It doesn't work that way, in Ned's experience. He knows how paranoid that makes him, that the very reason he has difficulty trusting the kindness of someone like Ginsberg is that he's been lied to before, hurt before. Though he doubts anyone wanders around blindly trusting the people around them, he does wonder sometimes if he is a little too suspicious, too cautious, too ready for the moment when the tables will turn against him.
He isn't sure why it's the first topic to spring to his mind; on another day he would worry about giving Ginsberg the wrong impression and frightening him off, but he asks with a certain guilelessness that will hopefully pre-empt any suspicions.
"Tell me about the first time you fell in love? Or... something like that. A happy story."
It's an interesting question, and he has to think about it, before finally shaking his head. "I don't think I've ever been in love. I mean, sure, I've had crushes. I've been attracted to people. I've even been stupidly attached to people I shouldn't be. But I don't think I've ever fallen in love. My first crush, though, I was maybe..."
His childhood can sometimes be a blur of indistinct memories, and there's nothing at all there from before the time he was five or so, but he doesn't need to tell Ned that. He'd wanted happy stories, not reflections on things that could easily turn gloomy with the slightest provocation. "I think I must have been in first grade. Six or so, right, that's how old kids are in first grade? There was a little girl named Jane -- weird, I still remember her name, I haven't thought about her for years -- that I was absolutely crazy about. It was my first year of school in the US, I could barely speak English, and I was just as awkward then as I am now. Needless to say, she didn't exactly reciprocate the feelings."
Maybe that doesn't count as happy, but he's smiling as he says it, so at least it's a decent memory. "I started trying to figure out how to say sweet things to her, but the problem was that I had to ask my dad how to say stuff, and he didn't speak English that well either, at that point, and I didn't want to tell him why I wanted to know how to say your dress is pretty, or whatever it was I was trying to say. So, long story short, it was a completely unrequited love, and I learned all of my flirtatious lines from my father, which explains why they're all awful."
It starts as such a sweet story. Ned adjusts the way he's sitting, so that he can lean against Ginsberg more comfortably, hands knitted together in his lap, listening to him talk. He tries to imagine what Ginsberg would have been like as a boy. He'd said he was quiet. In some ways, Ned imagines him a little bit the way Eugene was - brilliant but different to the other kids, desperate to be liked, friendly, wearing his heart on his sleeve.
He can hear the smile in Ginsberg's voice, even if he can't see it. The part about wanting to learn how to compliment her is almost more charming. Ned does, however, almost imperceptibly stiffen when Ginsberg is talking about going to his father for instruction on how to flirt in English. It's not a voluntary reaction, and he doesn't even notice himself doing it.
"For me it was the girl who lived across the street. Chuck." Ned can remember just how intensely, how ardently he had adored her, lets out a little sigh. "Charlotte Charles. She and I got into so much trouble together. The first time we met, she pushed me out of a tree." He laughs as he says it - clearly there were no hard feelings. "I was a complete disaster. I thought the sun and the stars all revolved around her. Never said anything about it, but I did kiss her, once."
Which is when his fond memory of her, and how much he'd cared for her, is interrupted (as it always is) by the memory of how they'd eventually been parted. How he'd ruined her life.
"I think getting into trouble with someone sounds like the best part about having a crush. Or about being friends, even. I didn't have a whole lot of those, so I mostly got into trouble by myself, which isn't nearly as fun, especially when you're already kind of a weird kid. I'm glad you kissed the girl who lived across the street. That was brave."
And he admires bravery; it's one of the few qualities he can recognize and appreciate in himself, although admittedly, sometimes bravery and stupidity are awfully close together, at least for him. Bravery makes him blunder into awkward situations just as often as it benefits him, but he wouldn't change it. He likes having Ned leaning against him like this, talking, like maybe they can talk enough to make the evening go by quickly enough that Ned won't have to deal with his obviously uncomfortable feelings about Halloween soon enough. He's committed to trying to make it at least somewhat tolerable.
"I never tried to kiss Jane. We were too young, and I pretty much blew my chances with her by being that weird foreign kid who didn't quite know how to talk to anyone. Not that I'm not still kind of that guy, except that I'm an adult and American now. It's a lot less endearing coming from someone my age than it was coming from me when I was six."
He isn't sure brave is the word that he would use. It was a confusing part of a confusing day. Ned can remember that day (and the days around it) with absolute clarity, but a kind of emotional hollowness. At the time it almost seemed worse to him; to kiss Chuck, the way he'd wanted for so long in his shy and childlike way, in the midst of so much pain, than to never kiss her at all.
"I think it's pretty endearing," Ned says, knows he's taking a risk by saying it. But Ginsberg has shown no signs of being easily startled by that kind of talk, of being flighty and ready to bolt at the least sign of affection. Quite the contrary.
And maybe it's a bad idea to go on and say what he does, but now that it's popped into his mind, Ned can't seem to stop himself from saying it. He's had this problem before: keeping everyone at an arm's length, but getting far too involved far too quickly once he does let someone in. "The first boy I ever fell for at boarding school was the weird foreign kid who didn't quite know how to talk to anyone." Maybe he has a type? "Eugene. Definitely never said anything about it to him."
He has to laugh at the comment, because he finds it endearing, likes the honesty in it, that Ned's not afraid of admitting something like that. They haven't known each other for very long, and he knows that there're a fair few amount of people who wouldn't say something like that for fear of it sounding too intimate, too emotional. In his opinion, though, there's nothing wrong with being intimate or emotional; he just likes that Ned can do it around him.
"Well, yeah, you usually don't tell the guys you fall for that you've fallen for them. Unless you fall for them after they get pie thrown at them, apparently. Not that that's falling for, I mean, not in the really serious definition of the term, just that you were pretty forward with me. I liked that."
And if there's one thing he can say about himself, it's that no matter how affectionate someone else can be, he's always there, poised with something equally affectionate and generally more awkward, to say. He hadn't meant that Ned had really fallen for him, because that implies a depth of emotion that he's pretty sure can't exist yet, but Ned had certainly been interested in him, in some way, from the moment they'd met. The feeling had been mutual.
"The first time I fell for a guy, I was in high school. I thought I was losing my mind. I mean, up until then, I'd been a weird kid, but the one thing I had going for me that was entirely normal was that I was just as girl-crazy as every other guy I knew. And then all of a sudden, there was this guy, and I was having the same thoughts about him I was having about the girls -- well, you know, a little different, but the same basic idea -- and I really thought I'd lost it."
Yes, he had been rather forward, hadn't he? Looking back, Ned's surprised at his own boldness. All the same, he's grateful to past Ned for taking that risk. Look where it's gotten him. For once, a gamble that paid off. At least - thus far.
Another knock at the door, but this one Ned barely responds to. He's too busy listening to Ginsberg's story about discovering his budding sexuality, thinking about how nice it is to just talk, like this. Ned's been with guys before, but none of them were too big on chit-chat, on telling him about their lives. Sometimes they wanted to hear about his, sure - things he didn't want to tell them. But they never offered parts of themselves, in the way that Ginsberg does so effortlessly, so generously.
