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.
He smiles a little at Ned's comment, because it's amazing that something like that could come off as not flirtatious, considering the words, but Ned obviously means it honestly, and that's nice. It's not the kind of hollow thing that most people say, nor is it an attempt at changing the subject or lightening up the topic at all, which he appreciates, too. He knows that he can make people uncomfortable, the way he shares personal things, the way he's not afraid to tackle dark subjects, but so far, Ned hasn't seemed to shy away from that.
Somehow, it doesn't surprise him when Ned says that his mother had died, too, although he's not sure why it strikes him as making sense. Maybe it had been that Ned had never mentioned any family at all, despite the fact that Ginsberg had talked about his father several times throughout their conversations. Maybe it just took one member of the unlucky absent or dead parent club to know one. He thinks it must be much harder to be in Ned's shoes, to have known his mother for nine years -- and nine years seemed like an eternity when you were young, he remembers -- and then to have her gone.
"That must be hard," he says, and it's certainly not pity in his voice as he says it, just bare fact. "Hard in a different way, I mean. You knew her, so you know what you're missing. I never had one, not really, and nobody could ever tell me anything about her, so I have no idea what I'm missing. It's probably harder for you. You can't go into a museum and pick a random portrait and decide it's your mother. I'm not trying to make you feel worse about it, it's just an observation. I'm sorry."
It will doubtless sink in for Ned later that the situation must be slightly different than he'd been assuming, if no one can tell Ginsberg anything about his mother - not even his father. But he doesn't quite think to puzzle through that inconsistency just yet; he just accepts what Ginsberg says is true and tries to imagine how he would have turned out if he had never even had his mother in his life. After all, she's been so important to him, in so many different ways. He tries to be like her (and to be unlike his father), to keep her memory alive in the way he lives his life.
But he's not sure what he's supposed to say to Ginsberg. Yes, it was hard? Without noticing himself doing it, his hands have curled into loose fists at his sides Ginsberg might not be trying to make him feel worse, but he's sadly failing. Ned has to exert a certain effort not to think about how hard it was (and still is), about exactly the kind of woman he's missing, and worst, why he's missing her. At least he's not gushing sympathy or asking a million questions. Ned can appreciate that.
"It's not a competition," he says, simply, then quickly follows it with, "She looks so... impatient," because turning the conversation abruptly back to the painting will hopefully signal to Ginsberg that he's not particularly keen on discussing his own mother's death, "Like he's asked her to stand there holding this flower and she thinks it's the dumbest idea she's ever heard."
He laughs and nods, picking up on how very little Ned seems to want to talk about his own mother, and filing that information away for later. He may be blunt and rude at times, but he knows when not to push a topic of conversation, and the last thing he wants is for Ned to feel bad, especially after he's already been punched in the face.
"That's why I like it, I think. Most portraits are pretty boring, because the people don't look like they have any life to them. I like it when they have their own personalities. It makes it easier to tell a story about them. But I guess I'm looking at it like a copywriter, too, always looking for the story."
With one more glance towards the painting, he heads towards the next room, apparently having decided that the best way to avoid the topic Ned doesn't want to discuss is to go to an entirely different painting. He shoves his hands back into his jacket pockets and immediately regrets it when he inadvertently grabs the bag of frozen peas, which is soaking wet by now. "In case you were wondering," he says, pulling his hand out of his pocket and shaking the water off of it ruefully, "I'd advise against putting your hands in your pockets. These things have completely melted."
Ned follows Ginsberg out of the room, though he takes one last look at that painting, over his shoulder. Ginsberg is right, though; leaving the room, just moving in general, helps him to dislodge his mind from the edge of the rather perilous emotional swamp it had been skirting. He smiles at Ginsberg's mistake, suggests, "Maybe we should find somewhere to throw them away..."
But before he can search for a trash can he experiences the strange jolt of seeing a painting on the wall that he recognizes. Everything that he's seen until now has been beautiful but unfamiliar to him. It's quite different however, to see the something and realize he's seen it before, but printed in a book. He says, "Oh!" in a pleasantly surprised way, turning to look once more. It's somehow smaller than he would have expected. One thinks of these things as monumental, somehow.
"Yeah, there're trashcans all over the place. I'm pretty sure I've iced my eye as much as I possibly can without freezing it off." And, true to Ned's prediction, he is developing quite the bruise. It's already darkening, more purple than red now, and it's going to be blatantly obvious for a couple days. In terms of how it looks, Ned's fared a lot better -- his nose isn't quite as awful looking as it could be, although it's still evident he's been punched in the face.
