She'd bought long, satin opera gloves, so they could dance. Of course, he had to wear gloves, too, because she'd insisted on a dress that plunged in the front and the back (another reminder that the Chuck who used to trample clay villages dressed as Godzilla had grown up in more ways than one). It was okay, though, because these satin prophylactics let them feign normalcy, just for tonight. Because they weren't dressed for rooftop bee-suit dancing this time—this time it was the New Year's Masquerade in the Grand Ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton. And behind their masks Ned and Chuck hid not their faces so much as the mysterious magical obstacle that set their affair apart from all the rest. Tonight, they looked like any other couple.
Though they looked normal, tonight, she felt like more than that. Because the small things—the loose but secure link of his (sleeved) arm as they descended the marble stairs into the swirling party as if stepping into a cool, clear swimming pool on a steamy day; the light but solid support of his (gloved) hand on the small of her back, within which she could differentiate six distinct pressure points, the heel of his palm and five electric fingertips, as they waltzed with the current of other dancers; the simple but sensual interlocking of (satin-clothed) fingers over the dinner table where they sat taking in each other more than their tiny, fanciful entrees—these little physical affirmations that were normal for most people were special, for Ned and Chuck, in their rarity, and exhilarating in their risk—death (certainly hers, and probably, he sometimes thought, his too) was ever a threat, blocked by no more than a thin layer of satin.
At ten till midnight, hand in gloved hand, they went outside to the balcony. Carefully, (she had planned this move ahead of time, working out the logistics to make sure it was safe), she slid an arm underneath his jacket (but over his shirt) and behind his back. Her shoulder followed and came to rest in the hollow underneath his arm, held snug by the coat. Because she'd worn flats, she was short enough to rest her head on his chest, a safe distance from his exposed chin. He held fast to her waist with one hand and let the other wander (carefully) up and down her exposed arm and shoulder blade, wishing she'd also worn a hat so he could rest his head on top of hers.
"Ten, nine, eight…"
When they heard the count down, she arched away just far enough so that they could lock eyes.
"Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year."
Smiles. She wished they could kiss. Of course she did. But she could see that he wished it too, and knowing that made her smile wider, and maybe knowing that was enough.
She's kicking off her shoes, but somehow he's already in bed. She catches his eye and holds it, watching him watch her drag her golden straps her to the edges of her collarbone, thinking, as they slide over the crests of her shoulders, that her hands are just the understudies, playing the roles meant for his. The golden silk falls smoothly down her arms and hands; it slips off the tips of her fingers and follows the rest of the gown in an avalanche to the floor, and still she holds his gaze, relishing the idea that what she's imagining is made more real because it exists in his mind, too (she knows it does)—She can feel (can even taste) his strong, baker's fingers; he can feel (and taste) her smooth, white shoulders. If a tree doesn't fall, but everyone hears it, she thinks as she pulls on her satin nightgown, there must have been some noise. But behind the shared hallucination, she sees the vexation in his eyes. She climbs into her bed and lies facing him.
"Ned?"
"Hm?"
"It's frustrating. This… thing. But… maybe it's supposed to be that way—I mean—maybe we'd be frustrated anyway."
He looks puzzled but amused, an expression she's seen on his face decades (which seem like centuries) ago, when they discovered they could burn things with magnifying glasses.
She continues, "You know how sometimes people say they feel things so deep, they can't possibly express them in words?"
He nods and his pillow rubs against his cheek.
"I was thinking… maybe—maybe touching is the same way. I mean, maybe human emotion can be so complex, so intense… maybe we couldn't express it no matter what. Maybe it's meant to frustrate us."
In contemplation and wonder he sighs; a half-smile has crept across his features.
"You think that's why people cry after sex?" he ventures.
"Even that's not enough…?" She shrugs in agreement. They leave the lights on and keep silent eye contact for a while longer.
Just as she's nodding off, he speaks softly. "Chuck?"
"Mhm?"
"I…--…Thank you."
Smiles.
"Thank you."
Sleep.