Archive of Our Own

After the ball, Griffith comes to him to thank him for his great work.

Or at least, that is the excuse he uses.

Griffith does not thank him. He doesn’t thank anybody, not in the way people do. Guts doesn’t really care about that, actually. Niceties and ass-kissing are not something he cares about, much less wants; But over the years, either in battlefields several meters apart, or in hushed, close-quarters meetings, he had learned to interpret many of Griffith’s cryptic, unnervingly steady looks, and so he knows that what he gets is as close to gratitude as he is ever going to get from the leader of the Band of the Hawk.

Funny how that works. He used to… He can’t really describe it. Like it? Maybe.

There used to be something a little warm about it before, knowing he could interpret Griffith better than most people, better than nobles and princesses, better than other Hawks even – that his steady gaze and his gentle face could not fool him, that Griffith could come around and smile softly in a pleased, little smug expression, to thank Guts for killing a man for him, and it all would have been fine. That the world could only see the polished parts of him, the courteous and kind ones, but Guts got to see the rawness underneath, the violence and the hunting instinct, and he could feel like in some way, they understood each other.

Another thing Guts was misinterpreting, probably. It tastes sour in his mouth, now.

He’s aware now, though. He won’t make that same mistake twice.

Maybe Griffith is pleased – Guts doesn’t think he isn’t. Of course he is. Guts is his soldier, he has performed his mission well, Griffith has obtained the result he wanted; As far as Griffith is concerned, everything is just fine. His sword swung true and struck the right target. He doesn’t think much the sword should have doubts about its duty. Guts is the one who’s been changed. It’s not really Griffith’s fault he forgot himself.

But he wants to be more. He’s sad that he wants to, and he’s annoyed that he even can feel sad about it. What can he be sad about? What Griffith said, it had all been true –

“Guts?” Griffith calls, and Guts suddenly remembers himself; They’re in his rooms, alone, and the flickering candlelight is soft and uneven, but not enough to hide his face in shadows. He should be careful. Griffith can see him plain, every twitch of eyebrow and every purse of lips, and despite the dark, grimy feeling in his chest, the wide gap he now feels between them, he cannot forget that in the time they have spent together, all these years, learning to read each other had been a two-way path.

“Sorry.” Guts says, but nothing more. He is sorry, but he has no words that can explain why.

Griffith, in turn, reacts as Guts thought he would: He stays quiet too, for a beat, his eyes piercing blue like the winter chill that's coming in, looking at Guts like he can see his soul with a single glance. It’s uncomfortable in a way that it hasn’t been for years.

"Is something wrong?" Griffith asks, gentle in a way that now grates, softly inviting.

Yes, but Guts won't tell him that. What would he say? I know I'm not your friend? Stupid. That's not something you say to your Commander, and Guts is not some sort of crying baby, begging for attention or a scrap of affection.

Besides, what would Griffith say? Yes, I know? Griffith is not the one who misinterpreted their relationship, Guts is. They are commander and soldier, and everyone seems to know that but him. Guts supposes he should be content enough with being one of Griffith's closest, his inner circle, and be invited to parties and be involved in all the most important shit as he knows so many of his comrades would die for – Take his share, and shut the fuck up about it. Hell knows the others are having the time of their lives being nobles, or as close to that as they can be. Corkus can't be quiet about it for the life of him. Even Casca, as blunt and violent as she is, like no other woman Guts has ever seen, seems to be really into the idea of them leaving the battlegrounds for the court - anything that gets Griffith closer to the throne, anything for his dream, even if it means losing who they are meant to be, as an army.

But that's the thing, isn't it? That's Casca's dream. Following Griffith. That's everyone else's dream. Ending the fight.

Guts is the odd one out. The dreamless, the aimless.

The one that couldn't be furthest away from Griffith in all the ways that matter.

Guts sneaks a glance towards him, and just the brief sight of his bright, blinding hair and face and everything has him looking away just as fast. He shifts where he sits at the edge of his bed, the wood creaking softly, and acts like the stone wall is the most interesting thing in the room.

"Don't worry about it." He assures Griffith, because that's just it. It's none of his concern, in the end. Guts has to adjust to this new reality, this new perspective, all on his own – and sooner rather than later, because the heavy weight of it has already begun to show.

Griffith had already been slipping through their grasp, worming his way into the graces of the rich, dressing them all in fancy clothes to disguise all the dirt and blood in their hands. The further he goes, the closest to the throne, more and more impossible he will become. More untouchable, more otherworldly; and someday, he will become but a distant memory, a voice only heard through missives and orders, a sight only seen on balconies up above, over a crowd whose faces he won't even be able to distinguish.

