volume, and there's a sparkle to his eyes when he smiles that's decidedly unwholesome. Ned wishes, wishes that he could stop in his tracks right there, grab Ginsberg and kiss him hard, dip him backwards like some kind of debonair man from a movie. But of course, that's not the way things work. Even if they weren't in public, would he have the courage for that kind of suave move? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe.
He grins at Ned's comment, and it'd be hard to blame the way his cheeks
turn a little pinker entirely on the cold October air, even if it is pretty
chilly out. "Maybe you can influence me in that way after the museum. Maybe
you'll be inspired by the art."
Inspired by the art to do unwholesome things? It's entirely possible.
They're almost across the park by now, and Ginsberg is glad for it, because
from the way he shoves his free hand into the pocket of his voluminous
plaid jacket, he's getting cold, and the bag of frozen peas isn't helping
matters much. He's sure there's already a visible swelling around his eye,
and that the bruise will be showing up within the next couple of hours. He
kicks a pile of leaves, just for the hell of it, liking the way they
flutter back to the ground after he disrupts them -- there has to be an
idea for an ad in that image, doesn't there?
Finally, when they reach the museum, he cuts in front of Ned none too
gracefully, but since he's doing it for the sake of paying for both of
their admission to the museum, he hopes Ned doesn't find him too
unbearably awkward. Grabbing a museum map and stuffing the bag of peas into
his pocket after he notices the man at the admissions booth raising his
eyebrow, he unfolds the map and holds it out to Ned questioningly.
"Okay. What do you wanna see first? I have personal favorites, but I'm
gonna let you choose, because everything's good, and you haven't seen any
of it."
Inspired by the art, well, that's at least a line Ned's never heard before. He doesn't say anything in response to that proposal, but he does meet Ginsberg's eyes (is that a blush he spots>), grinning and raising his eyebrows in a way that makes his enthusiastic agreement clear enough.
He's glad that Ginsberg seems quite wrapped up in the movements of the leaves that he sends scattering in all directions and through the air. It means he's less likely to notice the way Ned dodges to the side, away from the flurry of dead leaves, as if he were allergic to them. Which, in a way, he is. For certain definitions of 'allergic'. He's not having a repeat of the Eugene incident, thanks very much. There are many reasons why autumn is Ned's least favourite season, and this is definitely one of them.
Ned almost objects to Ginsberg paying for both the tickets, but in the end he lets him do it, tells himself that he'll pay for the next date. Then he thinks that it's probably a bad sign he's also thinking of a next date as a certainty. Not bad because he doesn't want it to happen, but bad because he does. Badly. What happened to his strategy of not getting his hopes up so no one could possibly let him down?
He follows Ginsberg's example and stuffs the peas into his jacket pocket, hoping they don't get it too soaked as they continue to melt. When Ginsberg tells him to choose where they are going first he finds himself oddly shy. Why if he suggests something that Ginsberg thinks is too plebian, or too unimportant, or...
But he screws up his courage, points to a particular room on the map.
"I always liked Tolouse-Lautrec," he admits, since it is one of the names listed for that particular section of the museum.
Even if Ginsberg were to take notice of Ned's avoidance of the leaves, he wouldn't think anything of it. Not everyone likes having leaves kicked at them, after all, and some people are allergic. He's too busy watching the patterns they make to notice the way Ned shies away from them, though, and once they're in the museum, he's not thinking about leaves at all, because, in his characteristic exuberance, he's already thinking about all the art he wants to see.
At Ned's selection, he nods eagerly, and starts off in that direction quickly. He knows the museum fairly well, although it changes from year to year, depending on the exhibits. "Good choice," he says, "That's not something I can get punched about. I don't think. Maybe I shouldn't underestimate my ability to get punched for just about anything."
And art can be a controversial subject, he knows. On the way to the room of Ned's choosing, he slows down to look at the Greek and Roman statues that are on display in some of the hallways. Gesturing at them, he smiles. "My problem with sculpture is that I always want to touch it," he admits, although he's obviously capable of restraining himself from doing so. "It just seems like I'd get a better understanding of what the artist was going for if it were all interactive like that."