"What was it that made you fall for him?" Ned asks, curious, thinking it might give him some insight into what it is that draws Ginsberg to people. He has to admit, he's interested for entirely selfish reasons.
"That's a good question. I mean, from a completely shallow perspective, he was really good-looking. But that's not all it was, because there were a lot of good-looking guys, I guess, and I didn't really notice any of the rest of them. I guess I liked him because he genuinely tried to be nice. He was kind of a loner, just like me, but he wasn't cynical like I am. He just liked to do his own thing, but he got along with most people. He just kind of made you think that he actually gave a shit about the stuff you were saying."
He's well aware that his description of this guy sounds a fair bit like Ned, but maybe Ned won't notice. It's not completely obvious, anyway, and just because he sees Ned that way doesn't mean Ned sees himself that way. "And I guess I liked that he was kind of mysterious. You know, he was that kid that you could never quite fit comfortably into a group. He wasn't a jock, he wasn't incredibly rebellious, he wasn't really anything. I wanted to get to know him better."
He feels that way about Ned, too, like he wants to get to know him better, like he really wants to get inside his head -- not in an uncomfortable, prying way, just in a way that'll tell him more about Ned. He cares what Ned has to say, and doesn't mind offering information in return. To be fair, he's never been particularly hesitant about sharing information about himself.
Ned, indeed, does not notice any marked similarity, because he doesn't think of himself in terms anywhere near as positive as those. The only thing that seems to him a possible point of crossover is what Ginsberg says about him being mysterious. Ned's been called mysterious by enough people to know that it's not always a compliment. Mysterious can be an accusation.
"You ever wonder what he's doing, these days?" Ned asks, closing his eyes for a moment. He likes sitting like this, being able to feel Ginsberg's chest rising and falling, "I wonder about that kind of thing all the time. Eugene's parents moved him to a different school, because he was so miserable. I don't even know where I'd start to look, if I wanted to find out where he is these days. For all I know he's dead, or a millionaire, or living a block away. And Chuck-" he hesitates here, before he concludes, "-I'm not sure I want to know how her life turned out, actually. What if it was awful?"
He's slipping, without meaning to, without realizing it, back into the shallows of that melancholy that's been threatening to drag him under all day.
"I know where he is, these days. I mean, kind of. He joined the military right after high school. None of us saw that one coming, so I guess he really was mysterious."
He's quiet for a minute, thinking about the people he'd known in the past, wondering where all of them have gone, what's happened to them, wondering whether any of them wonder about him at all, or whether he's completely erased from the memories of everyone he'd ever known. He's pretty sure he'd never really stood out to anyone, throughout most of school. Even at some of the ad agencies he'd worked at, he doubts anyone remembers him, or if they do, it's vaguely, as the 'weird guy' that hadn't stuck around long.
"It would've been different when I'd been younger if my dad hadn't been so..." He pauses, looking for a word, not wanting to sound like he's blaming all of his oddities on his father. "Well, overprotective. He's always asking me when I'm going to get a girlfriend, always asking me if I'm actually interested in girls, and there's no way I can tell him I'm interested in both, because I don't think he'd get it. I mean, I think he'd understand if I weren't interested in girls at all, but when I ended up with this confusing, ridiculous crush on a guy in high school, it's not like I could go to him and talk about it. And yet he was always there, dogging every single one of my steps, wondering why I didn't have a date to prom, trying to set me up with the kids of his friends..."
Once more, when Ginsberg starts talking about his dad, Ned tenses slightly. This time, though, it isn't a passing mention. He just keeps going, and Ned feels a completely irrational knot of anger tightening in his stomach. At the same time that he realizes it is entirely unwarranted, he doesn't know how to loosen it, to dispel it.
"I don't know..." Ned begins, and his voice is lighter than before. It's a false lightness, though. Perhaps not an obvious enough one for Ginsberg to pick up on, since he hasn't really heard Ned use it before. He's the sort of guy who gets quietly angry, whose irritation gets buried under layers of passive-aggression and meaningful shrugs and a complete inability to vent it in any sort of healthy way. "That doesn't sound all that bad to me. He probably wants you to find someone because he thinks it will make you happy."
"If he wanted me to be happy, he'd realize that making me happy meant getting off my back once in awhile. It's bad enough that I have to live with the guy, I don't need him breathing down my neck all the time, too, asking me stupid questions."
He knows that he sounds bitter, and he's half-compelled to apologize for it. He's not supposed to be here complaining about his family life, after all, he's supposed to be comforting Ned, and this is counterproductive. The problem is that once he gets started talking about all the ways his father is overbearing, he can hardly stop.
"He's not even my real father. He needs to back off and let me live my life. I'm an adult."
Even as he's saying it, he realizes how petulant and childish and decidedly un-adult-like he sounds. He doesn't pick up on the false lightness in Ned's voice, though if he did, he'd stop his tirade immediately. As it is, he's winding down with it anyway, realizing how stupid it all sounds.
Ned knows it was a mistake, now, to say what he did. He should have realized that sticking his nose in would only make it worse, would only make Ginsberg contradict him. Past experience ought to have taught him that it's never a good idea to offer his opinion of people's relationships with their parents. He knows he wouldn't appreciate it if Ginsberg were the one saying his situation didn't seem all that bad.
But those thoughts remain on the purely rational level of his mind, and it's voice is small in the face of the torrent of hurt and anger that's clawing its way to the forefront. It's not Ginsberg he should be angry at, and he knows it. All the same he sits up, can't stand to be touching the other man, can't just lounge around and listen to him complain about the fact that his father loves him just too damn much. Not today.
The revelation that it's not his 'real' father is a surprise, but not entirely unexpected. Ned hardly registers it. His heart is hammering too fast in his chest, hands clenched into fists so that he can feel the bite of his fingernails against his palms. For as long as he can manage it he just sits there, trying to keep himself from saying something he'll regret, trying to calm down and check the rapid descent of his mood.
That initial flash of unwarranted anger gives way to a deeper vein of melancholy, heavily tinted with self-loathing. Had he really almost yelled at Ginsberg, for talking about his father, for complaining in the way that most everyone Ned had ever met complained about their parents?
"Can we please talk about something else?" Ned tries to keep his voice steady and emotionless, but the pretense is beyond him, and his words waver with suppressed distress. He clears his throat, even though he knows it's past salvaging now, that there's no way Ginsberg won't be able to tell he's sliced at a nerve, "I understand that it's not my life and my understanding of the situation is imperfect at best, and I'm the one who asked you to talk to me in the first place, but-" his voice cracks, and he shuts his eyes against the hot burn of tears that are trying to force their way free, "-if I have to hear you say one more word about how t-terrible it is that your dad actually gives a shit about you, I think I might lose it."
He'd known that it was stupid to say so much, to complain so much, when there were certainly people in the world who had it worse than he did, and when he had no idea what category Ned fell into in regards to his parents. All he knows is that Ned's mother is dead, and that Ned doesn't like to talk about it; he knows nothing about his father, and from the way Ned's responded, it's an uneasy topic, at best.
