Disclaimer: I own no part of Gorgeous Carat.
Letters to the Darkness
I stopped being afraid of the dark when I was four years old. I always relate the cessation of that fear to the servant who, upon seeing me too fearful to walk the halls by candlelight, said, "The dark can't hurt you. Sometimes, it hides things that can, but you know what it's hiding here. Everything in it belongs to you."
I wonder if that's why I'm afraid of you sometimes. I can't always tell what's going on inside of you.
You have so many facets, like an expertly-cut jewel. I wonder, perhaps, if it's your mixed heritage that attracted you to such a massively divided lifestyle, but perhaps that's too easy an explanation. You're so mature, but you can be so childish; you're dignified, but there are moments during which you seem to have no sense of propriety. You have never failed to protect me when it counted, and some of the sweetest words I remember hearing were spoken by you, but I can't forget the pain of your whip, or the dark potential beneath your polished surface.
Noir: that's the name you chose for yourself. Does it signify the fact that you're a stranger, even to yourself, or is it simply further proof that your practiced aura of mystery has but one intended function: to keep the rest of us as far away from you as possible?
I wonder if I'll ever learn that answer.
When I first arrived, I hated you, and made no secret of it. You were, to the aristocratic values my mother had implanted in me, absolutely repulsive. Sometimes, I still feel that way, but it happens less and less often, and never as intensely. Most of the time, I'm not sure what I feel about you. Sometimes, I doubt I feel anything at all.
Like the darkness, you're confusing.
I think it was Laila that convinced me to give you a chance, though not through any direct action on her part. Living here, I couldn't help but realize how much she loved you, and so I reasoned that, if someone so innocent could find something in you worth dying for, I must have been missing at least part of your true nature. So, I started watching you, committing every detail of you to memory, as I used to do with the Rochefort manor's furnishings. I started listening to what you said, and thinking about it once you were through speaking, rather than automatically defying you.
It was likely more of a defence mechanism than anything else, but I believe it also taught me some things about you.
Above all, you're tough, like overcooked meat. Left alone, I believe you might become the monster all of Paris thinks you, but that's not something I plan to live to see. You also have a strong sense of justice: though you are easily the most selfish man I have ever met, you still try to avoid hurting those who don't deserve it. Though I may not always agree with your ends, I can usually respect your means.
You often look as though you're in pain, especially while you're reading. Sometimes, it seems like simple concentration, but I don't think that's the case. I've come so close to asking you what's wrong so many times, but I always stop myself. You're so fiercely proud that, if you knew I had noticed that something was bothering you, you'd take steps to hide it, and I don't want that. I always want you to feel as though you can be yourself around us, whoever that is.
Besides, what right to I have to pry into your feelings? Who am I? It's not any of my business. At least, that's what I always imagine you telling me, whenever I imagine myself asking. So, I keep my mouth shut, and look the other way.
I don't need to be reminded of my position in your life.
Sometimes, I wonder why you don't just write off my debts and turn me out of the house. I seem to bring you nothing but trouble. Either I get lost, or kidnapped, or wounded… in your world, I'm the very definition of a liability. Why do you bother, time and again? Wouldn't it be simpler to just let me die? It's not like the debts really matter to you.
Every time I start thinking like this, I hear your voice, as clearly as though you're right next to me. "Don't lose your backbone, Florian," you say. "I only want precious jewels." The threat behind those words restores my courage instantly, every time. If you turn into a whimpering fool, it says, he won't be able to stand you any longer.
Most of the time, I can only be brave because I'm so terrified of being cast out of your life.
That's why you can't ever be allowed to read this. It would reveal too much of my weakness, too much of myself. I'm certain that if you knew what I felt, who I really am, you wouldn't be able to stand the sight of me. I really would lose your respect, and to lose that might be to lose far more.
I wonder when I became so dependent on your approval. Perhaps it's not that at all, but simple curiosity. Perhaps I simply want to be around you long enough to decipher your mystery, to meet whoever lives in the space between Ray and Noir, and to, by extension, make his existence more bearable.
On some level, I think I'll always be scared of the darkness. However, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop chasing what lives inside it.