"Yeah..." Ned agrees, absently, though he doesn't share quite the same impulse. It is strange to him, though, being in the proximity of objects that he knows are so ancient. He feels all of a sudden very small, very insignificant. It's a nice feeling, though. Quite a few of the placards inform him of who the statues depict - dryads and heroes and goddesses.
"I used to love Greek myths when I was a kid," he admits, snapping out of his reverie and turning a small smile towards Ginsberg, "Well, any myths I could get my hands on, really. The library at school wasn't exactly big, and the didn't have anything that had been written in the last fifty years or so in there, and most of the stuff was pretty boring, but... myths weren't. Everything in them is so much larger than life."
But what is he doing, rambling on about something so inane? Ned stops himself, biting the inside of his bottom lip, keeps walking with Ginsberg.
If he thinks Ned's rambling is inane, he certainly doesn't show it, and instead, turns a smile on him in return, nodding. "I liked myths, too. I'm not sure I'd want to live in one -- bad stuff always happens to people who defy the gods in old myths, right, and I'd definitely be the guy who defied the gods -- but they're fun to read about. I did a lot of reading as a kid. That probably doesn't surprise you. I bet you did, too."
Because he remembers that Ned had said that he, too, hadn't talked much as a child, and he always somehow imagines that people who don't talk much as children, the way he'd been himself, had probably spent a lot of their time in books or otherwise ensconced in their imaginations. To some extent, he'd always lived in an imaginary world; he'd just expanded it to include advertising, when he'd needed to get a job.
"I never know what to think about paintings," he says, moving from the room full of sculptures to the room Ned had indicated he wanted to go to, shrugging expressively. "I admire people who can paint. I can't. I mean, I can storyboard stuff for ads, but that's not real art. I'm just not sure I understand painting. I can look at something and see what they're painting, but not why, you know? Like that one..."
He points randomly at a painting close to them. "It probably has some kind of symbolism, right? Do you get it?"
Ned can't help but laugh when Ginsberg says he wouldn't fare well in a myth, because he's That Guy who would sass the gods. Ned isn't sure who he'd be, in a mythical setting, but he thinks he might do better in some ways. Not because people typically did all that well in myths (and he certainly doesn't fit the type of the kind of guy who did), but because at least freaks were explicable in myths. If one day you realized you could just touch dead things and bring them back to life, chances were you were actually a demigod and your mother never told you. How easily ancient civilizations explained the unexplainable.
Not that he's going to explain any of that to Ginsberg. Instead he just says, "Yeah, I did read a lot."
When Ginsberg starts asking him about symbolism Ned feels put on the spot. He looks at the painting in question again, wonders if he's missed something. "It's... just a portrait, right?" It must be a trick question. Ginsberg is testing him, or teasing him. "It doesn't always have to have a hidden meaning behind it. Maybe... sometimes people just wanted their kids and grandkids to know what the looked like when they were young. Like a photograph, only they hadn't invented it yet."
At Ned's comment, he looks back at the painting, frowning slightly. "So it's not an allegory for..." He gestures helplessly, trying to come up with what the portrait could possibly be an allegory for, but he's fresh out of good ideas. "Okay, maybe you're right," he concedes, studying the painting intently, as though by staring at it long enough it will impart some kind of meaning to him beyond the obvious. "It might just be a painting. But people always act like art is so..."
Another gesture, wider this time, expansive, as though he's gesturing to the whole room at once. "People act like art is so above all of us. Like artists see something we don't, And maybe they do, who knows? You're kind of an artist, right? I mean, cooking is art, in a way. Does that mean you're better at understanding human nature than the rest of us, or something?"
He likes to think someone out there understands human nature; the prospect that nobody knows why people do the things they do is a bleak one indeed.
Ned nods, because he knows what Ginsberg is talking about. He'd actually, for a moment or two, expected him to be one of those people, to judge him for just liking what he thought was beautiful and not really looking for anything more complicated than that. Ned's willing to entertain the notion that there are more layers of meaning in some works of art, he's just never seen the appeal in leaving people to puzzle them out on their own. Why did it have to be a challenge? So that there could be an in-crowd and an out-crowd, so that the elitism was built into the art itself? That's not the kind of art he enjoys at all.
