Clash

(Prompt: Playing with fire.)
If there is one truth to the universe, it's that everything works towards a balance. It's a beautiful truth, but that doesn't make it any less cruel. From the laws of motion to rules of chemicals to the basic ideas of the human mind - activity is ultimately temporary, often destructive, and while it always leaves the world changed, it always leaves. This story is about activity, the longest lasting reaction in the world.
Damien was everything a smart person avoided. He was raw, unrefined, and passionate. Give him a goal, and he was a torch - he could cut through any obstacle, lead like a general, inspire to Olympic heights, but let him go? Let him go, and it was your mistake and all of your consequences. He'd drink up the bar like air, leave lovers in ashes with a bitter taste in their mouths. He'd taken lives, when things got too hot to handle. He was wildfire incarnate.
Mary was the opposite, but that didn't make her safe. She was everything a man needed to live. She was a wealthy provider, soft and smooth if you knew your way around her. She was full of love and took care of everyone she touched. She was pure, but that didn't make her flawless. She was greedy to a fault and trapped in her role. She'd follow her course until she ran her tanks dry, and it would never be enough. No cause, no romance, no peace. If you didn't hold her up and bound her, she'd wear you down to nothing and drag you under. She hadn't met a thing yet that could hold her close forever.
When Damien and Mary met, the reaction was swift and devastating. The air gasped. The ground popped and smoked. Their lips locked and it blasted them both, but they didn't care. The fury of their meeting left disaster in their wake, the stuff of legends, stuff of storybooks. Fire rained. Floods surged and raged with steaming heat. They clashed and fought and screamed and fucked, and in that moment, everything was happening everywhere for them. They were happy. They were dying.
They had to part. The separation was the opposition of the connection, but it was no less severe. Dry and aching drought ran up their bodies and out. Invisible heat charred the ground where they walked. Her gentle hands and soft kiss were denied to the world. They were mourning and everything was darkness and thirst and cold. They were empty, but it wasn't over. Nature abhors a vacuum, and heartache isn't balance. In our hearts, we all know that's never enough.
And so, like bouncing waves, they clash and part and part and clash, drinking in the world before diving into each other and losing painful pieces. Steam and sparks cry out like a bad love song - the best kind, the ones we sing along to. The song about knowing better, but doing worse.
The oldest curse in the world is that while the universe demands balance, its beauty thrives on action and reaction. The world paints itself in pain. It's beautiful work, but tell that to the man who learns the price of gravity.
Tell that to the sea that plays with fire. One day, there won't be a thing left to watch. Even later, not a thing left to remember them by.