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Gold is not a color he used to hate, it is present in one of his favorite people after all, but there is a reason why that is in the past tense.
Sometimes, when the clouds blot out the sun and the candles go out at night, he can pretend that he still likes it, that it hasn't become a cursed color like red or white, that it's not a constant reminder of what he hates most in this world.
But he always ends up facing reality; when in the mornings he has to look at himself in the mirror; when he moves however lightly under the light and sees gold in the corners of his eyes; when someone points at it and mentions how beautiful it is in their eyes.
He hates it, but he also understands that not everyone sees it as he does. Not everyone sees those golden scars and thinks of the pain that caused them, a phantom pain that some days haunts him incessantly until it has him bed-bound (more because it's mental and the Vitality Of The Heart can only go so far); they don't see those hideous marks and think of a life plagued by the presence of death, the smell of latent blood and fear; they don't see the foulness he sees in them and that's probably the one thing he can't understand.