"I'm not an artist," Ned says, though it's with a little laugh. "Baking is baking, and art is art. They might both involve making something, but the result is completely different. I mean. Art's supposed to last, right? That's the whole point. It's supposed to be something that goes on after the artist is gone and their name is on a plaque. It's about preserving. But... cooking can't last. Food goes bad. Sure, you can pass on recipes and techniques and traditions, but as for the pie itself, you've got to eat it while it's hot."
He has an endless capacity for pie-related wisdom, Ginsberg. You have only scratched the surface.
"As far as human nature goes, I'm not exactly an expert. I know that people with low blood sugar get cranky. I know that some people always order the same things and other people don't. I know that there are people who hate when people watch them eat and people who can't stand hearing other people eat. I know that everyone likes pie, and anyone who doesn't shouldn't be trusted."
He listens to what Ned says, practically rapt with attention. There's something so appealing about the way Ned talks about pie, and he knows that that's because it's what Ned loves to do, that he has a passion there that allows him to speak so eloquently. After Ned finishes speaking, he's quiet for a minute, just thinking about what he's said, and then he shrugs. "That sounds like a whole lot of knowledge about human nature to me. At least, it's more than what I know. I know that people are confusing, and frustrating, and that people find me just as confusing and frustrating as I find them. And I also know you're right -- people who don't like pie shouldn't be trusted, they're probably up to something suspicious."
He keeps walking through the room as they talk, never pausing in front of one painting for too long, simply taking in what he finds aesthetically pleasing and moving on. He'll stop if Ned wants to, but he doesn't always see the purpose in gazing at art for a prolonged period of time, doesn't think he'll learn anything new or groundbreaking from trying to puzzle out what it all means. There are ways that he's elitist, too, he knows, but when it comes to art, he's anything but. If something's good to look at, then that's all that matters, in his opinion. He likes that Ned seems to think this way, too, yet they can both enjoy being here, looking at the art, being unpretentious about it. It's a nice change.
When they reach one painting, though, at the very end of the room, he stops in front of it, gazing at it far more intently than he's gazed at any of the rest so far. "This one's my favorite," he says, although maybe he doesn't need to say it, from the way he's looking at it. It's a portrait of a dark-haired woman, one that might not seem particularly striking, but there's obviously something about it that he likes. He looks at the woman in the portrait again, who has a sort of wry, unimpressed expression on her face, and then at Ned.
"I used to come here and look at this one and imagine that that's what my mother looked like. I wouldn't know, really. It's just a fantasy. But that's why it's my favorite, anyway. Is that weird? I'm pretty sure that's weird."
Ned notices the intensity of Ginsberg's attention, has seen the way he's seemed to anticipate coming to this particular painting in his body language as they approached. The first thing he thinks is that he likes it: the woman looks interesting, animated, as if she's about to open her mouth and say something at any moment. There's a kind of life to certain portraits, a way of capturing personality in the lines and color of the face that Ned likes but doesn't understand.
Then he hears what Ginsberg says and he can feel his heart beat a bit faster, knows this must be a delicate topic and he should proceed with caution.
"I don't think it's weird," Ned says, quietly, seriously. He looks at the portrait again, with this new information, wonders what it was about this one in particular that convinced Ginsberg as a child to grant it that particular meaning. Perhaps he shouldn't push any further, but he's not the one who introduced the topic, so perhaps he can venture a little further.
"You don't have a picture?" It's a neutral question, as far as he's concerned. Not asking what happened to her - if she abandoned him or died, or whatever else. Not asking how he feels about it, not asking for a story if he doesn't want to tell one. And, Ned realizes after he says it, it makes sense to him as a question, because he has a picture of his mother. Just one. But it's something that he treasures.
"No," he says, and it's an uncharacteristically taciturn answer for him, who's usually prone to going on at such length at any question posed to him. It's not as though he doesn't plan on saying more, it's just that he has to take another long moment to study the portrait, to memorize the expression on the woman's face, as though it really is a portrait of his mother, and not some portrait of a rich woman he's never heard of.