When Ned turns around to look at the painting, he can't help but smile at Ned's surprise and how pleased he sounds about it. He looks at the painting, too, nodding. "Does it look like you would have imagined it did? I mean, I know sometimes people're disappointed by seeing stuff in the museum, because they've got this idea of how it should look from the reproductions of it they've seen, so I hope this one doesn't disappoint you."
It's strange, how he's almost taking on personal responsibility for Ned's feeling about the painting, and desperately hoping that it doesn't disappoint him, but then, he's always been good at taking on feelings like that.
"It's not disappointing," Ned says, taking a small step closer, slowly, as if it were a living thing and he was trying to be respectful of its personal space. "It's different. You can see the paint standing out, it's not... flat, like it is when you're just seeing a picture."
He turns to Ginsberg then, sees him watching intently and smiles, a little shyly, "That's probably a completely tedious and obvious thing to notice, isn't it?" But Ginsberg hasn't laughed at him yet. Not today, not the last time they'd been together, either. That's... nice. That's something Ned could see himself getting used to, in time.
"I don't think it's tedious and obvious. A lot of people don't even notice that. They just look at it and realize that it's not as large or exciting as they imagined it would be and decide that they'd rather stick to looking at pictures of paintings, because they can do that for free and not have to go to the museum. I like seeing them in person, because it's easier to imagine someone actually painting them. The artist actually touched that painting, and made it the way it is."
Somehow, that's significant to him, although he's not sure he can explain why. For all of his talkativeness, he doesn't always understand the things that are coming out of his mouth, even while he's saying them. Thus far, though, Ned hasn't told him to shut up, or been overly confused by anything he says, and he appreciates that. There's something relieving about not being questioned all the time, about being able to say what comes to mind without feeling as self-conscious as he usually does.
"I know what you mean," Ned murmurs. He thinks maybe that is important to Ginsberg because of what he does for a living, because he is the one behind so many recognizable things, thinking them up, making them with his wits and his hard work. Ned knows that he hadn't ever really thought about the people who make ads, before he met Ginsberg, but he should have. Nothing come from nowhere, after all. Everything has an origin, a history.
He moves on from the painting with a last look, wandering around the room with his hands clasped behind his back, quietly enjoying himself. He doesn't say much more for a while, but his enjoyment is obvious enough. Ned's never been the best at keeping what he thinks and feels from showing on his face, and he likes this. It's so much less pressure than he's used to on a date. More like what he'd always imagined it would be like - less of a contest or interrogation, and just two people having a good time together.
After some time, they wander into a room in which all but one or two of the paintings are of Biblical scenes - particularly gruesome ones, it seems to Ned, all martyrs and crucifixions. He can't help it; he laughs, says, "I'm sensing a pattern, here."
As they wander the room, his eyes are on Ned as much as they're on the
paintings. He's seen all of these paintings before, but he's never seen
Ned's reactions to them, and he likes how animated Ned's face is, the way
he lights up when he sees something he likes, how obviously he's enjoying
himself. As someone who wears his heart on his sleeve far more than he
should, he can appreciate it from Ned, secure in his knowledge that Ned
won't judge or belittle him. It's comforting.
When they step into the room full of Biblical scenes, he can't help but
laugh, too, and he's glad he's not the only one. "Yeah," he says, looking
around, shaking his head, "There's definitely a pattern. A theme, even.
See, I've always thought that this is part of the reason religion fucks
people up -- look at how violent all of it is. Little kids see this stuff,
and I'm pretty sure it gives them nightmares."
It's only after he says it that he realizes that, perhaps, he shouldn't be
so quick to dismiss religion, because he has no idea of Ned's feelings
about it. "Not that all religion's bad, I just think some of this stuff..."
he gestures to the paintings, "... is pretty gruesome and dark for people
to be seeing every day."
Ned can practically see Ginsberg backpedaling and rushes to reassure him, "Don't worry, I'm not religious, at least, not anymore. I used to be, but that was a long time ago, and I agree with you anyway." And that answers the question he hadn't asked: whether Ginsberg is a man of particular faith or not. Of course, there's still the possibility that he is, but something about the way he immediately jumped from 'oh look a room of religious paintings' to 'reasons why I think religion fucks people up' seems to be a good indicator.
They are passing by a particularly sordid and gory rendering of souls burning in hell, which Ned wrinkles his nose at, just for a moment. "Mostly agree. It's not that it's dark, exactly. Life's dark. So I get why religion would reflect that. Life's dark, so you have to... have to work at it, to make it light. I think if people focused more on how to do that and less on the..." he nods his head towards the painting, "...'mess up and you'll be tortured forever' side of things, it'd be a different story."
As they pass by the painting that Ned wrinkles his nose at, Ginsberg goes one step further in expressing his displeasure with it by actively turning away from it, look of disgust on his face. If he's at all ashamed of displaying his visceral reaction to the painting in such an obvious way, he doesn't indicate it; he's never had a problem with sharing his feelings, whether they be positive or negative, and they're overwhelmingly negative here.