"Yeah, we can talk about something else. I didn't mean to..."
It doesn't matter what he meant to do, and he knows it. He'd been trying to distract Ned with meaningless complaints of his own life, in an attempt to draw Ned's focus away from his own problems, but he'd obviously gone too far, and it's just as obvious that his complaints have made Ned desperately unhappy. It doesn't take a genius to recognize that, from the response Ned's had, he must not have had a very good relationship with his father. Certainly, he hadn't experienced the problems that Ginsberg had, the overwhelming, almost suffocating caring, and of course, from another point of view, Ginsberg understands why it could be difficult to find that so upsetting.
There's a part of him that wants to reach out for Ned and full him close again, to apologize physically because he has no idea how to put an apology into words (he's never been good at that, he's always been clumsy, even when he knows full well that he's been the one to cause offense) but he doesn't. He thinks Ned would likely pull away from him now. All he knows is that he's plagued with guilt, and that guilt is one of his least favorite feelings.
He fights back frustration, too, because the last thing he wants is to be frustrated at Ned, who's having a bad day anyway, and settles for what he thinks is a fairly inoffensive, "I'm sorry. What would you prefer to talk about?" Nobody could have a problem with that sentence, could they? It's so bland as to be completely devoid of expression.
Ned thinks, sometimes, that there's an inertia to his emotions. That it can take a deal of effort to get them going, but once they are, it takes a much greater effort to stop them. He feels as if he is hurtling forward without brakes, without an idea of how to disengage all that hurt and unhappiness and just answer Ginsberg's question like a normal human being.
He rakes his hands through his hair, feels paralyzed by half a dozen unappealing choices. Which one of them is the least likely to make Ginsberg head for the door and never come back? He buries his face in his hands.
"You shouldn't apologize. It's my fault. I should never have asked you over, when I'm like this. I can't expect you to- how are you supposed to know what not to say if I don't tell you?" That inertia is carrying him forward, his words coming at an increasing speed, "I'm sorry I snapped at you. Touchy subject. If you hadn't guessed." It was meant to be a joke, but it's a feeble stab at humor.
And at this point, why not just tell him? Ginsberg must have guessed already it's related to his father. He's not stupid. Maybe if Ned just tells him, he'll understand that it's not in the vein of common petty resentments, that his overreaction is, if not justified, comprehensible.
"I never had any of that." His voice cracks again, the words coming tumbling out in a rush, like a dam bursting, "No one wondered why I didn't have a date to prom, or tried to set me up, or asked me stupid questions about my life. I guess the reason why I don't get you wanting to be left alone is I've been on my own since I was nine and I'd give anything just to have a father who remembers I exist."
He can feel his shoulders shaking, the cracks in his facade getting wider. This has been coming all day. His mistake was to invite Ginsberg here to witness it. There's no way he'll want to stick around after this, Ned thinks, with almost a kind of triumph that his earlier dire prophecy is fulfilling itself. He'll be disgusted and irritated, maybe with a dash of pity (since he's such a great guy). He'll leave and never call again and Ned won't have anyone to blame but himself.
As these thoughts are circling he keeps talking, almost without being conscious of what he says, "A week after my mother died, he left me at the boarding school and told me he'd be back, only that was a lie. He didn't come back. Or write. Or call. For a year. Then he sent a postcard," here Ned's voice grows suddenly bitter, "One of those pre-printed ones, that people send to everyone they know when they move, with their new address. So I thought... he wanted a new house to start over in, one that wouldn't remind him-" Ned breaks off, with a little shake of his head, expression momentarily wavering closer to tears before he pulls the threads of his composure back in place, "I snuck out of school to surprise him. I thought I'd get there before he could even leave to come pick me up. But when I got there he had a new wife and new sons, so it kind of ruined my big gesture. He was never going to come pick me up. He didn't even fucking recognize me."
There's an uncharacteristic stillness to Ginsberg now, as he sits there and listens to what Ned's saying, because he recognizes, even before Ned gets into the truly emotional parts of the story, that this is important, that it shouldn't be interrupted by fidgeting or asking irrelevant questions or even by saying those little things you say during conversation simply to keep it rolling. Emotion like this doesn't need encouragement, after all, and no amount of "mmhmms" or "uh huhs" will make it any easier for Ned to talk about it. So he's quiet, and still, and listens to what Ned has to say.
Even once Ned is done speaking, though, there're a million thoughts rushing around in his mind, and he has to sit silently for another several moments, during which he hopes Ned doesn't decide to suddenly kick him out for not responding appropriately, now that he's divulged all of this information. Finally, when he does speak, it's a little less frantic and exuberant than usual. "I'm sorry," he says, even though Ned had told him not to apologize, because he's not apologizing for anything he did now, he's apologizing for what had obviously been so painful -- still is so painful -- for Ned. Without meaning to, he'd dragged up all kinds of memories, unpleasantries that Ned had likely been trying to avoid throughout the whole day.
There isn't much he can say, he doesn't think, not anything that won't ring false, at least, and not anything that won't be potentially offensive (he wants, very much, to burst out with a "what an asshole!" comment at the end of Ned's explanation about his father, but he literally bites his tongue to avoid from doing so, because he knows full well that regardless of how harshly someone might speak of their parents, it's almost never productive to denigrate them.) He reaches one hand forward, almost tentatively, sets it on Ned's shoulder, not pushing some kind of suffocating embrace on him -- he doesn't know him well enough yet to know how he'll take it, whether it will be comforting or just stifling.
"Talking about that kinda stuff..." He takes a deep breath, tries to take any hint of pity out of his voice, because he doesn't pity Ned, and pity is one of those feelings that nobody appreciates receiving, even if it's meant well. "... You didn't have to explain yourself to me, but knowing where you're coming from... I'm glad you did. I know that probably makes me selfish because you had to talk about all of that and it's obviously upset you and you were trying to avoid all of this and I came in here and made you talk about it anyway, but you know -- or you should know, if you don't know, and me saying it doesn't help but I'm going to say it anyway because I can't keep my goddamn mouth shut -- you know that you didn't deserve what your father did."
Does that change anything? He doubts it. He knows all too well how meaningless words like that can be, even if they're meant from a place of compassion, which his are. "I'm glad you asked me over. Even when you're like this. Believe me, I've seen worse. I've been worse. How're you supposed to deal with it if you have to deal with it by yourself all the time? That gets pretty exhausting." Another deep breath, and then: "Okay, I'm pretty sure I've said way too much, and I've probably upset you again, and that really isn't my intention, but it's not something I'm so great at avoiding, in case you hadn't noticed, and I'm going to shut up now."
Those moments of silence after he's finished speaking (or rather, cut himself off before his story gets any more pathetic - Ginsberg really doesn't need to know how that night ended, with him sobbing himself to sleep on the floor of his gutted childhood home) are excruciating. Just as Ginsberg is anticipating Ned will throw him out any second, Ned is anticipating Ginsberg will make his polite excuses and a hasty retreat. But he doesn't.