His attention is finally drawn away from the portrait and back to Ned, and he shakes his head, as though reaffirming the answer he'd just given moments before. "She died when I was little. Sometime between the time I was born and the time I was five months or so, I guess. There aren't any photos. I mean, maybe there are, somewhere, but I don't have them."
He's aware that he's letting Ned into what must seem like a very personal side of his life, but it seems only natural to him, that he explain himself fully to Ned. There's no sense hiding any of the facts about where he comes from, and he doesn't necessarily feel that he can miss his mother when he'd never known her to begin with. Still, there's something that keeps him coming back to this painting, and he looks at it again, briefly, then back to Ned, smiling slightly. "She must have been good-looking, though. At least, I like to think so. Why not, right? I can make her whatever I want her to be, since she doesn't really exist."
That answers a few questions, for Ned. He knows better than to ask how, though he feels a brief pang of curiosity (followed, naturally, by a wake of brief but intense self-loathing). It seems strange to him that Ginsberg wouldn't know the exact date when she died, but then, maybe his father doesn't like to talk about it.
"She must've been, to have you." A line which would probably come out flirtatious, in a different situation, with a different person. Ned just states it in the manner of a logical fact. He thinks he can see why the younger Ginsberg fixated on this picture. She doesn't look unlike him, and there's a quirk to her expression that reminds him of Ginsberg, a little. He wonders if he unconsciously modeled it off the painting, or if it is a coincidence.
He can see why Ginsberg would think of her as a person who doesn't even exist, if he remembers nothing about her, if their lives only overlapped for a few months and he doesn't even know something as basic as when she died. Ned wonders which is worse - to have never known a mother, or to know one briefly and lose her.
And since Ginsberg has shared this thing with him, Ned feels like he ought to reciprocate. He doesn't have to, he knows. But he might as well trade the skeletal framework of the story. It's much less intimate than what Ginsberg's done, by showing him this picture, by letting Ned into his thoughts like that.
"Mine... died when I was nine." There's an almost imperceptible hesitation as he says it. It's easy enough by now to recite the rote fact of it. He's had to do it often enough, for enough crass and pushy questioners, that he can get it ought without undue struggle.
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Holding his nose, he watches Ginsberg pacing back and forth, half expecting him to turn at any second and redirect all that rage at him: for questioning his judgement, for interfering, for who knows what. Ned's not always been the best at distinguishing generalized anger and anger that might be redeployed in his direction at any second.
Ned's not angry, though he is glad that Ginsberg let him have his space; he isn't sure he could have stopped himself from flinching, otherwise, and that might give the wrong impression. When Ginsberg apologizes, though, it starts an instant process of self-doubt in Ned. Ginsberg is probably right about this. It might have gotten them thrown out of the museum, but what he did was probably right, and what Ned did was merely cowardly.
"You did what you thought was right," Ned concedes, softly. He lifts a badly shaking hand (the one that's not bloody) to touch the already-swelling area around Ginsberg's eye, very softly. "We should get you some ice."
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He knows that he's impulsive, knows that he blurts things out without thinking about the consequences, but that's always been okay before, because it's always been simply himself that he's been endangering. In this case, though, he'd dragged Ned into the middle of something that had gotten him hurt. Doesn't that make him just as bad as anyone else? Worse, maybe, because he hadn't even been thinking about what might happen to Ned when he threw himself into the confrontation headfirst. He hadn't been thinking about anything except his own righteous anger.
"You need ice, too. We both need ice."
And he doesn't possibly feel like he can apologize enough, which is probably evident from the abashed look on his face. He doesn't think that what he said to that guy was wrong, believes his opinion is still the right one, the only one, but he feels now, especially seeing the blood on Ned's hand, that he could have approached it a different way.
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Ginsberg is right about the ice, though. Ned gets to his feet, legs still shaking, but now steady enough to keep him upright. He saw a corner shop on the way here that will probably do; he is worried about Ginsberg's eye (and his own nose is none too comfortable). He's also worried about that shamefaced expression on Ginsberg's face, especially since he brought up his own rather bad track record with dates. It helps to shake Ned out of the bad moment, remind him why they'd been in the museum in the first place, why he'd woken up this morning so happy he could hardly get out of bed.