"That's sick," he says, and he's obviously talking about the painting. "Sure, life's dark. We all deal with that every single day. But the people who came up with the idea of hell were seriously disturbed, I think, and not just in the way a lot of us are seriously disturbed. I mean, who sat down and really thought that the punishment for doing some shitty things in your life should be... that? It makes me want to throw up."
It bothers him on a level he can't quite articulate, but then, violence of any kind always has, even on an artistic level. He knows it's not real, but that doesn't stop it from being sickening, in his opinion. Maybe it's juvenile to be so obviously affected by a stupid painting, but he is, and he can't hide it. That's why he'd always preferred looking at the paintings that didn't have anything to do with religion, and that's why he's glad that the room they're passing into next is moving away from that kind of thing.
Ned sees how intense Ginsberg's reaction is - how could he miss it really? - and glances back at the picture in mild bemusement. It hadn't occurred to him, that it might be disturbing to someone. He knows that in some ways, he is desensitized to violence. Not the kind of violence that they'd encountered earlier, with fists flying and the active danger of being hurt. But a different kind: to its fictional incarnations, or what it leaves behind.
"It is pretty sick," he agrees, joins Ginsberg in walking away from the painting and towards the exit of the room, to one that contains landscapes. Lovely, intricate, calm landscapes. Ned feels a touch guilty, seeing how bothered Ginsberg is, wants to make him feel more normal for reacting so extremely.
"You're right though. About the kids and nightmares and all. I used to have nightmares about going to hell. All the time. But then I realized it was all scare tactics and bullshit made up by a bunch of desperate people with sick imaginations trying to pretend they got to decide what was right and what was wrong, and it didn't frighten me so much."
He knows they are in public, knows he has to limit any contact between the two of them, but there's no one else in the room, so he sets his hand against the small of Ginsberg's back, just for a few seconds, to steady him, to reassure him, and to apologize for drawing his attention to it in the first place.
"None of us are going to hell, no matter what we do. Because hell's right here, you know? We're in it. I think people made up hell to feel like there could be somewhere worse than the place we are, but there isn't. There's just right here, right now, and all we can do is try to deal with the fact that shit happens, and most of it isn't fair."
He knows that he's too worked up, and he actively tries to calm down as they step into the next room. The landscapes are good, if a little boring -- they provide a calming backdrop to the emotions that are raging inside of him. He's never been good at sitting down and shutting up, and he's not good at it here, either, especially not when Ned's proven to be such a nonjudgemental listener.
The hand on the small of his back doesn't hurt, either, and he tosses a grateful smile at Ned, because he's always found comfort in physical contact, always craved it, and never quite had enough of it from people he really wants it from. The fact that Ned's willing to give it is nothing short of a miracle, if he believed in miracles. "Anyway," he says, back to his usual, relatively sunny self, "You probably think I'm crazy for hating those paintings so much, and I guess on an aesthetic level I kind of appreciate them, because it must take a lot of talent to paint something like that, but I wish they'd use their talent on something like this. Landscapes. That can't offend anyone, right?"
Ned wants to believe that, wants to believe that it's all a lie, that there's no one in the sky watching and judging everything he does, that there's no eternity of fire waiting for him after he dies for things that were beyond his control. Most of the time he does believe it, or at least, he tells himself he does. But Ginsberg, from the sound of it, really does believe it. Is firm in his conviction that there's no afterlife, no other place, just here and now.
Ned wonders (in the way that he always does with new people, as he starts to get to know them) how he'd react if he found out that life and death isn't as simple as he has been told. Would he revise his opinion on life on death, on hell and whether Ned belongs there?
"I don't think you're crazy," Ned says in a voice that is particularly warm, though low, in case anyone should happen to come in and overhear them, "I think it's a good thing they upset you. I mean- it's not a good thing you're upset. That's not what I meant." Now he's the one tripping over his words, awkwardly navigating his way towards his original point, "I meant... if more people were like you and hated them, I think, the world would be a better place."
"As far as I'm concerned, I am crazy. Maybe not about that. And being crazy's okay, I think. I think we're all a little crazy. I know I couldn't do my job if I weren't. Still, I appreciate your reassurances, because I think you're probably right -- if people hated this kind of thing like I do, maybe everything wouldn't be so violent. Maybe we wouldn't be in a war right now."
He thinks about the war a lot. It keeps him up at night sometimes, knowing that at any moment, his number could be up, and he could be shipped off to some foreign country to kill people he had no interest in killing. He knows that could happen to the guys he works with, too, or even to Ned, and it both angers and scares him. To him, the fact that people have always seemed so enamored with violence is concerning.