Ned doesn't quite know what to do, in response to that hand on his shoulder. He understands the impulse behind the gesture, but his reaction to it is not ingrained, has to be processed consciously as an unfamiliar situation. At least now Ginsberg will have a framework for why he responds differently to certain things than the average person.
And it seems that Ginsberg understands that that was what he was aiming for. He wasn't looking for pity, or attention; he just wanted to give Ginsberg an idea where he comes from.
The comment about him not deserving it catches him off-guard. He'd never even brought up the topic of deserving it or not, so how had Ginsberg intuited or guessed or reasoned out that he does think he deserved it? What gave him away? But he rapidly discovers that no, he really can't think about any of that right now. If he does, he's sure he'll lose the battle and start bawling, and he really doesn't want that. So instead, face pale, he shakes his head as if to scatter thoughts of blame and guilt and decades-old self-hatred.
He lets out an uneven sigh and, not sure how else to express his gratitude for Ginsberg's patience, curls forward in his direction, resting his head on Ginsberg's shoulder. Not quite hugging him, but getting into his space, as if he wouldn't mind being hugged. What Ginsberg said about dealing with it by himself strikes a chord and he admits, quietly, "Never actually told anyone all that, before."
"You mean you've been thinking about all of that for however many years and never brought it up with anybody? That's enough to drive a guy crazy. Not that I'm calling you crazy, that's not what I mean, it's just... I don't actually know if talking about this kinda stuff makes anyone feel better, but I hope you don't feel worse now that you said it."
There's a not-so-comfortable part of himself that realizes that he's a horrible hypocrite for encouraging Ned to talk about all of this upsetting, emotional, heart-wrenching stuff -- if not explicitly, then at least implicitly -- when he himself rarely gets into the really deep, dark recesses of his own traumatic memories. Sure, it's easy enough to casually toss out a comment about being irritated with his father for his overprotective nature, or even to divulge that his mother died when he was very young, because none of that goes into great depth. For someone who's so open and frank, most of the time, he's learned the hard way that, for the most part, people don't really want to hear about his past, don't know what to do with it. The only person he'd talked to about it at work had been Peggy, and her response had been understandably confused, understandably shaken.
It's hard to justify sitting here and telling Ned that not talking about things can drive a guy crazy, when he himself doesn't talk about a lot of stuff, but then, maybe that's the reason he knows, firsthand, all about how isolated and adrift stuff like that can make you feel. Because Ned's in his space, wordlessly indicating that he's comfortable with some kind of physical contact, he's more than happy to wrap his arms around him again, squeezing him tightly; he's a hell of a lot better at that than he is at comforting words, which Ned's probably noticed by now.
"You can tell me stuff, if you want. Other stuff, in the future, I mean. If there is other stuff. I'm not saying you have to tell me stuff or that I'll be offended if you don't tell me stuff. But if you want to, you can. Open offer."
"I don't feel worse," Ned says, quietly, and he's surprised to find that it is true. It had been painful listening to Ginsberg speak earlier - painful enough to make him lash out, to push him into spilling the secret. But now that he has, there's an odd sense of relief. He'd always thought the best option was to never mention his father or mother beyond what was strictly necessary, to keep himself insulated from pain by avoidance. But (as tonight has demonstrated) avoidance doesn't always work, and there's something almost like the sense of unburdening of confession, in telling Ginsberg about it. It reminds Ned that, for some unfathomable reason, he's ended up with a friend who is willing to listen. With a friend who would make the offer that Ginsberg made, and really, truly mean it.
He presses closer to Ginsberg, not quite sure if he should return the hug, settles for clinging to the front of Ginsberg's shirt in a way that will probably embarrass him, if he thinks back on it later. Ned is profoundly unused to this kind of physical affection, and it's clear from his every movement that he's starved for it. Ginsberg might be less experienced than him in terms of sexual experience, but this kind of platonic, comforting closeness is something he's gone without for a long time.
"There's other stuff," he murmurs, somewhat ominously, because he wants Ginsberg to be prepared. Ned knows that he's a labyrinth of neuroses and traumas and unhealthy coping mechanisms. But the question is, what does he want to tell Ginsberg, and what does he want to keep hidden? It's such a paradigm shift, to imagine himself disclosing rather than concealing, trusting rather than fearing, etcetera.
After a long beat of silence, he says, "I think the worst part is I don't hate him. I want to. I tried to, for years. But I don't. I just miss him."
He doesn't always have the chance to be physically affectionate, because he's not really close to anyone, and it's clear from the warm, completely unabashed way he gives it to Ned that he's more than happy to provide it here. If it's meant to be embarrassing, somehow, the way Ned's clinging to his shirt, it doesn't occur to him. No, he's just happy that Ned feels comfortable enough with him to stay close, to not scoot away or completely shut down the conversation. It's always a balancing act, trying to talk about this kind of thing without pushing someone too far, and he's never been too great at erring on the side of caution. He's almost surprised to find that Ned seems to be taking the comfort so well, because he's still questioning whether he's doing it right or very, very wrong.
"It makes sense to me. That you don't hate him. I mean, it's hard to hate somebody when there's no..." He frowns, pulling Ned a little closer, trying to think of a word. He's still inclined to characterize Ned's father as an asshole, but knowing that Ned misses him makes him all the more likely to recognize that he has to tread carefully in doing so. If Ned hated the man, that would be one thing, and they could rail against him together, but that's obviously not what's going on here. This is even more complex. He bites his lip thoughtfully.
"I'm not sure if you've ever talked to a psychoanalyst, but believe me, I have, and I think a whole lot of it is total bullshit, or blatantly obvious drivel that you end up paying way too much for, but I mean, they talk about closure a lot, and I guess some of that makes sense. Of course you're going to miss someone you never had any real 'closure' with, whatever the hell that means. I don't know, honestly, I'm not good at this kind of thing, and your ominous warning that there's other stuff is more applicable to me, too, than you can possibly guess, but hey, I don't think you're crazy for any of the way you feel. Although that's coming from a kind of crazy guy, so I'm not sure whether you should take that as being particularly reassuring."
Yeah, maybe he just shouldn't try talking, and should stick to the physical affection. That might be better.
He feels a touch guilty at how glad that Ginsberg, too, has other stuff. Some of it Ned's had a glimpse of: his father not being his 'real' father, never having met his mother, putting up with constant surveillance, and apparently being sent to a psychoanalyst. Some of it, he's sure, he has no notion of. It would be wrong to say that he's happy, precisely, that Ginsberg has his own helping of problems, but it eases him. It's a kind of solidarity Ned is unaccustomed to.
"You're doing it again," he murmurs, "Being nice to me. It's very alarming." But from the touch of tentative humor and gratitude in his voice, Ned is anything but alarmed. Cautious, maybe, but that's hardly Ginsberg's fault.