"Okay, maybe not the best date ever so far, but it's only," he checks his watch, "a quarter past eleven. I think we have time to save it, don't you?" He smiles, and it's a little dimmer than usual, but genuine.
But he can't shake off the whole thing that quickly, and the smile slips from him a few seconds later. There's something digging at his thoughts, like a thorn, and he asks abruptly, "Do you think I hurt him?"
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And he's not just saying that because he doesn't want Ned to worry about it. He, too, is loathe to cause injury to anyone, and that's part of the reason he's never been good at fighting, because the very idea of hurting someone is almost alien to him. He likes that Ned's concerned about it, that even after being punched in the face he can worry about whether he'd hurt someone else.
Maybe that's part of the reason he offers Ned a smile, and it's a broad smile, and not at all a phony one. "The next thing we do, I promise I won't get us kicked out of anywhere. You can choose what we do, and I can try to salvage the mess I've made of this." He wants to put his arm around Ned, partially to steady him, because he can see that he's still shaky, partially for the sake of feeling comforted by his presence, but they're outside, and he doesn't like the idea of people watching them, so he keeps his hands to himself.
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"The museum was fun while it lasted," Ned points out, with the air of helping him salvage what he can, "I mean, I was never under the impression that dinosaurs were small, but actually seeing the bones up close is kind of extraordinary." He doesn't know why, in his years of living in New York, he hasn't just gone and seen some of these wonderful things on his own. "Maybe... a different museum? There's more than one of them, right?"
They've reached the corner store now. When she sees Ned with his bloody face and hands, the young woman behind the counter points in the direction of the small bathroom in the back without needing to be asked. Ned says he'll be right back, disappears for a minute or two to clean himself up. When he emerges he's washed off most of the blood (though there are a couple flecks on the white cuff of his sleeve that he'll deal with later) and looks not all that much worse for wear.
"You're going to have a real shiner," Ned points out to Ginsberg, as he goes in search of frozen peas.
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Having chattered on for probably far too long, he's almost surprised when they arrive at the corner store, but glad that Ned's able to go get cleaned up. While Ned's in the bathroom, he wanders around the place, wondering if the woman at the cash register is assuming that he's the one that had given Ned a bloody nose, and trying not to look suspicious or harmful in any way.
When Ned comes back, he nods, walking towards the frozen food, half of him not wanting to bother to ice his eye, but knowing it'll be better in the long run if he does. "I know," he says, shrugging, smiling, not looking bothered. "I'll just pretend I got in a fight I actually won."
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(It hasn't escaped Ned's notice that Ginsberg's never mentions having a mother, but he's hardly the person to ask about that. The absence of mention tells him plenty, if not the exact details.)
"You can regale your coworkers with tales of valor," Ned suggests, bringing two bags of the peas to the counter and paying for them while the young woman gives the two of them a knowing look.
As they walk back out to the street Ned admits, with more than a touch of reluctance and embarrassment, "You know, you're going to think I'm a complete philistine, but I'm not sure I've ever been to an actual art museum." He probably would be blushing now, were it not for the bag of frozen peas that he's pressing to the center of his face. "I've seen famous paintings in books and all that, but never..." he trails off, with a shrug.
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"You're right, I think you're an absolute philistine. I have no idea how I can even be seen in public with someone so uncultured."
He really tries to keep a straight face as he says it, but the bag of frozen peas he's pressing against his eye makes it a little difficult to take anything particularly seriously, and before the sentence is even out, he's laughing, shaking his head.
"Do you want to go to an actual art museum? You're in the right place if you do. Seriously, pick any building around here, and there's at least a sixty percent chance that it's some kind of museum. Do you like classical or modern art? Or both? Or neither? Because no matter what you like, I'm pretty sure we can find a place that'll educate you all about art you won't really understand, but will probably like looking at."
He gestures expansively to the street around them, and then to Central Park, one of the entrances to which is close by. "If we cut through the park, we can go to the Met. Classical sculptures, a bunch of portraits, and the best part is that I've never once been punched or even threatened there."
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Though part of him wants to forget all about the fight (as much as he can, bloodied nose aside), but at the same time, he feels compelled to ask, "You do that a lot? Get threatened and punched?"