"On the other hand, if more people were like me..." He shrugs expressively, his gestures large and free as always. "Well, if more people were like me, there'd be a lot less people getting things done in the world. I mean, I can write ads. That's what I can do. I couldn't run a country, or do anything actually productive. I couldn't even bake a pie, probably."
If Ginsberg wants to call himself crazy, Ned hasn't got a problem with that. He knows he has the capacity in him to be more than a little crazy, himself, though he's mostly succeeded at keeping it out of sight, for the time being. At least, if that's Ginsberg's philosophy, and he really sticks to it, maybe he won't leave immediately when he stumbles across any of Ned's less rational thought processes.
Ned's not exactly thrilled with the idea of the war either, that he might get swept up in it at any moment, but his solution is to think about it as little as possible, to take that gnawing fear and unease and shove it into the most out of the way corner of his mind he can.
"You could bake a pie," Ned says, confidently, "I could teach you."
"Yeah, you probably could. You seem like you'd be good at teaching that kind of thing. Or maybe I just think that because I think you're cute."
He leans a little closer to say this, somewhat surprised at his own daringness, but meaning it fervently, nevertheless. It's not like him to be actively flirtatiously, mostly because he's almost always convinced that his flirtation will go dreadfully wrong, but they're alone in this room together, and somehow, he doesn't think Ned will protest at how forward he's being. If anything, Ned seems to appreciate that forward nature, the way he doesn't usually think before speaking, so he doesn't even bother to try to reign it in.
"I think I'll probably leave the baking to you, though. I don't wanna embarrass myself."
"I used to teach classes. When I was saving up to open my own place. It was all housewives and teenage girls with moms who want them to be housewives and the occasional guy hoping to impress a girl he wanted to be his housewife, but..." he shrugs, and his cheeks are hot from that compliment (he likes that Ginsberg thinks he's cute, says he's cute, because it's something Ned has heard plenty of times before, but almost always with an agenda, with strings attached, with connotations that made the words go sour).
"You couldn't possibly be worse than some of the people I've taught." He means it, too. There's a certain shyness, but also a certain enthusiasm in the way he suggests, "Maybe we could do that next time?" If there is a next time, which he wants there to be.
"Oh, I'm pretty sure I could be worse than everyone you've taught. I'm hopeless at that kind of thing. I'd make an awful housewife. I can't even sew on a button. I mean, I try, and it's passable, but I'll never be good at it. I'd like to learn from you, though. Yeah, next time, you can show me how."
And it makes him wonder what he could possibly teach Ned in return, because as far as he's concerned, Ned knows far more useful things than him. Advertising isn't a talent one can teach, and not necessarily something Ned would want to learn, anyway. And beyond that, he doesn't have talents, at least, not as far as he can tell.
"I'd offer to teach you something, too, but what could you possibly want to learn from me? I'm learning everything from you, not the other way around. I mean, I'm not complaining about that. I like what I've learned from you."
And yes, he means that in every way possible, including the suggestive ones, which is obvious from the pink tinge to his cheek as he says it, because his mind has gone to a decidedly inappropriate place.
Ned catches the suggestive undertones of that, and they make him grin, half-laughing and looking around although there's no one to hear them. He might worry that he's being bossy or pushy or acting like a know-it-all, but Ginsberg doesn't seem to mind his offer too much, so he doesn't worry. And that's a big thing.
That flush on Ginsberg's cheek really is charming, sends Ned's mind back to other times, when his face had been red for slightly different reasons, and he's clearing his throat and saying, in a downright whisper, "You know, I really wish I could kiss you right now." He's not going to try, obviously. Ned's hardly bold, hardly a risk-taker. But if he can't kiss Ginsberg, he's going to damn well tell him that's what is on his mind, "I would. If... you know. Circumstances."
After a brief pause, Ned says, "You want to uh. Go back to my place for a bit?" He feels a bit forward, suggesting it himself, but it's nice to be the one doing it for once. That he wants to. Ned's not so used to that. He feels practically obligated to add a brief, "I could teach you some more..." but he says it in a way that's so embarrassed it almost cancels out the inherent lewdness.
If Ned thought Ginsberg's grin couldn't grow any bigger, he'd've been mistaken, because there it is, that far too delighted expression on his face, like just the suggestion brings him great delight, which, to be fair, it does. "I'd like to kiss you, too," he says, whispering it in return, wishing he could say it a lot louder, wishing he could shout it as loud as he possibly could, because doing anything quietly defies his very nature.
Ned's proposition makes him laugh, but it's not a laugh of derision or even amusement, it's just a laugh of complete and utter happiness, and maybe some incredulity that Ned would offer in the first place. Sure, it had happened before, but he hadn't been cocky enough to think that it could happen again, and he hadn't brought it up for that reason, concerned that if he did, Ned would think him far too presumptuous. But now Ned was offering it, and it was all he could do not to throw his arms around him then and there, and really kiss him the way he wanted to.
