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.
"Nervous and self-doubting and neurotic," he says, laughing, "Funny how that sums me up pretty perfectly in three words, even though you're referring to yourself. So I definitely won't try to play it cool, even if I were capable of playing it cool, because I wouldn't want you to be those things. Well, more of those things."
They do have certain similarities, he recognizes, and he finds it strange that he can appreciate those similarities, because he often finds his own nervousness and self-doubt irritating, but when he sees it in Ned, he finds it charming somehow. He likes that Ned isn't cool, just like him, and that he seems to have no interest in being cool. It takes a lot of the pressure off, where there might otherwise be a huge amount of pressure.
He understands why Ned is so eager to lock the door, appreciates the concession towards privacy, but immediately begins to feel nervous as soon as he turns to look at Ned once the door is locked, because, after all, this is only the second time he's done anything like this, and the first time, he could always blame how forward he'd been on the alcohol. Now, it's the middle of the day, and they've talked about it, and there's no excuse for impulsivity. It reassures him, a little, that they're obviously both interested in each other, attracted to each other, and before he has time to think about it or start panicking about it, he steps closer to Ned, stands on tiptoe, and kisses him.
Ned's taken aback by the kiss; he'd been planning on working up to this, but he's more than happy to cut to the chase. It's like he'd said - he likes Ginsberg's enthusiasm, and is more than happy to follow his lead. So he kisses back, leaning down so that Ginsberg doesn't have to stand on tip-toe, hands finding their way around Ginsberg's waist with ease.
When he's done that for a few moments he breaks away, asks in a low voice, "Your eyes doesn't hurt too much, does it? I could... get you more ice."
But despite that offer, Ned shows no inclination to move away from Ginsberg. In fact, Ned pulls him closer, one hand moving around to rest on the small of his back, kissing the corner of his mouth
He has to laugh when Ned breaks away, because it's so sweet, somehow, that Ned cares enough about his comfort to be asking him about his eye at a moment like this one. "Believe me, I'm not thinking about my eye. It feels fine. It feels great. Never better."
And at that moment, that's pretty much true, because how could he possibly be thinking about how his eye feels when Ned's holding him close like that and going for another kiss? "Unless you want some ice for your nose. We could get you that."
That said, though, he's not going anywhere, not even for ice, unless Ned tells him to. He's still so unsure about where to put his hands, and a little in awe of the fact that Ned seems to manage it so seemingly effortlessly, with the way his arms are around his waist and his hand's resting on the small of his back. There's a moment of indecision as he tries to figure out just what to do with his arms, with his hands, because really, no one's ever sat him down and explained the play by play description of how this is supposed to go or where all these extraneous limbs are supposed to fit in. After a few seconds, though, he rests a hand on Ned's shoulder -- that seems like a good place, a solid place -- and goes for another kiss.
Ned doesn't seem to notice Ginsberg's indecision with where to put his hands; his eyes slip shut as he goes back to kissing the other man, enjoying the softness of his lips, that faint trace of hesitation in the way he kisses. It's so like his personality; eager, but also unsure. Warm and bold but with a touch of self-consciousness and fear of rejection.
"I'm good," he murmurs between kisses, breathing a little quicker now, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Very good."
With a gentle but insistent nudge he pushes Ginsberg back a step, so that his back can rest against the wall of the entryway. Not pinning him, nothing too aggressive, just giving him something to lean against. In the past, Ned's been with a few people who liked that, who enjoyed the feeling of being kissed up against a wall, and he figures it's probably not something Ginsberg's done, or done a lot of.
It's so easy to let himself get lost in this, to give up trying to think coherently and just let it feel good, just concentrate on how good Ned's lips feel against his and how oddly right all of it feels. There's self-doubt, certainly, and a heaping spoonful of self-consciousness and a fear of embarrassing himself, but there's one thing he doesn't doubt at all, and that's that the choice to do this with Ned was very much the right choice.
Even if he makes a fool of himself, even if he awkwardly fumbles in trying to position his hands or trips over his own feet when Ned nudges him back a bit -- which he does, but he quickly regains his balance again to lean up against the wall -- he knows Ned won't mock him for it. That's a sense of security he can't take for granted, and he finds that he likes being up against the wall, too; it adds an additional sense of security, being between Ned's body and the wall, and the kiss he responds with is even more enthusiastic than the one before it, full of delight and appreciation.