He will be king, someday.

Guts knows he will.

But somehow, it feels like the first time Guts is realizing that when he does, they will lose him. Or at the very least, Guts will.

Guts is a sword. What use do you have for a sword in times of peace?

Griffith does not like his answer. His face doesn't pinch, exactly, but his eyebrows twitch, half hidden by his hair, in a move so familiar Guts can catch it even if just by the side of his gaze. He steps forward, closing the heavy door carefully behind him, as if the noise or the movement could scare Guts somehow, as if the weight of the door alone didn’t make an ominous, foreboding sound when it hit shut anyway.

He's not menacing, but when he comes closer, he does it with that odd, feline grace, the way Guts has seen so many times in battle - the thing that makes him so fast, so agile, sometimes almost inhuman, and never before, not even when they first met, Griffith’s approach had made him feel so distant.

"This kind of brooding is unlike you." Griffith says, but not as a question. "Brooding, yes. You're very good at that. But this is different, isn't it?"

Guts scowls, which most likely doesn't help with the brooding look, but he doesn't care.

"Has something happened?" Griffith insists, now frowning harder. "They say there was a bloodbath in the castle, but nothing seems to have gone badly. No one has accused a culprit."

"No one left alive to talk." Guts concedes that. "At least no one that got close enough."

"Are you worried I might be upset?" Griffith asks, in a confusing turn of events. Guts blinks.

"Upset?"

"Guts." Griffith says, firm, with an intensity that’s almost startling. "I've told you this again and again. Your drive and your impulses are not shocking or upsetting to me. I know who you are, and how you fight, and all my plans are made with that in mind. I'm just glad you did not get caught. If more or less people died in the process, I do not care."

Oh. Guts hadn't even considered that.

Yesterday, he would have - any day before that, he would have. Today, it did not even cross his mind.

Despite what Casca might think, Guts does feel guilty for his inability to restrain himself in battles on occasion, recognizes his temper is bad and his planning even worse; once the bloodlust settles, he always worries that he has, somehow, endangered Griffith's carefully laid out plans, despite it always turning out fine.

He can see how Griffith came to the conclusion this might be what's bothering him: His orders were, after all, to be careful and quiet, and not be seen. Guts has failed all of those things, if he's being honest. Just because no one can name him doesn't mean he wasn't seen, and careful and quiet definitely were also not involved in his execution, but for once, that is not the issue. The issue is the execution, in the truest sense of the word. Guts, in his single-minded actions and ill judgement, killed a child, an innocent child, messy and bloody and cruel, and in a rush to fix the consequences of that mistake killed more and more and more in a way that made him feel like he was the one bleeding out on the floor with his heart speared right through.

To then find out the man he had done all of this for didn't even consider him an equal.

Yes, Griffith does not care how many people Guts has harmed in the process. That's the mindset of the mercenary, of course. One body or a pile of bodies are the same.

But Guts hadn’t been expecting it to hurt so much, to be reminded of it.

He—

He thought he was home.

He thought he was more than this. In Griffith’s eyes, at least.

"I guess." Guts shrugs a little too late, half-hearted, eyes on the floor, figuring this is as good an excuse as any; If Griffith believes he's only afraid of his disappointment, then that is good enough. It’s much less pathetic than the truth.

"Guts." Griffith insists, stepping even closer, so close Guts can see the tips of his boots at the corner of his lowered sight. The air between them stands still. "Look at me." He demands, and one beat of hesitation is too long a wait for him, because when his request is not immediately fulfilled, his voice drops to pure steel. "It's an order."

Like moth to flame, Guts' eyes raise to meet Griffith's, an instinctive reaction. Almost immediately he wants to punch himself for it.

"Won't you tell me what's troubling you?" Griffith says, so, so persuasive, the concern sharp with an edge of frustration.

"I said don't—"

"Am I really to believe nothing is wrong, when you won't look me in the eye without an order?"

Guts frowns, and Griffith lets out a harsh little sigh.

With a little dismay and a whole lot of familiarity, he leans over to the side and pulls up the modest, lonely chair that sits forgotten by Guts' table. A table that has never seen a lot of use, really, a mere prop to put tools, weapons, or armor on. The scrape of its legs on the floor is as foreign to him as the sight of Griffith turning it around and sitting on it to face him, close enough that their knees will touch if he leans too much, as if this is something they just do, as if Griffith is the one constantly poking around Guts' rooms and not the other way around.