Instead, he'd have to settle for an enthusiastic, "Yes!" and then a glance around him to make sure nobody else was listening in. "Yes," he says again, a little quieter this time, "I'd like that. A lot."
There's something giddy about it - the two of them both eager, thrilled even, agreeing to go back to his apartment to have sex. It's different to the last time; that had been more spontaneous, but also a night-time decision, a tipsy decision.
"Then let's go."
He folds up the map of the museum, sticks it in a pocket of his jacket (the one without the melted peas, which he disposes of on his way out) to keep. Ned wants to hold onto a memento, something solid he can attach this happy memory to in the future. If he thought about it in depth, he'd acknowledge that doing it is making a provision against a future separation that he's taken for granted. There's no way Ginsberg will stick around long-term, which is why he's going to enjoy every possible second he can in the meantime.
The subway is uncommonly crowded; the lunchtime crowd, Ned thinks. But he doesn't mind, the way he usually does. It's an excuse to stand close by Ginsberg's side, for a short space of time, pushed and jostled into one another's personal bubble. Ned notices a few sidelong glances that they get, but he doesn't panic, knowing they are doubtless looking at the evidence of fisticuffs. Let them wonder.
He follows Ned out of the museum, tossing his bag of melted peas into the trash when Ned does, laughing a little at how ridiculous all of it is, because the fact that they'd both been carrying around bags of frozen vegetables in their pockets due to his poor impulse control at a natural history museum is one of those things that rivals the fact that they'd met because he'd had pie tossed in his face for ridiculousness. He's come to accept, though, that a great many things about him are ridiculous, and the fact that Ned doesn't seem to mind any of those things is a huge bonus.
He's always liked the subway, oddly enough, never had a problem with being jostled against other people, but, of course, he prefers standing close to Ned than to anyone else. When he'd been younger, a high school student, he'd sometimes ditched school for the sake of riding the subway aimlessly, seeing where he could end up, and some of his best conversations have been in the subway, with complete strangers. He'd explain that to Ned, wondering what Ned would think about it, but it's really too noisy to talk, and anything he says he'd be sharing with all the people standing around them, too. So he settles for companionable silence, and lets himself be bumped against Ned a little.
When they're finally out of the subway and back aboveground, headed towards Ned's apartment, he can't contain the eager energy in his step, the stupid smile that keeps showing up on his face, and he feels compelled to explain it. "I know I probably look way too excited, and that's probably one of those things I'm not supposed to do, right? I mean, I'm supposed to play it cool, or whatever, but I figure you probably already noticed that I'm not cool, and you don't seem to mind."
Ned's smile reflects Ginsberg's, and no explanation was necessary, but he finds Ginsberg's desire to provide one rather charming. "I like that you're excited, and I like that you aren't pretending you're not. Playing it cool is overrated, if you ask me. I've never seen the appeal. Why act like you're too good to be happy about the things that make you happy? Plus, if you acted like you didn't care one way or another, I'd think you didn't care one way or another, and I'd get all nervous and self-doubting and neurotic." He amends, "More neurotic."
So, yes, he likes that Ginsberg isn't cool. Because he's not cool, and the pretense of coolness is intimidating and off-putting to him. And Ginsberg is anything but those two things.
He takes a particular satisfaction in locking the door to his apartment the moment they are inside. With someone else, he knows that might seem creepy or too forward, but he thinks Ginsberg will understand his eagerness to do it. He's locking out all the bad parts of the outside world; the belligerent men who would rather use their fists than listen, the paintings of horrific hellish scenes, the intangible but oppressive possibility of being seen. With the way it sounds like his home life is, and even his work, Ned thinks Ginsberg can appreciate the importance of privacy.
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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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Somehow, it doesn't surprise him when Ned says that his mother had died, too, although he's not sure why it strikes him as making sense. Maybe it had been that Ned had never mentioned any family at all, despite the fact that Ginsberg had talked about his father several times throughout their conversations. Maybe it just took one member of the unlucky absent or dead parent club to know one. He thinks it must be much harder to be in Ned's shoes, to have known his mother for nine years -- and nine years seemed like an eternity when you were young, he remembers -- and then to have her gone.
"That must be hard," he says, and it's certainly not pity in his voice as he says it, just bare fact. "Hard in a different way, I mean. You knew her, so you know what you're missing. I never had one, not really, and nobody could ever tell me anything about her, so I have no idea what I'm missing. It's probably harder for you. You can't go into a museum and pick a random portrait and decide it's your mother. I'm not trying to make you feel worse about it, it's just an observation. I'm sorry."