Ned swallows, his heartbeat finally beginning to slow down to a more normal rate. "Same deal. You can tell me stuff, too, I mean. If and when you want. I don't... I'd hate it if you thought just because I freaked out just now that you can never talk about your dad in front of me or I'll flip my lid. That was uh- a one time thing. Promise."
"You'd probably better get used to me being nice to you," he says, smiling
a little, because he can hear the gratitude in Ned's voice, and he likes
it, likes that he can bring some happiness to Ned's day, however
momentarily. "Because I intend to keep being nice to you. It's about the
only way I can balance out being an insensitive loudmouth the rest of the
time, right? Well, that and I like being nice to you, but I'm also hoping
my being nice will make up for some of my, uh, countless flaws in my
ability to talk to someone without upsetting them."
Because despite Ned's offer that he can talk to him any time -- and he
doesn't think the offer is false in any way -- he's well aware, now, that
there's an emotional charge to the discussion of fathers that he hadn't
been privy to before. He may be hopelessly blunt, and very likely to
complain about his own father again (old habits die hard, after all, and
he's been complaining about his father ever since he met the guy) but he
does understand now why it might bother Ned, and he vows to handle it just
a little bit better in the future.
"Yeah, sure, sometime I'll tell you stuff," he says, with a flippant little
quirk of his mouth that completely minimizes how serious anything he could
have to tell would be, "and then you'd run screaming in terror, most
likely."
Ned thinks (without a hint of irony) that for the kindness Ginsberg is offering him now, he'd be willing to put up with a lot more than just the occasional moment of loudmouthed insensitivity. If he looked too hard at that inclination, he'd probably see that it might not be the healthiest attitude to have. Would probably see that it, too, is threaded through with the self-doubt and belief that he deserves to have everyone leave him sooner or later.
"Doubt it," Ned says, and his voice is increasingly normal, so that there's a hint of humor and challenge in that. At the same time, he's serious, really does mean it. After all, as far as Ned's concerned, no amount of having gone through bad things would drive him away, and as for doing bad things, he suspects the worst thing Ginsberg's ever done wouldn't even register on the chart of what he has.
"And don't be so hard on yourself," he adds, detaching one hand to poke Ginsberg very lightly in the stomach reproachfully, "Everybody's got flaws, and a kitten could've upset me, today. And by could, I mean did."
"I'm not sure if I should be offended or pleased that I'm equally as scary as a kitten. I mean, kittens can be pretty terrifying, I guess. Unless that's an editorial statement about how cute I am, in which case, I definitely like it."
He's glad to see that Ned seems to be regaining some of his humor, and although he's obviously not completely back to normal -- probably won't be until the day's over with, he'd bet -- it's a good sign that Ned can joke around with him. Maybe that means the worst of it's over, and it's going to get better from here. He sure hopes so. That's why he's here, isn't it, to make things better? He can't fail Ned now.
And, of course, the appropriate response to being poked in the stomach is to poke Ned back, although he can't quite reach his stomach, so he settles for poking him in the upper arm, not too hard, but teasingly, figuring that since Ned started it, he can't not return the gesture. Besides, it's another excuse for physical contact, which Ned seems to be soaking up at the moment, like he desperately needs it but isn't quite sure how to ask for it.
"Well. You are pretty cute." Ned might not have intended the statement as a commentary on Ginsberg's potential kitten-like qualities, but he's certainly not afraid to go there retroactively. Slowly, that knot in his chest is loosening, and he finds that he feels better than he has since he woke up this morning. Not yet good, exactly, but at least some portion of happiness has insinuated itself past his defenses to lie alongside the sadness.
"And-" he adds, as if sensing the other man's thoughts, "-you give great hugs. Which is saying something, because I'm not usually a fan." He rests his cheek on Ginsberg's shoulder, can't help but wonder how what he's learned about Ned tonight will color the way he sees him from now on. Even a remark as small as that one becomes weighted, he imagines, with a variety of meanings and possibilities. What he knows will confirm what he probably already picked up on; that Ned is unaccustomed to being hugged.
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He isn't sure why it's the first topic to spring to his mind; on another day he would worry about giving Ginsberg the wrong impression and frightening him off, but he asks with a certain guilelessness that will hopefully pre-empt any suspicions.
"Tell me about the first time you fell in love? Or... something like that. A happy story."
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His childhood can sometimes be a blur of indistinct memories, and there's nothing at all there from before the time he was five or so, but he doesn't need to tell Ned that. He'd wanted happy stories, not reflections on things that could easily turn gloomy with the slightest provocation. "I think I must have been in first grade. Six or so, right, that's how old kids are in first grade? There was a little girl named Jane -- weird, I still remember her name, I haven't thought about her for years -- that I was absolutely crazy about. It was my first year of school in the US, I could barely speak English, and I was just as awkward then as I am now. Needless to say, she didn't exactly reciprocate the feelings."
Maybe that doesn't count as happy, but he's smiling as he says it, so at least it's a decent memory. "I started trying to figure out how to say sweet things to her, but the problem was that I had to ask my dad how to say stuff, and he didn't speak English that well either, at that point, and I didn't want to tell him why I wanted to know how to say your dress is pretty, or whatever it was I was trying to say. So, long story short, it was a completely unrequited love, and I learned all of my flirtatious lines from my father, which explains why they're all awful."
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He can hear the smile in Ginsberg's voice, even if he can't see it. The part about wanting to learn how to compliment her is almost more charming. Ned does, however, almost imperceptibly stiffen when Ginsberg is talking about going to his father for instruction on how to flirt in English. It's not a voluntary reaction, and he doesn't even notice himself doing it.
"For me it was the girl who lived across the street. Chuck." Ned can remember just how intensely, how ardently he had adored her, lets out a little sigh. "Charlotte Charles. She and I got into so much trouble together. The first time we met, she pushed me out of a tree." He laughs as he says it - clearly there were no hard feelings. "I was a complete disaster. I thought the sun and the stars all revolved around her. Never said anything about it, but I did kiss her, once."
Which is when his fond memory of her, and how much he'd cared for her, is interrupted (as it always is) by the memory of how they'd eventually been parted. How he'd ruined her life.
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And he admires bravery; it's one of the few qualities he can recognize and appreciate in himself, although admittedly, sometimes bravery and stupidity are awfully close together, at least for him. Bravery makes him blunder into awkward situations just as often as it benefits him, but he wouldn't change it. He likes having Ned leaning against him like this, talking, like maybe they can talk enough to make the evening go by quickly enough that Ned won't have to deal with his obviously uncomfortable feelings about Halloween soon enough. He's committed to trying to make it at least somewhat tolerable.
"I never tried to kiss Jane. We were too young, and I pretty much blew my chances with her by being that weird foreign kid who didn't quite know how to talk to anyone. Not that I'm not still kind of that guy, except that I'm an adult and American now. It's a lot less endearing coming from someone my age than it was coming from me when I was six."
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"I think it's pretty endearing," Ned says, knows he's taking a risk by saying it. But Ginsberg has shown no signs of being easily startled by that kind of talk, of being flighty and ready to bolt at the least sign of affection. Quite the contrary.