On the one hand, Ned can't imagine how he could not, if he's always that primed for confrontation. Violence seems inevitable. But Ned also can't imagine how Ginsberg could continue to be so brash and so outspoken, if he had been punched often enough. In his experience, the more someone got bullied, the better they got at learning to avoid situations where it might happen.
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At Ned's question, he nods slightly, taking the bag of peas off of his eye for a moment, finding that it's become uncomfortably cold if he holds it there too long. "I get threatened a lot. I get ignored a lot. I get punched less than you'd think, but that's because when it comes right down to it, most people aren't actually willing to get into fistfights about that kind of thing. But yeah, this isn't exactly my first black eye, and it's not going to be my last, either."
He's sure Ned has noticed, by now, that he has a terrible inability to keep his mouth shut. He'd never exactly been bullied as a child, but he'd also never developed the desire to avoid confrontational situations, despite the fact that he was a terrible fighter, when it came right down to it.
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Ginsberg is just so blase about getting hit in the face that he makes Ned feel a bit ashamed of himself for making such a big deal of it. Perhaps he really is too paranoid, should grow up and accept that altercations - occasional ones - are just a part of life. He doesn't think he could ever manage Ginsberg's level of bravery (and foolishness), though. Ned doesn't have it in him.
"So there's at least a chance your father won't automatically assume that I'm a terrible influence?"
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Just in case that needed to be clarified, apparently. Speaking of being absentminded, he's so busy looking at Ned as he walks and talks that he nearly runs into a bench. Walking with a bag of peas over your eye and not looking where you're going apparently isn't a great combination in terms of depth perception, especially for someone like Ginsberg who's already more than a little clumsy.
"But I'd be okay with you being a bad influence. In other ways, I mean. That was meant to be flirtatious but I don't think it worked."
At least he had the good sense to say that a little more quietly than his normal speaking voice, but he's just come to accept that all his attempts at flirtation are, by and large, failures.
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Ned only just sees Ginsberg swerving to avoid the bench at the last possible moment, grins at it. He doesn't think of it as absent-minded so much as impassioned. Ginsberg just gets to caught up in the things he's saying that his surroundings seem less important.
"Oh. Well, I'm happy to be that kind of a bad influence," he answers, voice also dipping in volume, and there's a sparkle to his eyes when he smiles that's decidedly unwholesome. Ned wishes, wishes that he could stop in his tracks right there, grab Ginsberg and kiss him hard, dip him backwards like some kind of debonair man from a movie. But of course, that's not the way things work. Even if they weren't in public, would he have the courage for that kind of suave move? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe.
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He grins at Ned's comment, and it'd be hard to blame the way his cheeks turn a little pinker entirely on the cold October air, even if it is pretty chilly out. "Maybe you can influence me in that way after the museum. Maybe you'll be inspired by the art."
Inspired by the art to do unwholesome things? It's entirely possible. They're almost across the park by now, and Ginsberg is glad for it, because from the way he shoves his free hand into the pocket of his voluminous plaid jacket, he's getting cold, and the bag of frozen peas isn't helping matters much. He's sure there's already a visible swelling around his eye, and that the bruise will be showing up within the next couple of hours. He kicks a pile of leaves, just for the hell of it, liking the way they flutter back to the ground after he disrupts them -- there has to be an idea for an ad in that image, doesn't there?
Finally, when they reach the museum, he cuts in front of Ned none too gracefully, but since he's doing it for the sake of paying for both of their admission to the museum, he hopes Ned doesn't find him too unbearably awkward. Grabbing a museum map and stuffing the bag of peas into his pocket after he notices the man at the admissions booth raising his eyebrow, he unfolds the map and holds it out to Ned questioningly.
"Okay. What do you wanna see first? I have personal favorites, but I'm gonna let you choose, because everything's good, and you haven't seen any of it."
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He's glad that Ginsberg seems quite wrapped up in the movements of the leaves that he sends scattering in all directions and through the air. It means he's less likely to notice the way Ned dodges to the side, away from the flurry of dead leaves, as if he were allergic to them. Which, in a way, he is. For certain definitions of 'allergic'. He's not having a repeat of the Eugene incident, thanks very much. There are many reasons why autumn is Ned's least favourite season, and this is definitely one of them.