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But he's not sure what he's supposed to say to Ginsberg. Yes, it was hard? Without noticing himself doing it, his hands have curled into loose fists at his sides Ginsberg might not be trying to make him feel worse, but he's sadly failing. Ned has to exert a certain effort not to think about how hard it was (and still is), about exactly the kind of woman he's missing, and worst, why he's missing her. At least he's not gushing sympathy or asking a million questions. Ned can appreciate that.
"It's not a competition," he says, simply, then quickly follows it with, "She looks so... impatient," because turning the conversation abruptly back to the painting will hopefully signal to Ginsberg that he's not particularly keen on discussing his own mother's death, "Like he's asked her to stand there holding this flower and she thinks it's the dumbest idea she's ever heard."
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"That's why I like it, I think. Most portraits are pretty boring, because the people don't look like they have any life to them. I like it when they have their own personalities. It makes it easier to tell a story about them. But I guess I'm looking at it like a copywriter, too, always looking for the story."
With one more glance towards the painting, he heads towards the next room, apparently having decided that the best way to avoid the topic Ned doesn't want to discuss is to go to an entirely different painting. He shoves his hands back into his jacket pockets and immediately regrets it when he inadvertently grabs the bag of frozen peas, which is soaking wet by now. "In case you were wondering," he says, pulling his hand out of his pocket and shaking the water off of it ruefully, "I'd advise against putting your hands in your pockets. These things have completely melted."
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But before he can search for a trash can he experiences the strange jolt of seeing a painting on the wall that he recognizes. Everything that he's seen until now has been beautiful but unfamiliar to him. It's quite different however, to see the something and realize he's seen it before, but printed in a book. He says, "Oh!" in a pleasantly surprised way, turning to look once more. It's somehow smaller than he would have expected. One thinks of these things as monumental, somehow.
"I know this one," he explains, moving closer.
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When Ned turns around to look at the painting, he can't help but smile at Ned's surprise and how pleased he sounds about it. He looks at the painting, too, nodding. "Does it look like you would have imagined it did? I mean, I know sometimes people're disappointed by seeing stuff in the museum, because they've got this idea of how it should look from the reproductions of it they've seen, so I hope this one doesn't disappoint you."
It's strange, how he's almost taking on personal responsibility for Ned's feeling about the painting, and desperately hoping that it doesn't disappoint him, but then, he's always been good at taking on feelings like that.
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He turns to Ginsberg then, sees him watching intently and smiles, a little shyly, "That's probably a completely tedious and obvious thing to notice, isn't it?" But Ginsberg hasn't laughed at him yet. Not today, not the last time they'd been together, either. That's... nice. That's something Ned could see himself getting used to, in time.
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Somehow, that's significant to him, although he's not sure he can explain why. For all of his talkativeness, he doesn't always understand the things that are coming out of his mouth, even while he's saying them. Thus far, though, Ned hasn't told him to shut up, or been overly confused by anything he says, and he appreciates that. There's something relieving about not being questioned all the time, about being able to say what comes to mind without feeling as self-conscious as he usually does.
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He moves on from the painting with a last look, wandering around the room with his hands clasped behind his back, quietly enjoying himself. He doesn't say much more for a while, but his enjoyment is obvious enough. Ned's never been the best at keeping what he thinks and feels from showing on his face, and he likes this. It's so much less pressure than he's used to on a date. More like what he'd always imagined it would be like - less of a contest or interrogation, and just two people having a good time together.
After some time, they wander into a room in which all but one or two of the paintings are of Biblical scenes - particularly gruesome ones, it seems to Ned, all martyrs and crucifixions. He can't help it; he laughs, says, "I'm sensing a pattern, here."
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As they wander the room, his eyes are on Ned as much as they're on the paintings. He's seen all of these paintings before, but he's never seen Ned's reactions to them, and he likes how animated Ned's face is, the way he lights up when he sees something he likes, how obviously he's enjoying himself. As someone who wears his heart on his sleeve far more than he should, he can appreciate it from Ned, secure in his knowledge that Ned won't judge or belittle him. It's comforting.
When they step into the room full of Biblical scenes, he can't help but laugh, too, and he's glad he's not the only one. "Yeah," he says, looking around, shaking his head, "There's definitely a pattern. A theme, even. See, I've always thought that this is part of the reason religion fucks people up -- look at how violent all of it is. Little kids see this stuff, and I'm pretty sure it gives them nightmares."
It's only after he says it that he realizes that, perhaps, he shouldn't be so quick to dismiss religion, because he has no idea of Ned's feelings about it. "Not that all religion's bad, I just think some of this stuff..." he gestures to the paintings, "... is pretty gruesome and dark for people to be seeing every day."