Guts tears his eyes away again, too uncomfortable to face Griffith now that he is suddenly so close. If he were less cornered, less overwhelmed, he would have sworn out loud, biting and angry - frustrated by his own fucking vulnerability, his stupidity at being caught by his commander at his most soft, his most unsure and wrong-footed, like a creature exposing its soft belly for the blow.

“Something about today was wrong, wasn’t it?” Griffith asks, in a voice now so low it’s just a whisper. “Was it the request I made of you? Was it… too much?”

Guts keeps silent, and that seems to trouble Griffith even more.

“…Was I too cruel?” He asks, and he sounds so genuinely worried about it that it finally drags an answer out of him.

“An order is an order.” Guts offers. “Doesn’t matter if it’s cruel or not.”

“Is that what bothers you? That I made it an order?” Griffith considers. “You asked me to.”

Again, Guts keeps quiet. He cannot bother to explain himself – knowing the outcome will not change.

“It was not an order, at first. It was a request.” Griffith clarifies, as if this is important. As if that distinction is something vital, something Guts can’t quite make out. “I asked you, and you told me to order you to do it.”

“You’re my commander.” Guts says, with finality. “You can order me to do whatever you want.”

Griffith pauses, a little taken aback, as if Guts had said something far more biting than just the simple truth.

“Yes. I could. Even things you don’t like. Even things you despise.” He says, tasting the words in his mouth, low and breathy, and it pulls at Guts’ heartstrings. “Is that what I did?”

No. No, what he did was worse, but Guts cannot tell him that. What he did was to allow Guts to fall into a false sense of… of belonging, to pull his strings and make him go carelessly, pretending he thought Guts was more than he actually is.

“Was this your limit, Guts? The line you cannot cross?” Griffith asks, a little too unkindly, and a little too understanding. “You will make blood rain on the battlefield any day, thousands upon thousands, but one man, alone in his chambers, that is too much?”

The hint of what feels like accusation hits his ear the wrong way, and it grates. “This is different!”

“How.” Griffith asks, flatly, deeply unimpressed. “How is it different. Tell me.”

Out of spite, Guts locks his jaws and turns his face away, like a petulant child. He will not allow himself to be led into this trap again. Into Griffith’s provocations and disappointment, into that old, foul feeling of chasing the understanding and kindness of someone who has already decided what they think of him and his actions.

It pains him, and it annoys him, and it confuses him, and he tries so hard not to give into the instinct to explain himself and beg for empathy from the man who now literally commands his every move. He did it for Gambino, and look where it got him. If he does it for Griffith, when does it end? Can it even end? How could he explain the visions he has of himself as both victim and monster, to a man he doesn’t want to see him as neither? He feels disgusting not for killing the bastard Count, he couldn’t give two shits about him, he was the one who tried to kill one of them first, but the kid, the kid had nothing to do with it, and the arrow wound burns but not as intensely as the ache in his chest, his whole body clean from the baths but hands still tainted with blood.

Griffith waits for his answer, and when none comes, a heavy, suffocating silence falls between them like smoke. Then, casually cruel in a way he has never been, not towards Guts, he says:

“I will not involve you in this any further. It seems like I miscalculated.”

 Miscalculated, as if he ever could. As if he had ever made a single mistake in his plans, in all the years Guts had known him.

Like he had failed.

Something wells up inside Guts, an emotion he has no name for, a despair unlike any other he has ever felt, even when he was just a boy. Griffith's eyes shift away, stone cold, the drop of his shoulders heavy, and Guts feels it coming up his throat before he can stop it, like bile and blood, acid in his stomach and his tongue and –

Griffith moves to stand up, stilted, and says, “I thought—”

“I killed the kid.” Guts says harshly, like it’s an attack, instead of a confession.

Griffith frowns. “The kid?”

“Count Julius’ son. The little blond kid.”

Guts does not look at him, but he can see from his periphery as Griffith’s posture changes, his whole body going lax and the fight leaving his bones when he realizes the depth of what Guts has just admitted. “Adonis.”

“Yeah.” He nods, somberly, feeling like the most disgusting piece of shit in the world. “Adonis.”

Guts hadn’t even known his name. He thinks the guards might have yelled it while they chased him, but he could not hear a thing past the blood roaring in his ears.

Now he knows. Adonis. The poor kid he had gutted.

He doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it must be bad. He can feel it is. He refuses to look up at Griffith still, but the air between them feels stiff not with bitterness, but shame and uncertainty. For excruciating seconds, he fears and craves a response, any response, from Griffith, but what he gets is an even more disarming, more irresistible offer when Griffith slowly sits back down, leans a little forward, and says, kindly:

“Tell me what happened.”

“It was an accident.” Guts says, and he’s glad it comes out as a fact, and not an apology. “Kid walked up to the door and saw it, and I didn’t know. Couldn’t see him in the dark. Killed him before I even realized…”

“Guts…”

“I’m sorry.” He rushes to say, and then clams up, deeply ashamed.

“Don’t be.” Griffith says, and he sounds like he means it. It hurts him so bad it robs him of words completely.

When nothing else is said, Griffith shifts and continues, conspiratorial, like he’s sharing something that, even when it’s just the two of them, it’s too dangerous to say out loud.

“I'm sorry I put you in this position.” Griffith says, and Guts has to bite his tongue not to say anything in response. “I know you dislike the life we are leading right now. The lies and schemes, the stuffiness of it…” He pauses, careful. "I told you once I agree with you. It tires me too. I was not lying. But that is the sort of thing I can only admit to you.”

Guts risks a glance up, and Griffith’s eyes are the ones who flicker to the side this time.

“I cannot stand the idea of the Hawks knowing about this. About some of the things I have to do to take us further. It’s— It’s best if they do not know.” He says, and pauses. “But you’re different, Guts.”

Guts wants to ask him why, why could he be different, but he’s not even sure if he wants to hear the answer.

“I didn’t mind the order.” Guts tries to explain, instead, and Griffith looks at him with such ironic disbelief that it only makes him more determined to find the words.

“I didn’t.” He insists, annoyed. “I just don’t like when you pussyfoot around me.”

That makes Griffith blink. “What?”

“You don’t have to convince me to do anything, like I’m one of those idiots in the castle. It’s— It’s not the killing. All I know is killing. It’s all I’m good at, doesn’t bother me. It’s— It’s—”

He struggles to put it all into words, all the emotions raving inside him like beasts, the anger at his own vulnerability, the luring appeal of Griffith’s own, the feeling of deception but also of invitation and it all comes together confusingly when he blurts out—

“Be honest with me.” Guts concludes, nonsensically, but terrifyingly sincere; and Griffith’s face does something that almost seems like a twitch, a flare of emotion that barely seems to fit his face.

“Guts.” Griffith says, exasperated. “I am more honest with you than I am with anyone else in the world.”

“Then—” Guts begins, but stops immediately – because how can he voice these next words without sounding like he’s begging for Griffith’s attention, for his recognition? How can he put into words something that has barely been more than just a feeling all his life, a craving half-formed and starved, an old wound that refuses to heal?

Tell me you want me and mean it, is what it feels like. Deep down, in that rotten, soft place of his heart? That is what echoes in there, despite his resentment of it. The weak part of himself he cannot kill.

He has killed a child, and it burns – but he has probably killed children before. If not directly, then by consequence, by raiding their homes and killing their fathers in battlefields. He has assassinated a man, but what is one more, in the middle of thousands? This is a legacy he cannot ever shake, a burden he needs to carry for the rest of his life, and the one thing, the only thing he wants, is for someone to see him like this, and still want him. Someone who won’t tear apart that little boy he can’t make grow inside him, his memory, his terror, like he did in that dark hallway hours before.

Someone who will grasp his bloodstained hand and won’t let go.

He lowers his head, wanting to curl into himself, and suddenly, he feels touch – Griffith’s hands grab him by the cheeks, like they did many years ago, and Guts’ whole body freezes where he sits, an animal instinct not to move.

“I am honest. And in honesty, I will tell you.” Griffith breathes. “You are wrong.”

Guts can feel his face twisting into a strained, hurt expression between Griffith's palms, and the hold only seems to grow tighter, fingers digging into his cheek and neck with almost desperate emotion. His eyes are wide, his face soft, but Guts feels pinned beneath him like an insect to a boot.

"You are very good at killing. I will never have another soldier like you. I will never find anyone half as impressive or skillful, and I am glad I have you. But I'm glad for other things, too." Griffith confesses, so shockingly bashful, in a way Guts has rarely seen – just the barest hint of red high on his cheeks, eyes disarmingly soft.

Guts is stunned quiet – not a single word in his mind. Something in his chest squeezes so painfully it feels like his lungs are shrinking, aching inside him, his palms so sweaty and his breathing so harsh he can hear himself make a sound, almost like a whimper, a broken little sigh when he exhales.

