Chapter 46 - Letter
I woke up with the remnants of a deeply satisfying, albeit brutal, night clinging to my skin and clouding my thoughts. Fuck him. The memory of his possessive touch, the raw intensity of our connection, sent a shiver down my spine despite the lingering ache in my muscles. It had been… amazing. Insanely so. So good, it had knocked me unconscious. A disturbing thought wormed its way into my mind: did I subconsciously provoke his more dominant side, push him to the edge, so that even my pleas for him to stop would be ignored, ensuring that mind-numbing pleasure?
The question was unsettling, but the pull to find him was stronger. I threw back the covers and practically leaped from my bed, a desperate urgency propelling me through the silent penthouse in search of Levi. I found him in the living area, his back to me, engaged in a hushed but clearly tense conversation with Annie. He held a thick envelope in his hand. Their voices were low and muffled, but the underlying friction was palpable.
"... This may distress him more. Is it truly necessary to give it to him right now, Annie?"
Annie's reply, though equally hushed, was firm. "Sir, with all due respect, I think this is a matter we should not be involved in. He needs to know."
Know what? My heart began to pound with a sudden, unwelcome premonition.
"What are you talking about?" The question burst from my lips, sharper and more demanding than intended. Both Levi and Annie turned towards me instantly, their hushed argument abruptly cut short.
"Good morning, Raphael," Levi said, his voice carefully neutral, but the stiffness in his posture and the way his eyes flickered towards the envelope in his hand betrayed his calm facade. He took a slow, deliberate breath, as if bracing himself. "A letter from your… family arrived. Possibly, they reached out because of your injury."
My blood ran cold. My family. It had been years. Years of silence, a deliberate severing of ties. The thought of them reaching out now...
I staggered the thought of it. Years. Years of carefully cultivated solitude, a necessary shield against their disapproval, their blatant, hurtful homophobia. I had painstakingly built a life for myself, a world where their judgment couldn't touch me. And now, after all this time, they resurfaced, their interest piqued only by my vulnerability, by an accident that had left me dependent, even if temporarily.
Levi moved quickly, gently guiding me to sit on the plush couch. As I sank into the cushions, Annie silently appeared, pressing a cool glass of water into my trembling hand.
"It is alright, Raphael," Levi murmured, his voice a low, calming counterpoint to the turmoil within me. His hand moved to my back, the rhythmic rub a small, grounding gesture. "You do not have to open it, or respond to it. If they are in need of something, I will take care of it for you."
"How… did they find me, my address…" The question tumbled out, a fresh wave of unease washing over me.
"You do not have to worry over it," Levi reassured me, his hand still a steady presence on my back. "They likely saw you on television. Your… incident garnered some media attention. It's possible some loose-mouthed press attempted to create a scoop by reaching out to your family and providing my company's post office box as a point of contact."
He placed his cool hand on the crown of my head. "Now, dear," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing balm. "Calm down. They do not have any power over you. You are safe here, and I will not allow them to cause you any distress."
Yet, beneath that soothing surface, a tremor of something akin to fear ran through me. My parents were undoubtedly assholes, their disapproval a constant shadow in my past. But this was Levi we were talking about. His protectiveness, while often welcome, had a sharp, dangerous edge. The memory of the aftermath of my last serious injury flashed through my mind – the smoldering ruins of that mansion, a testament to his terrifying capacity for retribution. Their homophobia was one thing; incurring Levi's wrath on my behalf was an entirely different, and potentially far more destructive, prospect.
A knot of apprehension tightened in my chest. "Levi…" I began, my voice a little shaky. "You calm down, and do not engage. At all. I will think about it, about reading it or just throwing it straight into the bin."
Their prejudice was my burden to bear, not an excuse for his explosive tendencies.
His hand remained gently resting on the top of my head for a moment longer, a silent reassurance. Then, he withdrew it slowly, his blue eyes meeting mine with a steady, unwavering gaze. "Understood, Raphael," he said, his voice calm and even. "My priority is your well-being. Your decision regarding the letter is final."
There was a quiet authority in his tone, a clear indication that he would respect my wishes. It was a relief, a tangible easing of the tension that had gripped me. Perhaps I had underestimated his capacity for restraint, his willingness to prioritize my autonomy.
"I do wish I could stay here with you longer, Raphael," Levi said, his gaze softening slightly, "but as you know, I am rather busy with certain… matters." He offered a small, almost apologetic inclination of his head. "Please, take this time to rest. Allow your body to recover fully."