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They are passing by a particularly sordid and gory rendering of souls burning in hell, which Ned wrinkles his nose at, just for a moment. "Mostly agree. It's not that it's dark, exactly. Life's dark. So I get why religion would reflect that. Life's dark, so you have to... have to work at it, to make it light. I think if people focused more on how to do that and less on the..." he nods his head towards the painting, "...'mess up and you'll be tortured forever' side of things, it'd be a different story."
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"That's sick," he says, and he's obviously talking about the painting. "Sure, life's dark. We all deal with that every single day. But the people who came up with the idea of hell were seriously disturbed, I think, and not just in the way a lot of us are seriously disturbed. I mean, who sat down and really thought that the punishment for doing some shitty things in your life should be... that? It makes me want to throw up."
It bothers him on a level he can't quite articulate, but then, violence of any kind always has, even on an artistic level. He knows it's not real, but that doesn't stop it from being sickening, in his opinion. Maybe it's juvenile to be so obviously affected by a stupid painting, but he is, and he can't hide it. That's why he'd always preferred looking at the paintings that didn't have anything to do with religion, and that's why he's glad that the room they're passing into next is moving away from that kind of thing.
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"It is pretty sick," he agrees, joins Ginsberg in walking away from the painting and towards the exit of the room, to one that contains landscapes. Lovely, intricate, calm landscapes. Ned feels a touch guilty, seeing how bothered Ginsberg is, wants to make him feel more normal for reacting so extremely.
"You're right though. About the kids and nightmares and all. I used to have nightmares about going to hell. All the time. But then I realized it was all scare tactics and bullshit made up by a bunch of desperate people with sick imaginations trying to pretend they got to decide what was right and what was wrong, and it didn't frighten me so much."
He knows they are in public, knows he has to limit any contact between the two of them, but there's no one else in the room, so he sets his hand against the small of Ginsberg's back, just for a few seconds, to steady him, to reassure him, and to apologize for drawing his attention to it in the first place.
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He knows that he's too worked up, and he actively tries to calm down as they step into the next room. The landscapes are good, if a little boring -- they provide a calming backdrop to the emotions that are raging inside of him. He's never been good at sitting down and shutting up, and he's not good at it here, either, especially not when Ned's proven to be such a nonjudgemental listener.
The hand on the small of his back doesn't hurt, either, and he tosses a grateful smile at Ned, because he's always found comfort in physical contact, always craved it, and never quite had enough of it from people he really wants it from. The fact that Ned's willing to give it is nothing short of a miracle, if he believed in miracles. "Anyway," he says, back to his usual, relatively sunny self, "You probably think I'm crazy for hating those paintings so much, and I guess on an aesthetic level I kind of appreciate them, because it must take a lot of talent to paint something like that, but I wish they'd use their talent on something like this. Landscapes. That can't offend anyone, right?"
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Ned wonders (in the way that he always does with new people, as he starts to get to know them) how he'd react if he found out that life and death isn't as simple as he has been told. Would he revise his opinion on life on death, on hell and whether Ned belongs there?
"I don't think you're crazy," Ned says in a voice that is particularly warm, though low, in case anyone should happen to come in and overhear them, "I think it's a good thing they upset you. I mean- it's not a good thing you're upset. That's not what I meant." Now he's the one tripping over his words, awkwardly navigating his way towards his original point, "I meant... if more people were like you and hated them, I think, the world would be a better place."
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He thinks about the war a lot. It keeps him up at night sometimes, knowing that at any moment, his number could be up, and he could be shipped off to some foreign country to kill people he had no interest in killing. He knows that could happen to the guys he works with, too, or even to Ned, and it both angers and scares him. To him, the fact that people have always seemed so enamored with violence is concerning.
"On the other hand, if more people were like me..." He shrugs expressively, his gestures large and free as always. "Well, if more people were like me, there'd be a lot less people getting things done in the world. I mean, I can write ads. That's what I can do. I couldn't run a country, or do anything actually productive. I couldn't even bake a pie, probably."
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Ned's not exactly thrilled with the idea of the war either, that he might get swept up in it at any moment, but his solution is to think about it as little as possible, to take that gnawing fear and unease and shove it into the most out of the way corner of his mind he can.
"You could bake a pie," Ned says, confidently, "I could teach you."
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He leans a little closer to say this, somewhat surprised at his own daringness, but meaning it fervently, nevertheless. It's not like him to be actively flirtatiously, mostly because he's almost always convinced that his flirtation will go dreadfully wrong, but they're alone in this room together, and somehow, he doesn't think Ned will protest at how forward he's being. If anything, Ned seems to appreciate that forward nature, the way he doesn't usually think before speaking, so he doesn't even bother to try to reign it in.