Ned almost objects to Ginsberg paying for both the tickets, but in the end he lets him do it, tells himself that he'll pay for the next date. Then he thinks that it's probably a bad sign he's also thinking of a next date as a certainty. Not bad because he doesn't want it to happen, but bad because he does. Badly. What happened to his strategy of not getting his hopes up so no one could possibly let him down?
He follows Ginsberg's example and stuffs the peas into his jacket pocket, hoping they don't get it too soaked as they continue to melt. When Ginsberg tells him to choose where they are going first he finds himself oddly shy. Why if he suggests something that Ginsberg thinks is too plebian, or too unimportant, or...
But he screws up his courage, points to a particular room on the map.
"I always liked Tolouse-Lautrec," he admits, since it is one of the names listed for that particular section of the museum.
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At Ned's selection, he nods eagerly, and starts off in that direction quickly. He knows the museum fairly well, although it changes from year to year, depending on the exhibits. "Good choice," he says, "That's not something I can get punched about. I don't think. Maybe I shouldn't underestimate my ability to get punched for just about anything."
And art can be a controversial subject, he knows. On the way to the room of Ned's choosing, he slows down to look at the Greek and Roman statues that are on display in some of the hallways. Gesturing at them, he smiles. "My problem with sculpture is that I always want to touch it," he admits, although he's obviously capable of restraining himself from doing so. "It just seems like I'd get a better understanding of what the artist was going for if it were all interactive like that."
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"I used to love Greek myths when I was a kid," he admits, snapping out of his reverie and turning a small smile towards Ginsberg, "Well, any myths I could get my hands on, really. The library at school wasn't exactly big, and the didn't have anything that had been written in the last fifty years or so in there, and most of the stuff was pretty boring, but... myths weren't. Everything in them is so much larger than life."
But what is he doing, rambling on about something so inane? Ned stops himself, biting the inside of his bottom lip, keeps walking with Ginsberg.
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Because he remembers that Ned had said that he, too, hadn't talked much as a child, and he always somehow imagines that people who don't talk much as children, the way he'd been himself, had probably spent a lot of their time in books or otherwise ensconced in their imaginations. To some extent, he'd always lived in an imaginary world; he'd just expanded it to include advertising, when he'd needed to get a job.
"I never know what to think about paintings," he says, moving from the room full of sculptures to the room Ned had indicated he wanted to go to, shrugging expressively. "I admire people who can paint. I can't. I mean, I can storyboard stuff for ads, but that's not real art. I'm just not sure I understand painting. I can look at something and see what they're painting, but not why, you know? Like that one..."
He points randomly at a painting close to them. "It probably has some kind of symbolism, right? Do you get it?"
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Not that he's going to explain any of that to Ginsberg. Instead he just says, "Yeah, I did read a lot."
When Ginsberg starts asking him about symbolism Ned feels put on the spot. He looks at the painting in question again, wonders if he's missed something. "It's... just a portrait, right?" It must be a trick question. Ginsberg is testing him, or teasing him. "It doesn't always have to have a hidden meaning behind it. Maybe... sometimes people just wanted their kids and grandkids to know what the looked like when they were young. Like a photograph, only they hadn't invented it yet."
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Another gesture, wider this time, expansive, as though he's gesturing to the whole room at once. "People act like art is so above all of us. Like artists see something we don't, And maybe they do, who knows? You're kind of an artist, right? I mean, cooking is art, in a way. Does that mean you're better at understanding human nature than the rest of us, or something?"
He likes to think someone out there understands human nature; the prospect that nobody knows why people do the things they do is a bleak one indeed.
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"I'm not an artist," Ned says, though it's with a little laugh. "Baking is baking, and art is art. They might both involve making something, but the result is completely different. I mean. Art's supposed to last, right? That's the whole point. It's supposed to be something that goes on after the artist is gone and their name is on a plaque. It's about preserving. But... cooking can't last. Food goes bad. Sure, you can pass on recipes and techniques and traditions, but as for the pie itself, you've got to eat it while it's hot."
He has an endless capacity for pie-related wisdom, Ginsberg. You have only scratched the surface.