And maybe it's a bad idea to go on and say what he does, but now that it's popped into his mind, Ned can't seem to stop himself from saying it. He's had this problem before: keeping everyone at an arm's length, but getting far too involved far too quickly once he does let someone in. "The first boy I ever fell for at boarding school was the weird foreign kid who didn't quite know how to talk to anyone." Maybe he has a type? "Eugene. Definitely never said anything about it to him."
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"Well, yeah, you usually don't tell the guys you fall for that you've fallen for them. Unless you fall for them after they get pie thrown at them, apparently. Not that that's falling for, I mean, not in the really serious definition of the term, just that you were pretty forward with me. I liked that."
And if there's one thing he can say about himself, it's that no matter how affectionate someone else can be, he's always there, poised with something equally affectionate and generally more awkward, to say. He hadn't meant that Ned had really fallen for him, because that implies a depth of emotion that he's pretty sure can't exist yet, but Ned had certainly been interested in him, in some way, from the moment they'd met. The feeling had been mutual.
"The first time I fell for a guy, I was in high school. I thought I was losing my mind. I mean, up until then, I'd been a weird kid, but the one thing I had going for me that was entirely normal was that I was just as girl-crazy as every other guy I knew. And then all of a sudden, there was this guy, and I was having the same thoughts about him I was having about the girls -- well, you know, a little different, but the same basic idea -- and I really thought I'd lost it."
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Another knock at the door, but this one Ned barely responds to. He's too busy listening to Ginsberg's story about discovering his budding sexuality, thinking about how nice it is to just talk, like this. Ned's been with guys before, but none of them were too big on chit-chat, on telling him about their lives. Sometimes they wanted to hear about his, sure - things he didn't want to tell them. But they never offered parts of themselves, in the way that Ginsberg does so effortlessly, so generously.
"What was it that made you fall for him?" Ned asks, curious, thinking it might give him some insight into what it is that draws Ginsberg to people. He has to admit, he's interested for entirely selfish reasons.
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He's well aware that his description of this guy sounds a fair bit like Ned, but maybe Ned won't notice. It's not completely obvious, anyway, and just because he sees Ned that way doesn't mean Ned sees himself that way. "And I guess I liked that he was kind of mysterious. You know, he was that kid that you could never quite fit comfortably into a group. He wasn't a jock, he wasn't incredibly rebellious, he wasn't really anything. I wanted to get to know him better."
He feels that way about Ned, too, like he wants to get to know him better, like he really wants to get inside his head -- not in an uncomfortable, prying way, just in a way that'll tell him more about Ned. He cares what Ned has to say, and doesn't mind offering information in return. To be fair, he's never been particularly hesitant about sharing information about himself.
"Needless to say, he and I didn't work out."
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"You ever wonder what he's doing, these days?" Ned asks, closing his eyes for a moment. He likes sitting like this, being able to feel Ginsberg's chest rising and falling, "I wonder about that kind of thing all the time. Eugene's parents moved him to a different school, because he was so miserable. I don't even know where I'd start to look, if I wanted to find out where he is these days. For all I know he's dead, or a millionaire, or living a block away. And Chuck-" he hesitates here, before he concludes, "-I'm not sure I want to know how her life turned out, actually. What if it was awful?"
He's slipping, without meaning to, without realizing it, back into the shallows of that melancholy that's been threatening to drag him under all day.
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He's quiet for a minute, thinking about the people he'd known in the past, wondering where all of them have gone, what's happened to them, wondering whether any of them wonder about him at all, or whether he's completely erased from the memories of everyone he'd ever known. He's pretty sure he'd never really stood out to anyone, throughout most of school. Even at some of the ad agencies he'd worked at, he doubts anyone remembers him, or if they do, it's vaguely, as the 'weird guy' that hadn't stuck around long.
"It would've been different when I'd been younger if my dad hadn't been so..." He pauses, looking for a word, not wanting to sound like he's blaming all of his oddities on his father. "Well, overprotective. He's always asking me when I'm going to get a girlfriend, always asking me if I'm actually interested in girls, and there's no way I can tell him I'm interested in both, because I don't think he'd get it. I mean, I think he'd understand if I weren't interested in girls at all, but when I ended up with this confusing, ridiculous crush on a guy in high school, it's not like I could go to him and talk about it. And yet he was always there, dogging every single one of my steps, wondering why I didn't have a date to prom, trying to set me up with the kids of his friends..."
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"I don't know..." Ned begins, and his voice is lighter than before. It's a false lightness, though. Perhaps not an obvious enough one for Ginsberg to pick up on, since he hasn't really heard Ned use it before. He's the sort of guy who gets quietly angry, whose irritation gets buried under layers of passive-aggression and meaningful shrugs and a complete inability to vent it in any sort of healthy way. "That doesn't sound all that bad to me. He probably wants you to find someone because he thinks it will make you happy."
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He knows that he sounds bitter, and he's half-compelled to apologize for it. He's not supposed to be here complaining about his family life, after all, he's supposed to be comforting Ned, and this is counterproductive. The problem is that once he gets started talking about all the ways his father is overbearing, he can hardly stop.
"He's not even my real father. He needs to back off and let me live my life. I'm an adult."
Even as he's saying it, he realizes how petulant and childish and decidedly un-adult-like he sounds. He doesn't pick up on the false lightness in Ned's voice, though if he did, he'd stop his tirade immediately. As it is, he's winding down with it anyway, realizing how stupid it all sounds.
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But those thoughts remain on the purely rational level of his mind, and it's voice is small in the face of the torrent of hurt and anger that's clawing its way to the forefront. It's not Ginsberg he should be angry at, and he knows it. All the same he sits up, can't stand to be touching the other man, can't just lounge around and listen to him complain about the fact that his father loves him just too damn much. Not today.
The revelation that it's not his 'real' father is a surprise, but not entirely unexpected. Ned hardly registers it. His heart is hammering too fast in his chest, hands clenched into fists so that he can feel the bite of his fingernails against his palms. For as long as he can manage it he just sits there, trying to keep himself from saying something he'll regret, trying to calm down and check the rapid descent of his mood.
That initial flash of unwarranted anger gives way to a deeper vein of melancholy, heavily tinted with self-loathing. Had he really almost yelled at Ginsberg, for talking about his father, for complaining in the way that most everyone Ned had ever met complained about their parents?
"Can we please talk about something else?" Ned tries to keep his voice steady and emotionless, but the pretense is beyond him, and his words waver with suppressed distress. He clears his throat, even though he knows it's past salvaging now, that there's no way Ginsberg won't be able to tell he's sliced at a nerve, "I understand that it's not my life and my understanding of the situation is imperfect at best, and I'm the one who asked you to talk to me in the first place, but-" his voice cracks, and he shuts his eyes against the hot burn of tears that are trying to force their way free, "-if I have to hear you say one more word about how t-terrible it is that your dad actually gives a shit about you, I think I might lose it."
