…Of Darkness and Of Light…
It was the sex that convinced him he was unloved and lonely, and that he would die unloved and lonely. It was laying in the bed afterwards, holding her because she wanted to be held that he wished, at times, that he had someone to turn to, to seek comfort in, if only for an hour, if only in the arms of a stranger, but he derived no love from her, only need, and at some he had realized he no longer knew how to take, only give.
It is in the blood dripping down his lips, the bruises decorating his skin, the eyes of the man who he would kill and who would equally kill him that he feels alive. On some level, James is addicted to pain.
Sweat beads on his bare skin, and there is grace in his movements as he struggles with the ropes binding him to the chair, hands opening and closing in an effort to pull himself out of the pit dug by pain.
Le Chiffre, watching, decides there is almost a sensual effect in his exertion, a note of seduction in the raw scream pulled from his captive's throat, and he smiles, softly, as James' eyes flicker open to rest upon his face. The eyes have not been duled for all the pain, the intelligence and wry humor remains and his defiance is tangible.
A remote part of Le Chiffre recognizes the beauty in James' spirit, and admires it--for it is a beauty born of bitterness and darkness and he has always stood on the crossroads of good and evil.
If Le Chiffre has ever loved anyone at any point it would be the naked man seated before him, smirking defiantly as second by second he lost all that makes him a man.
But it is nothing, Le Chiffre knows.
The man is arrogant and intelligent and full of bravado and Le Chiffre doubts that there is anything he can do to break him, emasculate him, or really alter him in any way from what he is and what he cannot help but be.
James screams again and the sound is savage and animal and beautiful and Le Chiffre gazes into his piercing blue eyes and loves him hopelessly and with abandonment as only a darker mirror may, as only he is able, with understanding and admiration and hatred and honesty.
And James smiles in brutal satisfaction, knowing that he is not the only one to be seduced by pain and savagery and perfection, feeling the beat of Le Chiffre's heart, the sweat slipping from his brow in raw reflection of his own.
There is something powerful in pain and blood and death, and each knew if but had never truly tasted its bittersweetness until this moment, for to be understood so deeply and unexpectedly, to give and take so freely and thoughtlessly is as rare and fragile as James' skin, a timid connection born of blood and beauty.
They are two halves of a whole and they are more complete in this moment than they have ever felt before or will after, because they are equally met, because they are each dark and each light to some degree, separated by the giving and the taking, divided by cloth and rope and skin.
Without evil there can be no good, and Le Chiffre burns inside at James' inevitable defiance and inevitable death as James' burns for Le Chiffre when it is over and Le Chiffre will be empty and alone.
James knows emptiness is the more terrible torture on earth, and while this physical pain may be the worst devised by hell, his base satisfaction with it is the sin; and Le Chiffre knows just as strongly that he was irrevocably damned the moment he laid eyes on his blue-eyed captive.
They are pieces of each other, halves of each other, and they have become addicted to each other like a drug. There will be no escaping the withdrawal, the need, the connection that has molded this one moment into a lifetime of passion and pain.