Finally, his other hand seems to have decided to tangle itself in Ned's hair, and that seems perfect, too. If he let his cynicism speak up, he'd be thinking that there was no way all of this could stay so perfect, that he'd be bound to fuck it all up eventually, but he's trying to ignore that little voice, and just concentrate on the kissing, which is something he knows he's, at the very least, passably decent at.
Ned can tells, from a dozen little nonverbal signs, that Ginsberg approves of the move, and so he stays where he is, their chests pressed flush together. Ginsberg's hand in his hair is gentle, but brushes against his scalp in just the right way to send a shiver all the way down his spine. It's not a bad feeling though, by any means.
He's glad to take things slowly, to let himself relax into this, warming up from their walk outside, bodies fitted together like pieces of a puzzle. Without noticing when he'd done it, Ned's pressed one of his legs between Ginsberg's, keeping him in place.
"I have to say, I'm really glad we're doing this again," Ned breaks the kiss to murmur. He seems to remember that Ginsberg liked having his ears touched, so he moves his mouth close, breath hot, just a dash of mischief in his tone. "I keep thinking about last time..."
It probably doesn't fit any definition of cool to smile as much as he does at Ned's comment, but then, Ned's already well aware of the fact that he's not cool, and since that seems to be just fine, he lets that silly grin break across his face. "Yeah, me too," he replies, not quite as quietly as Ned, because he can't seem to tone down his excitement enough to whisper, "I thought about it a lot. I thought you might not wanna do it again, so I'm glad you do, because otherwise, I'd've been thinking about it forever without getting to experience it again, and that would've been sad. For me, I mean."
Despite the fact that he's slightly more relaxed and less nervous about this whole thing now that they've done it once before, he's still not entirely capable of turning off the part of his mind that makes him babble. He runs his fingers through Ned's hair again, partially because he thinks Ned enjoys it, partially because he likes the feeling of his hair underneath his fingertips.
He should probably be embarrassed, too, at just how favorably he responds to having Ned's mouth that close to his ear, of having Ned's leg pressed between his, but embarrassment seems like a waste of time when he could simply roll his hips ever so slightly, pressing against Ned's leg a little more, wordlessly encouraging him to do more, even if he's not sure what more entails; he's just greedy for any possible touch.
The fact that Ned does want to do it again is all too obvious from the way that he kissing his way down Ginsberg's neck, undoing his tie and top button to kiss at the hollow of his throat. He notices the way Ginsberg is pressing against him, that he is starting to get aroused, and that is encouraging, for Ned. It reminds him all over again why he wanted this, how intoxicating it is, being wanted like that, being able to incite that kind of reaction.
Which is perhaps why he doesn't beat around the bush, this time, but runs a hand down Ginsberg's chest to rub at him through the fabric of his pants, with a little laugh. Not a mocking laugh, but a delighted one, soft and rather low in his throat. "I just want to make you feel really-" he punctuates this with a kiss, "really-" another kiss, "-good."
"You're already making me feel good," he says, because why shouldn't he admit it? It's plenty obvious as it is, and he's never seen the point in being particularly coy if being straightforward can result in more enjoyment. That straightforwardness has backfired pretty drastically before, but so far, being open and honest with Ned has been surprisingly effective. "But I wanna make you feel really good, too," he hastens to add, tilting his chin up so that Ned can press more kisses to his throat, which he finds he quite enjoys.
If Ned's going to be undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, he figures he should return the favor, and he reaches for Ned's tie, finding it surprising how easy it is to undo it and tug it free from Ned's shirt; his hands seem capable of acting without conscious thought, because he'd have assumed he'd fumble pathetically at anything like that. "If there's, um..." he mumbles, a little less exuberantly than usual, which may be chalked up to the way he's blushing slightly, but he pushes through the embarrassment, kisses Ned again, and finishes his sentence with: "... anything you want to try, you know, that's different, or something, you should probably know that I'm willing to try anything once. Because I have no idea what I'm doing. I mean, I have a little more idea than I did the last time, but still."
"I can think of a couple things..." Ned murmurs. It's always been more his role to follow along with whatever his partner wanted, to adjust himself to fit in with whatever scenario they had in mind. With Ginsberg, though, it's different. He seems, despite their previous night together, still nervous about his lack of experience and unwilling to trust in his own ability to make decisions. In which case, Ned thinks, it might be easier if he is more proactive, more forthright than is his custom.
