Paradox.
When an irresistible force such as you,
Meets an old immovable object like me,
You can bet, as sure as you live;
Somethin's gotta give
Somethin's gotta give
Somethin's gotta give
He reaches out with a gentle snarl, knuckles connecting with cheekbone in a tender snap. Hearts flutter as bones fall apart from the force of his love, his unending compassion and respect.
Carefully, benignly, guts wrench as the other hand swoops in to halt the stumbling, holding the other back. Knees touch the ground, worship and adoration glistening moist jade eyes, as pale skin darkens in a testament to their devotion.
Scarlet flecks the white carpet. The colour of passion. Of ardour.
The very colour of their souls, barred to each other in a never-ending dance of flares and glorious rationalizations. They hope that forever doesn't hold true to it's promise.
An irresistible force, an immovable object, locked together in destructive harmony, unyielding, imperfect – too human to allow the other an upper hand; too true to their own natures to allow the other's departure.
Alone, neither has reason.
The irresistible – unstoppable – force charges through life unchallenged, like lightning on a moonlit night. Such a phenomenon knows nothing of a reason to be. Until it encounters its counterpart: the immovable object. A being that, like its antithesis, knows of no competition, goes through life unchanged. The rock, not weathered by storms of life, remains as large and obstinate as the day it was born.
Initially, the conflict, so fresh and fulfilling, closing the empty chasm of their purpose, is enough to sustain them. Confusion mixed with hate fuels the crusade to eradicate the other in an effort to remain faithful to their designs. They seek to comprehend the opposition; they seek to find a way through impenetrable defenses and overcome them.
With understanding spring the first waters of respect, at first a mere trickle, widening to a stream as their battles become a mere routine. Admiration leads to attraction, the repellant and vulgar kind that should never happen, but always does. Opposite sides of the magnet pulled together by invisible influences.
Their last waltz begins.
Love naturally takes on the quality of self-sacrifice. The immovable object no longer wishes to be immovable; the irresistible force no longer wishes to remain irresistible. But they must keep the balance of power, refusing the other's yearning to be annihilated, lest they twist out of kilter and spin out of control. In the end, it all comes down to that control.
So, the ice and the fire, the black and the white, shall forever be at loggerheads, waiting for the day when both, perfectly in time to the beat, can come to a halt; the blissful moment when the object allows himself to be moved and the force allows himself to stand still.
Then, and only then, will the two finally be at rest.
Kyle knew that behind every vicious insult lay words that his lover did not have the strength to utter; veiled by every blow was an embrace bearing a truce, a ceasefire. It was something he accepted as an absolute truth. Just as his lover accepted his fits of rage and volatile make up.
Cartman knew that behind the flames of wrath hid a vulnerable softness his love hadn't the confidence to reveal; obscured by every act of belligerence was a deep want to slow down, to be held close and never let go, never have to flee the warmth again. He needed his love's zeal, his fire, to thaw his heart, just as his love needed his cold temperament to calm the bonfire of his soul.
Their feet moved to the beat with practiced ease. An intricate, flowing step, where no one would lead, and no one would follow; the way they wanted it. The way they needed it.
"Do you think it will all be over one day?"
"What will be over?"
"This."
Silence.
"I hope not."
Smiling sadly, the two sat under the watchful eyes of nameless constellations. A rare moment, where they stripped the layers of pretense and not-hate and stood naked, exposing weakness to the rushing gales and cold winds. This was not perfect balance. They had too much left to attain, too much left to learn for this small window in time to open. Maybe, possibly, if one were to jump, the other would follow; maybe, possibly, if one of them took the plunge, made himself a martyr… Then, maybe…
No.
"Whenever you're ready, fatass."
The redhead had risen. His hold on the navy blue jacket tightened against the frigid air that failed to faze the larger man.
Fire and ice…
"I'm always ready, Jew."
But they had to take the plunge together. It was the last part of their dance; the grand finale. When it did happen, and it would – god, it would – it would outshine the heavens. Perfect and pure: the instant release of impossible amounts of energy in a single, destructive blast. Oh, the danger was tangible.
Cartman believed in Kyle. He believed he would still be standing in the aftermath. It was himself he was worried for.
When he stood to face his love – his, not Stan's, nor anyone else's, but his – the melancholy in those fierce emerald eyes burned through him. The challenge to act, to defy what they knew as absolute truth, to ignore the laws of physics and just fucking act.
And he couldn't.
He wasn't strong enough.
Suddenly, soft, warm lips were on his, not demanding, not aggressive, no – the way they moved against his own, tender and questioning, asked nothing from him but audience. And he responded with all his heart, as the ice started to ebb, the cold and the hate dripping off of him like the heat from his lover.
Running a tongue over Kyle's lower lip, he reciprocated. All the words he'd never been able to say spilled forth as pure emotion, raw and brilliant, as he clutched the Jew to his chest. Fingers entwined in his light brown hair, holding him in place. They were going nowhere.
And that was just perfect.
AN. Eh. I got this idea from the paradox of "the irresistible force and the immovable object" xD It just reminded me of Cartman and Kyle. I was tempted to expand this into a multi-chapter fic, but I'm too lazy for that.
Lyrics are "Something's Gotta Give" by… Someone. It's been covered so many times I can't remember who wrote the original ^^;
So, uh, read and review? ;)
— Coma.