"As far as human nature goes, I'm not exactly an expert. I know that people with low blood sugar get cranky. I know that some people always order the same things and other people don't. I know that there are people who hate when people watch them eat and people who can't stand hearing other people eat. I know that everyone likes pie, and anyone who doesn't shouldn't be trusted."
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He keeps walking through the room as they talk, never pausing in front of one painting for too long, simply taking in what he finds aesthetically pleasing and moving on. He'll stop if Ned wants to, but he doesn't always see the purpose in gazing at art for a prolonged period of time, doesn't think he'll learn anything new or groundbreaking from trying to puzzle out what it all means. There are ways that he's elitist, too, he knows, but when it comes to art, he's anything but. If something's good to look at, then that's all that matters, in his opinion. He likes that Ned seems to think this way, too, yet they can both enjoy being here, looking at the art, being unpretentious about it. It's a nice change.
When they reach one painting, though, at the very end of the room, he stops in front of it, gazing at it far more intently than he's gazed at any of the rest so far. "This one's my favorite," he says, although maybe he doesn't need to say it, from the way he's looking at it. It's a portrait of a dark-haired woman, one that might not seem particularly striking, but there's obviously something about it that he likes. He looks at the woman in the portrait again, who has a sort of wry, unimpressed expression on her face, and then at Ned.
"I used to come here and look at this one and imagine that that's what my mother looked like. I wouldn't know, really. It's just a fantasy. But that's why it's my favorite, anyway. Is that weird? I'm pretty sure that's weird."
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Then he hears what Ginsberg says and he can feel his heart beat a bit faster, knows this must be a delicate topic and he should proceed with caution.
"I don't think it's weird," Ned says, quietly, seriously. He looks at the portrait again, with this new information, wonders what it was about this one in particular that convinced Ginsberg as a child to grant it that particular meaning. Perhaps he shouldn't push any further, but he's not the one who introduced the topic, so perhaps he can venture a little further.
"You don't have a picture?" It's a neutral question, as far as he's concerned. Not asking what happened to her - if she abandoned him or died, or whatever else. Not asking how he feels about it, not asking for a story if he doesn't want to tell one. And, Ned realizes after he says it, it makes sense to him as a question, because he has a picture of his mother. Just one. But it's something that he treasures.
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His attention is finally drawn away from the portrait and back to Ned, and he shakes his head, as though reaffirming the answer he'd just given moments before. "She died when I was little. Sometime between the time I was born and the time I was five months or so, I guess. There aren't any photos. I mean, maybe there are, somewhere, but I don't have them."
He's aware that he's letting Ned into what must seem like a very personal side of his life, but it seems only natural to him, that he explain himself fully to Ned. There's no sense hiding any of the facts about where he comes from, and he doesn't necessarily feel that he can miss his mother when he'd never known her to begin with. Still, there's something that keeps him coming back to this painting, and he looks at it again, briefly, then back to Ned, smiling slightly. "She must have been good-looking, though. At least, I like to think so. Why not, right? I can make her whatever I want her to be, since she doesn't really exist."
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"She must've been, to have you." A line which would probably come out flirtatious, in a different situation, with a different person. Ned just states it in the manner of a logical fact. He thinks he can see why the younger Ginsberg fixated on this picture. She doesn't look unlike him, and there's a quirk to her expression that reminds him of Ginsberg, a little. He wonders if he unconsciously modeled it off the painting, or if it is a coincidence.
He can see why Ginsberg would think of her as a person who doesn't even exist, if he remembers nothing about her, if their lives only overlapped for a few months and he doesn't even know something as basic as when she died. Ned wonders which is worse - to have never known a mother, or to know one briefly and lose her.
And since Ginsberg has shared this thing with him, Ned feels like he ought to reciprocate. He doesn't have to, he knows. But he might as well trade the skeletal framework of the story. It's much less intimate than what Ginsberg's done, by showing him this picture, by letting Ned into his thoughts like that.
"Mine... died when I was nine." There's an almost imperceptible hesitation as he says it. It's easy enough by now to recite the rote fact of it. He's had to do it often enough, for enough crass and pushy questioners, that he can get it ought without undue struggle.
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Shall we call this a wrap, then~