Yeah, I occasionally write slash but most of it never makes it to the computer. Oh well.
A few notes about this one-shot: the dialogue is in both French (as is the title) and Italian and is taken from several different operas. Plaisir D'Amour ("The Pleasure of Love") is a song from a Martini opera.
A simple request: DON'T SUE. Thanks for complying with this. I owe more money than I have. Just ask my friends.
Reviews welcome. That's all I've got to say.
Plaisir D'Amour
"Plaisir d'amour ne dure qu'un moment;
chagrin d'amour dure toute la vie."
("The pleasure of love lasts but a moment:
the pain of love lasts a lifetime.)
They were like strangers meeting in the night -- the sensation of soft skin and seductive kisses were established in just moments because the night was short and their time together only hours.
Their steps around each other were mild and graceful; the footfalls were light and intense in their poise. One circle, maybe two, dark eyes meeting under the silver coat of the moon. Cobblestones beneath their thin boots, then the flick of a hand as if it were a stern plea. Lips would meet, locked together in haste and in unspeakable, heavy affection and desire.
A dance, maybe? Perhaps it appeared that way. But in the meeting of hands, the soft noise of the city night, there was much more than instant passion. There was painful love, swift and breath-taking, there was regret and bitter loneliness when the sun broke their spell of magic. Yearning, and the iron clatter of brushing gazes. They did not talk about it, not even to each other. Only at night, in the belly of darkness and shaded passion, did they whisper tender things during the brutal shower of affection.
Lovers, definitely. But it was forbidden love, available to them only in the cheapest places, the squeaking beds of filth and prying eyes. "Vorrei baciare i tuoi capelli neri," he would whisper and then there was an unspeakable act of desire as they lay together, alone in their longings. Did they ever treat the rendezvous as anything more than accident? Perhaps in their gazes they read each other, but the silent understanding of total secrecy barred them from everything, except the half-sighted meeting under the stone archway in the darkest of nights. "Nuit d'amour!" came the panting expression as the last drop of pleasure was squeezed from the night. Their exploits stayed secret, however; no talk of such things ever went beyond the sheets in which they lay, tangled.
"Vorrei morir con te angel di Dio, o bella innamorata, tesor mio!"