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Flame and ice cannot coexist. Add too much flame, the ice will thaw and melt. If there’s a blizzard—the flame gets snuffed out. The two will nip and nip at the other until one of them dies.
They will always destroy each other over and over until the end of time. Flames will continue to scorch and burn and melt away the ice and snow. Scattered winds continue to blow snow over fire and make sure there is no oxygen for it to survive.
It gets tedious at times, but it’s also addictive.
Both get a rush from the way they try to dismantle the other. Cold makes death feel like sleeping. Cold can’t feel anything itself. It’s immune to feeling. Not until heat brushes against snow and turns it into a river of tears. It can’t feel anything until heat burns the biting cold into nothing.
Flames are angry and all-consuming. It feels too much. When it deconstructs ice and snow, reshaping into an ocean; the ocean extinguishes the flames. Flame consumes everything, it’s always hungry, but it craves being put out even more than the air it needs to live. When something else consumes fire, it’s the only time it doesn’t feel anything.
Unyielding eyes the color of thick frost glare at erratic eyes that resemble burning cinders.
For them, the blade of a sword cutting across pale flesh is indistinguishable from teeth sucking at raw sun-kissed tawny skin.
Fingers seek hair oh-so white hair, tugging at the roots. Whether the pulling is from pleasure or to inflict pain doesn’t matter. Neither of them care.
A calloused, winter-bitten hand unbuttons an ashened dress. Fire must be stoked if you want to keep it alive. Someone dips their hand under a waistband. Breathing becomes shallow for both of them as they bite the other’s lips until blood is drawn.
Flame fights back. It wants to burn down everything in its path. It’s starving. It rips a snow-colored jacket off broad shoulders. Hungrily bites the crook of a neck while undoing a deep blue tie. Nearly tears the white button-down that hides pale skin in half.
Mouth attaches to a nipple. Lapping at it like a nursing calf. Fingers dip further into the apex of thighs. They both plant sloppy kisses all over each other’s bodies.
Lips brush a scarred nose bridge. Lips brush the blemished area around an eye. It’s in these small moments they are their kindest to each other. They understand the other’s struggles.
In bed, they are not as nearly as ferocious as they are in battle. In battle, an arrowhead mercilessly pierces a paled shoulder. A sword cuts a dusky cheekbone deep with no remorse. In battle they are merely competing for the other’s death. In bed—they are just simply competing for the other’s climax.
But no matter the context, both make the other scream and beg and plead. They want to see each other come undone, to feel like it’s the end. Over and over, in an endless cycle.
Their breaths hitch as they rock in sync. Fingers rub against their most sensitive spots. Eyebrows furrow, sweat collects at the napes of necks. Kisses are planted along clavicles and chins. A forehead is pressed to a sternum, mouths open wide in tight o’s, gasping for oxygen in vain.
They ride out their highs together. Pulling apart, chests rising and falling. They both enjoy it much more than they should. But it’s the only time where ice and flame can exist in harmony.
Ice can’t feel anything. It’s immune to feeling. It numbs everything including itself. It is deadly in the most silent of ways. It makes death seem like you’re just falling asleep. It is unyielding and cruel as it is beautiful and wonderful.
It is here where it can finally feel. It is the only time it can feel. It’s a terrifying sensation but it’s welcome. It can only feel because of the overwhelming flames that consume it whole.
For that, it’s eternally thankful for fire.
Flame always feels everything. It is always hungry, always starving. It wants to consume until nothing is left. It craves to destroy everything in its path. It is loud. It is alluring and bright as it is dangerous and unpredictable.
It is here where it can finally be numb. It is the only time where it is numbed. The only place where it is satiated. It’s appalling for it to want to be extinguished, to be calmed, to be put out—but this is what it craves most.
For this, it is eternally indebted to snow.
Small smiles stretch from ear to ear. Chests heave.
Winter pulls her sworn enemy into her arms. She strokes the back of her enemy. A lone tear runs down Cinder’s face. Neither of them talk. Tonight, they will sleep in an embrace. In the morning, Cinder will slip away and they will meet again in battle. Repeating the cycle as they always have.
She wonders if Winter will make sleeping feel like death. Winter's arms are strong and hold her with so much care and love.
Winter stares at the ceiling. She wonders if Cinder is always warm, always this beautiful that it hurts her to look at. She wishes that her enemy wasn’t her enemy. She wished Cinder could stay in her arms forever, make her feel things again forever.
But that’s not how this works.
The two are far more different than they are alike. They’ll get sick of each other, of their ideals and duties. They are not meant to exist together. They are meant to destroy each other over and over.
It’s better for them this way. It’s better for them to draw blood in the heat of battle, until they eventually find themselves like this; in each other’s arms in the dead of night.
In a seemingly endless cycle they will repeat this until someone budges—and finally dies out, for good.
This is the only way fire and ice can co-exist.