"Yeah…" I murmured, a small, tired smile gracing my lips. "Have a good day. And no being a tyrannical, god-complexed shadow lurking in the corners, alright?"
Levi's lips twitched, a hint of a smile playing on them. "Oh, Pulla," he replied, his tone dry. "My day will hardly be filled with such… theatrical pursuits. It is simply company affairs that require my attention today. Utterly devoid of any dramatic flair, I assure you." He gave a small, almost formal nod before turning to leave, Annie silently following in his wake. As the door closed behind them, a heavy silence settled over the penthouse, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the unopened letter.
To open it or not?
Curiosity gnawed at me, a relentless itch to know what they had to say after all this time. Seven years. What could possibly compel them to reach out now?
Yet, the instinct for self-preservation screamed a warning. I knew, deep down, that opening that letter was an invitation to pain. Their words, even after all this time, had the power to wound, to reopen scars I had fought so hard to heal. My heart felt fragile, still recovering from the emotional battering of the past. Could I risk shattering it again, all for the sake of morbid curiosity?
The envelope lay on the coffee table, a stark white rectangle holding the potential for both answers and agony. My gaze was drawn to it, a morbid fascination warring with a deep-seated fear. It had been seven years. Had they changed? Was there a genuine reason for their contact? Or was it merely a selfish attempt to intrude, to disrupt the fragile peace I had finally found? The longer I stared, the more the curiosity threatened to overwhelm the fear. The need to know, however painful, was a powerful lure.
“Our Dearest Raphael,
Word has reached us of your unfortunate affliction. We trust that the healers are competent, though one always wonders about the standards these days. Your health is, of course, important, not least because your artistic endeavors reflect upon the family name, however unorthodox they may be.
However, the true weight on our hearts stems from far deeper concerns. We have received troubling news regarding your chosen companionship. To see a son of Cyrusia, of our proud lineage and ancient faith, consorting so openly with an Ascarian… it is a stain upon our heritage and an affront to the very tenets of our beliefs. Our ancestors would weep at such a transgression.
The scriptures are clear, Raphael. The purity of our people must be maintained. To mingle with those considered less devout, less connected to the very soul of God, is to invite impurity and to weaken the strength of our nation. Your union with an Ascarian son not only defies our traditions but risks divine displeasure and the erosion of our cultural identity.
We had hoped that your artistic pursuits were merely a youthful indulgence, a temporary deviation. But this… this deliberate embrace of the foreign, the lesser, is a profound disappointment. It suggests a fundamental turning away from all that we hold sacred and true as Cyrusians.
Should your current circumstances require material assistance, we will consider it, out of a sense of familial obligation. However, know that true solace and true recovery can only be found by returning to the righteous path, by honoring your heritage and upholding the sanctity of our faith. We pray that you will cast aside this misguided attachment and remember who you truly are: a son of Cyrus, bound by blood and belief to our sacred land.
Repent, Raphael, before it is too late.
With heavy hearts and fervent prayers for your soul,
Mother and Father.”
Seven years. Seven years of silence and this was it?
"Utter garbage," I muttered under my breath, the crisp paper of the letter suddenly feeling like something vile and unclean in my hands. The casual dismissal of Ascaria, the blatant assertion of Cyrusian superiority, the thinly veiled threats of divine retribution – it was all there, the same old toxic brew they had been peddling for years.
A hollow ache spread through my chest, a familiar emptiness that whispered of years spent yearning for an acceptance that would never come. Despite the life I had created, their words had the power to strip it all away, leaving me feeling like that scared, lonely boy once more, trapped between their expectations and my own truth.
Tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging, blurring the edges of the room that suddenly felt cold and isolating. I was surrounded by comfort, yet in that moment, all I felt was utterly alone.
A sob escaped my lips, a raw, choked sound that echoed in the emptiness. I curled in on myself on the expensive couch, the soft fabric doing little to soothe the deep ache within. Seven years. Seven years of hoping, of secretly wishing for a change that would never materialize. And with each hateful word in that vile letter, the last vestiges of that hope withered and died, leaving behind only a profound and desolate loneliness.
The pain wasn't just about the words on the page; it was about the years of accumulated hurt, the constant rejection that had chipped away at my spirit. My body trembled, racked with the force of my grief. I clutched at the soft fabric of the couch, as if trying to ground myself, but the emptiness inside felt vast and unyielding.
To think they would offer me money to come back. The thought twisted the knife even further.