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He'd known that it was stupid to say so much, to complain so much, when there were certainly people in the world who had it worse than he did, and when he had no idea what category Ned fell into in regards to his parents. All he knows is that Ned's mother is dead, and that Ned doesn't like to talk about it; he knows nothing about his father, and from the way Ned's responded, it's an uneasy topic, at best.
"Yeah, we can talk about something else. I didn't mean to..."
It doesn't matter what he meant to do, and he knows it. He'd been trying to distract Ned with meaningless complaints of his own life, in an attempt to draw Ned's focus away from his own problems, but he'd obviously gone too far, and it's just as obvious that his complaints have made Ned desperately unhappy. It doesn't take a genius to recognize that, from the response Ned's had, he must not have had a very good relationship with his father. Certainly, he hadn't experienced the problems that Ginsberg had, the overwhelming, almost suffocating caring, and of course, from another point of view, Ginsberg understands why it could be difficult to find that so upsetting.
There's a part of him that wants to reach out for Ned and full him close again, to apologize physically because he has no idea how to put an apology into words (he's never been good at that, he's always been clumsy, even when he knows full well that he's been the one to cause offense) but he doesn't. He thinks Ned would likely pull away from him now. All he knows is that he's plagued with guilt, and that guilt is one of his least favorite feelings.
He fights back frustration, too, because the last thing he wants is to be frustrated at Ned, who's having a bad day anyway, and settles for what he thinks is a fairly inoffensive, "I'm sorry. What would you prefer to talk about?" Nobody could have a problem with that sentence, could they? It's so bland as to be completely devoid of expression.
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He rakes his hands through his hair, feels paralyzed by half a dozen unappealing choices. Which one of them is the least likely to make Ginsberg head for the door and never come back? He buries his face in his hands.
"You shouldn't apologize. It's my fault. I should never have asked you over, when I'm like this. I can't expect you to- how are you supposed to know what not to say if I don't tell you?" That inertia is carrying him forward, his words coming at an increasing speed, "I'm sorry I snapped at you. Touchy subject. If you hadn't guessed." It was meant to be a joke, but it's a feeble stab at humor.
And at this point, why not just tell him? Ginsberg must have guessed already it's related to his father. He's not stupid. Maybe if Ned just tells him, he'll understand that it's not in the vein of common petty resentments, that his overreaction is, if not justified, comprehensible.
"I never had any of that." His voice cracks again, the words coming tumbling out in a rush, like a dam bursting, "No one wondered why I didn't have a date to prom, or tried to set me up, or asked me stupid questions about my life. I guess the reason why I don't get you wanting to be left alone is I've been on my own since I was nine and I'd give anything just to have a father who remembers I exist."
He can feel his shoulders shaking, the cracks in his facade getting wider. This has been coming all day. His mistake was to invite Ginsberg here to witness it. There's no way he'll want to stick around after this, Ned thinks, with almost a kind of triumph that his earlier dire prophecy is fulfilling itself. He'll be disgusted and irritated, maybe with a dash of pity (since he's such a great guy). He'll leave and never call again and Ned won't have anyone to blame but himself.
As these thoughts are circling he keeps talking, almost without being conscious of what he says, "A week after my mother died, he left me at the boarding school and told me he'd be back, only that was a lie. He didn't come back. Or write. Or call. For a year. Then he sent a postcard," here Ned's voice grows suddenly bitter, "One of those pre-printed ones, that people send to everyone they know when they move, with their new address. So I thought... he wanted a new house to start over in, one that wouldn't remind him-" Ned breaks off, with a little shake of his head, expression momentarily wavering closer to tears before he pulls the threads of his composure back in place, "I snuck out of school to surprise him. I thought I'd get there before he could even leave to come pick me up. But when I got there he had a new wife and new sons, so it kind of ruined my big gesture. He was never going to come pick me up. He didn't even fucking recognize me."
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Even once Ned is done speaking, though, there're a million thoughts rushing around in his mind, and he has to sit silently for another several moments, during which he hopes Ned doesn't decide to suddenly kick him out for not responding appropriately, now that he's divulged all of this information. Finally, when he does speak, it's a little less frantic and exuberant than usual. "I'm sorry," he says, even though Ned had told him not to apologize, because he's not apologizing for anything he did now, he's apologizing for what had obviously been so painful -- still is so painful -- for Ned. Without meaning to, he'd dragged up all kinds of memories, unpleasantries that Ned had likely been trying to avoid throughout the whole day.
There isn't much he can say, he doesn't think, not anything that won't ring false, at least, and not anything that won't be potentially offensive (he wants, very much, to burst out with a "what an asshole!" comment at the end of Ned's explanation about his father, but he literally bites his tongue to avoid from doing so, because he knows full well that regardless of how harshly someone might speak of their parents, it's almost never productive to denigrate them.) He reaches one hand forward, almost tentatively, sets it on Ned's shoulder, not pushing some kind of suffocating embrace on him -- he doesn't know him well enough yet to know how he'll take it, whether it will be comforting or just stifling.
"Talking about that kinda stuff..." He takes a deep breath, tries to take any hint of pity out of his voice, because he doesn't pity Ned, and pity is one of those feelings that nobody appreciates receiving, even if it's meant well. "... You didn't have to explain yourself to me, but knowing where you're coming from... I'm glad you did. I know that probably makes me selfish because you had to talk about all of that and it's obviously upset you and you were trying to avoid all of this and I came in here and made you talk about it anyway, but you know -- or you should know, if you don't know, and me saying it doesn't help but I'm going to say it anyway because I can't keep my goddamn mouth shut -- you know that you didn't deserve what your father did."
Does that change anything? He doubts it. He knows all too well how meaningless words like that can be, even if they're meant from a place of compassion, which his are. "I'm glad you asked me over. Even when you're like this. Believe me, I've seen worse. I've been worse. How're you supposed to deal with it if you have to deal with it by yourself all the time? That gets pretty exhausting." Another deep breath, and then: "Okay, I'm pretty sure I've said way too much, and I've probably upset you again, and that really isn't my intention, but it's not something I'm so great at avoiding, in case you hadn't noticed, and I'm going to shut up now."
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Ned doesn't quite know what to do, in response to that hand on his shoulder. He understands the impulse behind the gesture, but his reaction to it is not ingrained, has to be processed consciously as an unfamiliar situation. At least now Ginsberg will have a framework for why he responds differently to certain things than the average person.
And it seems that Ginsberg understands that that was what he was aiming for. He wasn't looking for pity, or attention; he just wanted to give Ginsberg an idea where he comes from.
The comment about him not deserving it catches him off-guard. He'd never even brought up the topic of deserving it or not, so how had Ginsberg intuited or guessed or reasoned out that he does think he deserved it? What gave him away? But he rapidly discovers that no, he really can't think about any of that right now. If he does, he's sure he'll lose the battle and start bawling, and he really doesn't want that. So instead, face pale, he shakes his head as if to scatter thoughts of blame and guilt and decades-old self-hatred.