It’s been years since they touched like this. Years since Guts has felt Griffith so close. This is how he remembers him, underneath the posturing and flowery speeches – when Griffith would say things as boldly as a kid, uncaring of how he sounded, just pure emotion and charisma.

Guts caught a glimpse of it that night. When Griffith asked him to kill Julius. He hadn’t known he missed it so badly until now.

"If it truly was beyond your limits, tell me. My plans will always account for you, no matter how." He offers, softly.

"And if you need someone else killed?" Guts frowns.

"I will find a way. And if you'd like me to keep you from it, I will." Griffith assures, and then, after a moment, asks sadly, "Will you hate me for it? If I simply continue?"

"Will you hate me? If I really refuse?" Guts asks instead, because he can’t help himself. He needs to know.

“Hate you?” Griffith’s eyebrows arch slightly, a smile pulling at the corners of his plush lips, like this is an amusing idea. “I will not hate you, Guts.”

“What use am I, then?" Guts bites, trying to surge forward, and Griffith startles, quickly moving his hands to his shoulders to grip him hard and keep him seated at the bed, the reflexes of a fighter. "If I can't do that?

"Where has this come from?" Griffith asks, half mad, half confused. "I don't understand."

Guts grits his teeth.

"Guts." Griffith insists, nails digging into his shoulders. "Your value to me is not limited to dirty work. Not just to battle either. Why can't you understand that?"

"Why would I?" Guts barks back, pained. "What reason would you have to see any more value in me? You refuse to give me an answer, even after all these years!"

"I've told you I don't need a reason."

"I do!" Guts yells, and Griffith removes his hands from his shoulders, leaning back to put distance between them. "I am not your equal. Isn't that the whole point? Then what use am I!"

Griffith is stunned into silence, an expression Guts has never seen in his face before. “What?”

“You heard me.” Guts bites, and that still doesn't feel like enough. He needs to say it again. “I am useless, aren't I? If I don’t kill, what good am I? Just one more soldier among thousands. And still you keep doing this, this, and it–”

Words fail him, like they always do, and a growl is not enough to convey all the emotion that's bursting out of him at the seams. He feels like he could pry his chest open and hand Griffith his heart, and it still wouldn't be enough to make himself understood. The feelings in it have no names, no names he can give, his soul feels too small and his life too meaningless, and maybe the only way he could make himself accept that would be if… If Griffith would admit it.

"You are this... This huge thing. Something that's meant to fly far above us. Everyone knows that. You know that." Guts stutters, but with force, with conviction – because this is something that no one can deny. "We're not much in comparison. Some of us have dreams, yeah, but nothing like you." And then, because he has to, the actual crux of the matter, "And some of us don't have dreams at all."

The silence that follows is stifling. Outside the wind howls gently, the candlelight flickers, and time stretches between them into eternity, into oppressing uncertainty, and when Guts does dare to lift his eyes to Griffith's, he finds absolutely nothing on them.

"You think you have no dream." Griffith says, emotionless. Unreadable.

Guts scoffs. "I know I have no dream."

"And you think this makes you inferior to me."

"Doesn't it?" Guts arches an eyebrow, mocking. "You seemed to think so."

That also brings Griffith into silence. Very few things do, but this did the trick. 

"I've lived by my sword all my life. Since I could walk, it's all I've ever got. Surviving battle after battle, it's all I could–"

"Who told you that."

Guts stops, and feels a shiver run down his spine at the cold, cold look Griffith shoots him.

"Who told you I think of you as inferior?" Griffith demands, an edge to his voice that reminds him of his blade, thin and deadly.

"You did." Guts admits before he can think better of it, and realizes only when Griffith's eyes widen that maybe he shouldn't have. "’S what you told the princess, wasn't it?", He tries to justify it, trying to keep himself fortified and proud. "A life without purpose is unacceptable. A friend is an equal."

He can see it in Griffith's eyes when he manages to place the information to memory, and realize when exactly Guts had come to this conclusion. His face is a statue, unmovable, but his eyes flicker with so much emotion that Guts now can't bring himself to stop watching them. He can see the shock when the connection lands, the confusion when he realizes he can't say where Guts had been when it happened, the fear in realizing that it didn't matter. Guts had heard him. End of story. Griffith had been caught on a confession he hadn’t meant to make, and they both knew it. For once, Griffith is the one at the end of the blade at their standstill, and he has only realized it now. 