Clutching a throw pillow to my chest, I curled tighter on the couch, as if trying to physically fill the emptiness that gnawed within. It wasn't just the loss of their acceptance; it was the realization that a part of me, a small, hopeful ember, had still clung to the possibility of reconciliation. And that ember had just been extinguished by their cruel words. The tears had slowed to a trickle, leaving behind a raw, burning sensation in my eyes and a heavy weight in my chest. I felt like an orphan adrift at sea, with no true anchor, no place where I was unconditionally and wholeheartedly embraced by my own blood.
So what do one do when they feel sad, lonely, and utterly abandoned?
They drink.
I pushed myself up from the couch, the soft cushions offering little comfort now. My gaze drifted towards the sleek, well-stocked bar in the corner of the living area. Bottles of amber and clear liquids glinted under the soft lighting, promising oblivion. A way to quiet the relentless voices of self-doubt and the gnawing ache of loneliness.
The letter lay forgotten on the coffee table, its poisonous words having already taken root.
Time lost all meaning. Hours blurred into a continuous cycle of pouring, drinking, and a dull, aching numbness. The tears had long since dried, replaced by a heavy, listless apathy.
The hazy stillness of my self-imposed oblivion was shattered by the soft click of the penthouse door. Through the alcohol-induced fog, a familiar silhouette materialized. Levi. He moved with his usual quiet grace. His gaze found me by the panoramic window, perched precariously on the edge of a solitary couch, the city lights painting distant, uncaring patterns on the glass behind me. His expression, usually so carefully guarded, held a flicker of something unreadable as he took in the scene: the neglected glass on the nearby table, the unfocused stare in my eyes, the slumped posture that spoke volumes of my despair.
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"Raphael." It wasn't a question, nor an accusation, simply my name, spoken with a weight that sobered me slightly. He didn't approach immediately, giving me space, allowing me to meet his gaze on my own terms.
A wry, unsteady chuckle escaped my lips. "Families suck, don't they, Levi?" The words were slurred, the alcohol still clinging to my tongue, but the sentiment was raw and genuine. It was a pathetic attempt at connection, a desperate bid for understanding from the one person in my life who understood the complexities of fraught relationships, albeit in a vastly different context.
Levi finally moved, his steps silent on the polished floor as he approached the couch. He didn't sit beside me, maintaining a respectful distance. His gaze, sharp and perceptive as always, flickered towards the empty glass on the table before returning to mine.
"I assume the contents of the letter were not pleasant," he stated, his voice devoid of pity but laced with a quiet understanding. A ghost of a grimace touched his lips. "You caught a glimpse of my family when you met my mother. So, yes. Families… can be a significant source of… unpleasantness."
“Tell me about your family,” I said, hoping maybe I might find some solace.
Levi's gaze remained fixed on the distant city lights for a long moment, the cold, impersonal glow mirroring the chill in his voice. A muscle ticked rhythmically in his jaw, a subtle betrayer of the tightly controlled emotions beneath. "You already know about my sister, and my father. But, if I must," he began, the words clipped and precise, as if reciting a factual but unpleasant history. "The Blake family was a dukedom centuries ago. They enjoyed close relationships with the royal family, a powerful alliance that secured our standing. But, as with every noble lineage, the relentless march of centuries eroded that power. Though the lands remained, the ancestral houses stood, the family companies continued to operate, the influence, the weight we once held, it diminished. Because that lost power needed to be compensated for, someone had to bear the burden of keeping things afloat. That thankless role fell to my father. I witnessed firsthand how the relentless stress of it, the constant maneuvering and worry, leached the life from him, leading him to an early grave."
A shadow, dark and fleeting, crossed his features before he continued, his voice now laced with a distinct edge of resentment. "On the other hand, my mother, Cybil. A sharp and fiercely intellectual woman, whose sole ambition was to see the Blake family reclaim its former glory. As a child, I was often a silent observer at her elaborate tea parties, a training ground where I learned to decipher the subtle language of power. With seemingly innocuous gestures – a slight tilt of her head, a carefully phrased inquiry – I watched her expertly gather information, manipulate alliances, dissect the weaknesses of other noble ladies. She held me in high regard, not as a son to be cherished, but as a powerful asset, a carefully cultivated heir who would fulfill his duty to restore the family's prestige. Her focus was solely on my education, my intellectual development, to the exclusion of all else. Our family dinners were exercises in absolute silence. Absolute," he repeated the word, a bitter undertone coloring his voice. "It was perceived as 'peace' by the oblivious servants. But, it was a battlefield at that table. A silent, strategic war, and my mother, with her piercing intellect and unwavering ambition, would win that war every single time, leaving the rest of us… subdued."