"I kind of want you to fuck me," Ned suggests, head already dizzy enough with arousal that his usual obscenity filters have gone off-line. He keeps rubbing at Ginsberg with the heel of his palm, wonders how wound up he can get Ginsberg while he's still mostly-dressed. There's something strangely erotic about that, for Ned; about having the connection and energy of sex with a bare minimum of skin-to-skin contact. When he was new to all this, when he'd still been even worse than he is now about people touching him, he had preferred things like this - getting off with most of his clothes on. It's not so hard for him, now, to touch and be touched, but he still remembers how good it can be, without taking off a thing.
"Because..." he goes on, after that moment of distraction, "...some guys, you know, they really prefer it one way or another. I'm not really picky, but I thought, you should probably try both before you- before you make any decisions."
He's not necessarily stammering because he's surprised by the suggestion, although there's some of that inherent in his hesitation, too. It's more that he's entirely distracted by Ned's hand, and really has no way of hiding the fact, or any desire to do so -- in fact, he presses into Ned's hand more, unabashedly letting a quiet moan interrupt his stammering and stuttering. It should be obvious, from the way he's reacting, that it won't be at all difficult to get him wound up. Even the slight rubbing Ned's doing now is enough to have him moaning, after all.
"I'd like to try that. But like I said, I really don't know what I'm doing, and I don't wanna fuck it up, so you'd have to, you know, be patient. But yes, I want to."
And not just out of a sense of wanting to find out which way he prefers it. He genuinely wants to please Ned, in whatever way he can, and this sounds like it'll please him. That's all he's looking for, and he tugs Ned down for another kiss, sloppy and a little too passionate.
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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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They do have certain similarities, he recognizes, and he finds it strange that he can appreciate those similarities, because he often finds his own nervousness and self-doubt irritating, but when he sees it in Ned, he finds it charming somehow. He likes that Ned isn't cool, just like him, and that he seems to have no interest in being cool. It takes a lot of the pressure off, where there might otherwise be a huge amount of pressure.
He understands why Ned is so eager to lock the door, appreciates the concession towards privacy, but immediately begins to feel nervous as soon as he turns to look at Ned once the door is locked, because, after all, this is only the second time he's done anything like this, and the first time, he could always blame how forward he'd been on the alcohol. Now, it's the middle of the day, and they've talked about it, and there's no excuse for impulsivity. It reassures him, a little, that they're obviously both interested in each other, attracted to each other, and before he has time to think about it or start panicking about it, he steps closer to Ned, stands on tiptoe, and kisses him.
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When he's done that for a few moments he breaks away, asks in a low voice, "Your eyes doesn't hurt too much, does it? I could... get you more ice."
But despite that offer, Ned shows no inclination to move away from Ginsberg. In fact, Ned pulls him closer, one hand moving around to rest on the small of his back, kissing the corner of his mouth
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And at that moment, that's pretty much true, because how could he possibly be thinking about how his eye feels when Ned's holding him close like that and going for another kiss? "Unless you want some ice for your nose. We could get you that."
That said, though, he's not going anywhere, not even for ice, unless Ned tells him to. He's still so unsure about where to put his hands, and a little in awe of the fact that Ned seems to manage it so seemingly effortlessly, with the way his arms are around his waist and his hand's resting on the small of his back. There's a moment of indecision as he tries to figure out just what to do with his arms, with his hands, because really, no one's ever sat him down and explained the play by play description of how this is supposed to go or where all these extraneous limbs are supposed to fit in. After a few seconds, though, he rests a hand on Ned's shoulder -- that seems like a good place, a solid place -- and goes for another kiss.
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"I'm good," he murmurs between kisses, breathing a little quicker now, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Very good."
With a gentle but insistent nudge he pushes Ginsberg back a step, so that his back can rest against the wall of the entryway. Not pinning him, nothing too aggressive, just giving him something to lean against. In the past, Ned's been with a few people who liked that, who enjoyed the feeling of being kissed up against a wall, and he figures it's probably not something Ginsberg's done, or done a lot of.
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Even if he makes a fool of himself, even if he awkwardly fumbles in trying to position his hands or trips over his own feet when Ned nudges him back a bit -- which he does, but he quickly regains his balance again to lean up against the wall -- he knows Ned won't mock him for it. That's a sense of security he can't take for granted, and he finds that he likes being up against the wall, too; it adds an additional sense of security, being between Ned's body and the wall, and the kiss he responds with is even more enthusiastic than the one before it, full of delight and appreciation.