He lets out an uneven sigh and, not sure how else to express his gratitude for Ginsberg's patience, curls forward in his direction, resting his head on Ginsberg's shoulder. Not quite hugging him, but getting into his space, as if he wouldn't mind being hugged. What Ginsberg said about dealing with it by himself strikes a chord and he admits, quietly, "Never actually told anyone all that, before."
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There's a not-so-comfortable part of himself that realizes that he's a horrible hypocrite for encouraging Ned to talk about all of this upsetting, emotional, heart-wrenching stuff -- if not explicitly, then at least implicitly -- when he himself rarely gets into the really deep, dark recesses of his own traumatic memories. Sure, it's easy enough to casually toss out a comment about being irritated with his father for his overprotective nature, or even to divulge that his mother died when he was very young, because none of that goes into great depth. For someone who's so open and frank, most of the time, he's learned the hard way that, for the most part, people don't really want to hear about his past, don't know what to do with it. The only person he'd talked to about it at work had been Peggy, and her response had been understandably confused, understandably shaken.
It's hard to justify sitting here and telling Ned that not talking about things can drive a guy crazy, when he himself doesn't talk about a lot of stuff, but then, maybe that's the reason he knows, firsthand, all about how isolated and adrift stuff like that can make you feel. Because Ned's in his space, wordlessly indicating that he's comfortable with some kind of physical contact, he's more than happy to wrap his arms around him again, squeezing him tightly; he's a hell of a lot better at that than he is at comforting words, which Ned's probably noticed by now.
"You can tell me stuff, if you want. Other stuff, in the future, I mean. If there is other stuff. I'm not saying you have to tell me stuff or that I'll be offended if you don't tell me stuff. But if you want to, you can. Open offer."
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He presses closer to Ginsberg, not quite sure if he should return the hug, settles for clinging to the front of Ginsberg's shirt in a way that will probably embarrass him, if he thinks back on it later. Ned is profoundly unused to this kind of physical affection, and it's clear from his every movement that he's starved for it. Ginsberg might be less experienced than him in terms of sexual experience, but this kind of platonic, comforting closeness is something he's gone without for a long time.
"There's other stuff," he murmurs, somewhat ominously, because he wants Ginsberg to be prepared. Ned knows that he's a labyrinth of neuroses and traumas and unhealthy coping mechanisms. But the question is, what does he want to tell Ginsberg, and what does he want to keep hidden? It's such a paradigm shift, to imagine himself disclosing rather than concealing, trusting rather than fearing, etcetera.
After a long beat of silence, he says, "I think the worst part is I don't hate him. I want to. I tried to, for years. But I don't. I just miss him."
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"It makes sense to me. That you don't hate him. I mean, it's hard to hate somebody when there's no..." He frowns, pulling Ned a little closer, trying to think of a word. He's still inclined to characterize Ned's father as an asshole, but knowing that Ned misses him makes him all the more likely to recognize that he has to tread carefully in doing so. If Ned hated the man, that would be one thing, and they could rail against him together, but that's obviously not what's going on here. This is even more complex. He bites his lip thoughtfully.
"I'm not sure if you've ever talked to a psychoanalyst, but believe me, I have, and I think a whole lot of it is total bullshit, or blatantly obvious drivel that you end up paying way too much for, but I mean, they talk about closure a lot, and I guess some of that makes sense. Of course you're going to miss someone you never had any real 'closure' with, whatever the hell that means. I don't know, honestly, I'm not good at this kind of thing, and your ominous warning that there's other stuff is more applicable to me, too, than you can possibly guess, but hey, I don't think you're crazy for any of the way you feel. Although that's coming from a kind of crazy guy, so I'm not sure whether you should take that as being particularly reassuring."
Yeah, maybe he just shouldn't try talking, and should stick to the physical affection. That might be better.
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"You're doing it again," he murmurs, "Being nice to me. It's very alarming." But from the touch of tentative humor and gratitude in his voice, Ned is anything but alarmed. Cautious, maybe, but that's hardly Ginsberg's fault.
Ned swallows, his heartbeat finally beginning to slow down to a more normal rate. "Same deal. You can tell me stuff, too, I mean. If and when you want. I don't... I'd hate it if you thought just because I freaked out just now that you can never talk about your dad in front of me or I'll flip my lid. That was uh- a one time thing. Promise."
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"You'd probably better get used to me being nice to you," he says, smiling a little, because he can hear the gratitude in Ned's voice, and he likes it, likes that he can bring some happiness to Ned's day, however momentarily. "Because I intend to keep being nice to you. It's about the only way I can balance out being an insensitive loudmouth the rest of the time, right? Well, that and I like being nice to you, but I'm also hoping my being nice will make up for some of my, uh, countless flaws in my ability to talk to someone without upsetting them."
Because despite Ned's offer that he can talk to him any time -- and he doesn't think the offer is false in any way -- he's well aware, now, that there's an emotional charge to the discussion of fathers that he hadn't been privy to before. He may be hopelessly blunt, and very likely to complain about his own father again (old habits die hard, after all, and he's been complaining about his father ever since he met the guy) but he does understand now why it might bother Ned, and he vows to handle it just a little bit better in the future.
"Yeah, sure, sometime I'll tell you stuff," he says, with a flippant little quirk of his mouth that completely minimizes how serious anything he could have to tell would be, "and then you'd run screaming in terror, most likely."
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"Doubt it," Ned says, and his voice is increasingly normal, so that there's a hint of humor and challenge in that. At the same time, he's serious, really does mean it. After all, as far as Ned's concerned, no amount of having gone through bad things would drive him away, and as for doing bad things, he suspects the worst thing Ginsberg's ever done wouldn't even register on the chart of what he has.
"And don't be so hard on yourself," he adds, detaching one hand to poke Ginsberg very lightly in the stomach reproachfully, "Everybody's got flaws, and a kitten could've upset me, today. And by could, I mean did."
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He's glad to see that Ned seems to be regaining some of his humor, and although he's obviously not completely back to normal -- probably won't be until the day's over with, he'd bet -- it's a good sign that Ned can joke around with him. Maybe that means the worst of it's over, and it's going to get better from here. He sure hopes so. That's why he's here, isn't it, to make things better? He can't fail Ned now.
And, of course, the appropriate response to being poked in the stomach is to poke Ned back, although he can't quite reach his stomach, so he settles for poking him in the upper arm, not too hard, but teasingly, figuring that since Ned started it, he can't not return the gesture. Besides, it's another excuse for physical contact, which Ned seems to be soaking up at the moment, like he desperately needs it but isn't quite sure how to ask for it.
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"And-" he adds, as if sensing the other man's thoughts, "-you give great hugs. Which is saying something, because I'm not usually a fan." He rests his cheek on Ginsberg's shoulder, can't help but wonder how what he's learned about Ned tonight will color the way he sees him from now on. Even a remark as small as that one becomes weighted, he imagines, with a variety of meanings and possibilities. What he knows will confirm what he probably already picked up on; that Ned is unaccustomed to being hugged.
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