Author's Note: It seems that this fandom refuses to leave me alone... (laughs) This 'story' is really a collection of short pieces, snapshots really, chronicling the state in which I've left the characters following my other works, most recently "Less Than Love Is Nothing". I thought it might be interesting to explore the ways in which the characters are coping with their situations, and I can only hope that my readers will agree. Thank you, as always, for your time.
Resolution (Florian's POV)
It's so dark.
I've spent twelve nights in this room since I moved here two weeks ago, and each time the sun sets, the same realization crosses my mind, as though I have yet to experience it. Back home-- no, back at Noir's home-- there are electric lamps in every room; here, there are only a few candles, the replacement of which is costly enough to discourage me from using them too freely. Unfortunately, however, keeping up with my studies requires light to read by, and so I often end up lighting the candles anyway.
A draft makes the tiny flame beside me flicker, and I am reminded as I draw the heavy curtains over the single, east-facing window that the room is equipped only with the most Spartan of heating devices, an over-large radiator coil that, as far as I can tell, never manages to produce more than a trickle of warmth. It's certainly a far cry from the fireplace in Noir's bedroom.
I smile as I return to my small but serviceable desk, skirting the foot of my equally-small-but-serviceable bed along the way. The first time Noir saw this room, he was absolutely horrified; if I had given him the slightest chance, I believe he would have called off my departure entirely, just to prevent me from downgrading my living circumstances so severely. I was able to calm him down a bit by reminding him of the ones I hadn't taken, the floors covered in too-obvious mouse droppings, the windowless closets that even a monk may have found unbearable. In the end, of course, he gave me the money for the first few weeks' rent, though he made me promise that I would find something else, or return home, if my accommodations degenerated even further.
Most of the time, I am able to ignore the part of me that wishes he had not given in.
I close my book, a tattered history volume from the university library, and blow out the candle immediately. The darkness seems to envelop me, and I return to the window, anxious for even the minute comfort of the distant streetlamps below. Shadows pass through the gloom on the sidewalk directly beneath my window, and I watch them carefully, exploring the strange feeling of voyeurism, of one-sided intimacy.
I miss Noir. To a large extent, that feeling is constant, but I bury it as much as I can beneath the essential monotony of daily existence. Nevertheless, though, it lurks on the fringes of my mind, scratching at the walls of my focus, at the foundations of my resolution. It whispers enticingly of how easy it would be to go back, how readily Noir would accept me back into my old life, and how much I really do want to give up on all of this self-inflicted resistance. Think of the library, with its fireplace and its aura of knowledge; remember the satisfaction of keeping the books in order. Think of your bedroom, with its antique furniture; remember how his arms felt, sliding around you as you slept. Remember the taste of his lips, the warmth of his body. Remember the supreme comfort he gave you.
I close my eyes against it, but the voice completes its trap anyway: How can you stay away from him with these memories to remind you of what you're missing?
The answer, as always, is simple: With great difficulty.
I would be lying if I pretended that I want to be here. I cannot delude myself into believing that I am in any way happier in this new life than I was in the one from which I seemed, at the time, only too eager to flee. However, I also know that to run back home would be to destroy everything, including any satiety that may be waiting for us in the future. I have to survive on my own, without him, both to prove that I can and for the power to say that I chose to live with him for reasons beyond simple, childish dependence. I know that, if our relationship is to survive, it must become a partnership of equals, and though this image provides scant comfort, it is a comfort nonetheless. At this point, I am in no position to refuse any form of comfort, tainted though it might be with regret.
With a sigh, I turn away from the window, undress, and climb into bed, barely wincing as a protruding spring jabs into my back. Another day down, I tell myself. One less to go.
As sleep blankets my exhausted mind, I pray detachedly for the strength to keep to the path I've chosen, no matter what cost it may exact from me.