Disclaimer: Final Fantasy belongs solely to its creators at Square Enix, and the song Passion and the Opera belongs to the band Nightwish. I claim nothing as my own, and make no money off any of this anyway. All comments are welcome. Always.
000
Searing heat coupled with numbing cold. Scarlet cloak made warm by their bodies and dewed grass soaking bare skin. Human flesh heated by energy and blood and hormones; chilled bronze. The fires of youth, dirt stained fingers digging into old scar tissue, reflexive, thoughtless; the cool head of age forces him to rationalize even when hands grip hips hard enough to leave bruises the following morning.
It shouldn't matter, it doesn't matter. They're drunk, completely shit faced on moonlight and spring air. Intoxicated by shared loneliness. All but addicted to the one who reflects mutual suffering.
This is a sin to him, but he has committed so many sins before now. One more can't make a difference to whatever voyeuristic God is watching him graffiti her body with a thousand small welts from bronze claws.
Her gods do not consider sex a sin; she would not bring herself to care if they did.
He is a conductor tonight, a master of musicians, his symphony, his opera for no ears other than his and the moon. Never was the music sweeter, kittenish mewls and sudden intakes of breath coming when he beckoned them forth from behind her rosebud mouth.
Tomorrow he might feel regret for this, gather his guilt from tonight and add it to the long list of other atrocities he has committed. But tonight they are drunk on hopelessness and starlight, anxiety and the music they can build with the other.
She may die tomorrow. His soul might be consumed by Chaos before the sun rises. It is of no consequence now, in the midst of their passion, their opera.
Music played for the players, the crescendo of groans, and the finale of release.
A thunderous applause of silence, punctuated by heavy breathing.