"I think I'll probably leave the baking to you, though. I don't wanna embarrass myself."
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"You couldn't possibly be worse than some of the people I've taught." He means it, too. There's a certain shyness, but also a certain enthusiasm in the way he suggests, "Maybe we could do that next time?" If there is a next time, which he wants there to be.
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And it makes him wonder what he could possibly teach Ned in return, because as far as he's concerned, Ned knows far more useful things than him. Advertising isn't a talent one can teach, and not necessarily something Ned would want to learn, anyway. And beyond that, he doesn't have talents, at least, not as far as he can tell.
"I'd offer to teach you something, too, but what could you possibly want to learn from me? I'm learning everything from you, not the other way around. I mean, I'm not complaining about that. I like what I've learned from you."
And yes, he means that in every way possible, including the suggestive ones, which is obvious from the pink tinge to his cheek as he says it, because his mind has gone to a decidedly inappropriate place.
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That flush on Ginsberg's cheek really is charming, sends Ned's mind back to other times, when his face had been red for slightly different reasons, and he's clearing his throat and saying, in a downright whisper, "You know, I really wish I could kiss you right now." He's not going to try, obviously. Ned's hardly bold, hardly a risk-taker. But if he can't kiss Ginsberg, he's going to damn well tell him that's what is on his mind, "I would. If... you know. Circumstances."
After a brief pause, Ned says, "You want to uh. Go back to my place for a bit?" He feels a bit forward, suggesting it himself, but it's nice to be the one doing it for once. That he wants to. Ned's not so used to that. He feels practically obligated to add a brief, "I could teach you some more..." but he says it in a way that's so embarrassed it almost cancels out the inherent lewdness.
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Ned's proposition makes him laugh, but it's not a laugh of derision or even amusement, it's just a laugh of complete and utter happiness, and maybe some incredulity that Ned would offer in the first place. Sure, it had happened before, but he hadn't been cocky enough to think that it could happen again, and he hadn't brought it up for that reason, concerned that if he did, Ned would think him far too presumptuous. But now Ned was offering it, and it was all he could do not to throw his arms around him then and there, and really kiss him the way he wanted to.
Instead, he'd have to settle for an enthusiastic, "Yes!" and then a glance around him to make sure nobody else was listening in. "Yes," he says again, a little quieter this time, "I'd like that. A lot."
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"Then let's go."
He folds up the map of the museum, sticks it in a pocket of his jacket (the one without the melted peas, which he disposes of on his way out) to keep. Ned wants to hold onto a memento, something solid he can attach this happy memory to in the future. If he thought about it in depth, he'd acknowledge that doing it is making a provision against a future separation that he's taken for granted. There's no way Ginsberg will stick around long-term, which is why he's going to enjoy every possible second he can in the meantime.
The subway is uncommonly crowded; the lunchtime crowd, Ned thinks. But he doesn't mind, the way he usually does. It's an excuse to stand close by Ginsberg's side, for a short space of time, pushed and jostled into one another's personal bubble. Ned notices a few sidelong glances that they get, but he doesn't panic, knowing they are doubtless looking at the evidence of fisticuffs. Let them wonder.
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He's always liked the subway, oddly enough, never had a problem with being jostled against other people, but, of course, he prefers standing close to Ned than to anyone else. When he'd been younger, a high school student, he'd sometimes ditched school for the sake of riding the subway aimlessly, seeing where he could end up, and some of his best conversations have been in the subway, with complete strangers. He'd explain that to Ned, wondering what Ned would think about it, but it's really too noisy to talk, and anything he says he'd be sharing with all the people standing around them, too. So he settles for companionable silence, and lets himself be bumped against Ned a little.
When they're finally out of the subway and back aboveground, headed towards Ned's apartment, he can't contain the eager energy in his step, the stupid smile that keeps showing up on his face, and he feels compelled to explain it. "I know I probably look way too excited, and that's probably one of those things I'm not supposed to do, right? I mean, I'm supposed to play it cool, or whatever, but I figure you probably already noticed that I'm not cool, and you don't seem to mind."
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So, yes, he likes that Ginsberg isn't cool. Because he's not cool, and the pretense of coolness is intimidating and off-putting to him. And Ginsberg is anything but those two things.
He takes a particular satisfaction in locking the door to his apartment the moment they are inside. With someone else, he knows that might seem creepy or too forward, but he thinks Ginsberg will understand his eagerness to do it. He's locking out all the bad parts of the outside world; the belligerent men who would rather use their fists than listen, the paintings of horrific hellish scenes, the intangible but oppressive possibility of being seen. With the way it sounds like his home life is, and even his work, Ned thinks Ginsberg can appreciate the importance of privacy.
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Shall we call this a wrap, then~