Finally, his other hand seems to have decided to tangle itself in Ned's hair, and that seems perfect, too. If he let his cynicism speak up, he'd be thinking that there was no way all of this could stay so perfect, that he'd be bound to fuck it all up eventually, but he's trying to ignore that little voice, and just concentrate on the kissing, which is something he knows he's, at the very least, passably decent at.
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He's glad to take things slowly, to let himself relax into this, warming up from their walk outside, bodies fitted together like pieces of a puzzle. Without noticing when he'd done it, Ned's pressed one of his legs between Ginsberg's, keeping him in place.
"I have to say, I'm really glad we're doing this again," Ned breaks the kiss to murmur. He seems to remember that Ginsberg liked having his ears touched, so he moves his mouth close, breath hot, just a dash of mischief in his tone. "I keep thinking about last time..."
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Despite the fact that he's slightly more relaxed and less nervous about this whole thing now that they've done it once before, he's still not entirely capable of turning off the part of his mind that makes him babble. He runs his fingers through Ned's hair again, partially because he thinks Ned enjoys it, partially because he likes the feeling of his hair underneath his fingertips.
He should probably be embarrassed, too, at just how favorably he responds to having Ned's mouth that close to his ear, of having Ned's leg pressed between his, but embarrassment seems like a waste of time when he could simply roll his hips ever so slightly, pressing against Ned's leg a little more, wordlessly encouraging him to do more, even if he's not sure what more entails; he's just greedy for any possible touch.
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Which is perhaps why he doesn't beat around the bush, this time, but runs a hand down Ginsberg's chest to rub at him through the fabric of his pants, with a little laugh. Not a mocking laugh, but a delighted one, soft and rather low in his throat. "I just want to make you feel really-" he punctuates this with a kiss, "really-" another kiss, "-good."
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If Ned's going to be undoing his tie and unbuttoning his shirt, he figures he should return the favor, and he reaches for Ned's tie, finding it surprising how easy it is to undo it and tug it free from Ned's shirt; his hands seem capable of acting without conscious thought, because he'd have assumed he'd fumble pathetically at anything like that. "If there's, um..." he mumbles, a little less exuberantly than usual, which may be chalked up to the way he's blushing slightly, but he pushes through the embarrassment, kisses Ned again, and finishes his sentence with: "... anything you want to try, you know, that's different, or something, you should probably know that I'm willing to try anything once. Because I have no idea what I'm doing. I mean, I have a little more idea than I did the last time, but still."
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"I kind of want you to fuck me," Ned suggests, head already dizzy enough with arousal that his usual obscenity filters have gone off-line. He keeps rubbing at Ginsberg with the heel of his palm, wonders how wound up he can get Ginsberg while he's still mostly-dressed. There's something strangely erotic about that, for Ned; about having the connection and energy of sex with a bare minimum of skin-to-skin contact. When he was new to all this, when he'd still been even worse than he is now about people touching him, he had preferred things like this - getting off with most of his clothes on. It's not so hard for him, now, to touch and be touched, but he still remembers how good it can be, without taking off a thing.
"Because..." he goes on, after that moment of distraction, "...some guys, you know, they really prefer it one way or another. I'm not really picky, but I thought, you should probably try both before you- before you make any decisions."
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He's not necessarily stammering because he's surprised by the suggestion, although there's some of that inherent in his hesitation, too. It's more that he's entirely distracted by Ned's hand, and really has no way of hiding the fact, or any desire to do so -- in fact, he presses into Ned's hand more, unabashedly letting a quiet moan interrupt his stammering and stuttering. It should be obvious, from the way he's reacting, that it won't be at all difficult to get him wound up. Even the slight rubbing Ned's doing now is enough to have him moaning, after all.
"I'd like to try that. But like I said, I really don't know what I'm doing, and I don't wanna fuck it up, so you'd have to, you know, be patient. But yes, I want to."
And not just out of a sense of wanting to find out which way he prefers it. He genuinely wants to please Ned, in whatever way he can, and this sounds like it'll please him. That's all he's looking for, and he tugs Ned down for another kiss, sloppy and a little too passionate.
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Shall we call this a wrap, then~