"I wasn't talking about you." He says, feebly.

"Not on purpose, maybe." Guts accuses. "Doesn't stop it from being true."

"You are not included in this." Griffith insists, a little firmer. “You shouldn't concern yourself about that.”

Guts growls, annoyed. "Again with this."

"Because it is the truth."

"So you lied to the princess." 

"No." Griffith answers reflexively, and Guts’ teeth latch onto his vulnerability like prey.

"Then which is it!"

"I do not lie to you, Guts."

"Either you're lying to me, or you lied to her. One of those has to be true.” Guts demands. “And you didn't know I was listening."

Griffith pauses, a frail, shaky moment, and then admits, "No, I didn't."

“Then why the hell would it be a lie?” 

Griffith has no argument to that, and Guts knows it. They both know it. Griffith can say whatever he likes, he can stay silent and mull over responses as much as he wants, it doesn't matter – Guts has seen through him, through them, and nothing can ever be the same again. Guts knows his silences, his machinations, he has seen them all before. He’ll avoid giving an answer with a distraction, he will walk away without giving proper explanations, he will order and expect to be immediately followed. 

And now his most vicious dog is biting back.

Guts doesn’t want it to be so. He struggles to take in a deep breath and regain some patience, to smooth over the curl of his lip and the pinch of his eyebrows, tries his best to make himself not vicious. He… Well, he knew he was a sad bastard already, hadn’t he? What is the point of being upset at that fact being pointed out? There is a lingering sense of betrayal in his heart, something broken and pitiful, and yet, the look in Griffith’s face somehow still hurts more than that, more than the kid and his crying eyes, more than anything else. Somehow, despite it all, Guts still doesn’t want Griffith to suffer. 

He wants Griffith to succeed, even when that means they will be pried apart, if not by his own designs, by mere circumstances. A king does not keep company with mercenaries. He’ll be taken away, forever, and yet Guts wants him to go, wants him to make it far, to soar, even if it’s without him, and if that’s what he wants, what right does he have to be upset that Griffith just… won’t let him follow? Or rather – won’t bring him along, as an equal?

They are not equals.

Just because it pains him, doesn’t mean it is not true. 

“Judeau told me something once." Guts says, calmly. A serene, sad certainty settles in his chest. An acceptance. "Kinda what you told me, too. That some people just have a special place in this world. Money, title, those things don't matter to them. They're just special. And you're one of them. It's obvious. Everyone knows that, the Hawks, the nobles and everybody... that's why they follow you."

But now…

"But that's not enough for me."

Griffith is still as stone. "What are you saying."

"I don't want to live in a shadow my whole life." Guts admits. "Like a beast under the moon, in the darkness... I don't want that to be me. Not anymore."

"Then what do you want." Griffith commands, rather than asks, and it startles Guts a little.

"What do you want, Guts?" He insists, when no answer is immediately forthcoming. "I will give it to you. Say the words, and I will do it."

"That's not what I mean!" Guts snaps back, before he can stop himself. "I don't - I'm not asking you for anything! I'm saying I can't be here just to exist under you and your ambitions! Live day by day with no purpose. You go further and further where we cannot reach and I keep being nothing! Just a sword, just a soldier! Something you will cast aside when we finally drift out of your sight."

"Never." He says, as if that's ridiculous. "That would never happen, Guts, no."

"Never?" Guts snorts, mockingly. "It's already happening. You disappear for days on end inside the castle. You get injured and we're kept apart by stupid things like propriety. Nobles and princesses, they can see you, be with you, but we can't, right?"

Griffith looks wounded.

"I wonder..." Guts muses. "You told me once you don't need a reason to come for me when I'm in danger. Twice now, you've done it. I was in trouble, and you came for me, and fought beside me as if we were equals." He laughs, a harsh, unkind thing. "I wonder if I went missing now, if somehow that happened again… If the thought would even cross your mind."

"Guts..." Griffith whispers like a threat.

"I can't–" Guts starts, then backtracks. "This can't go on. Is this what I'm meant to be? Trapped under your dream, being looked down on? A tool? I need something of my own. I need – I need –"

"Don't." Griffith orders, so forcefully it’s like a blow. "Do you hear me? Don't."

Guts reels. "Is that how you wanna solve this? Commanding me?"

"You are mine to command." Griffith reminds him, cruelly. "Is that not what you said? Every order, every wish. Whatever I want, I'm the one you belong to."

"Less than a soldier, then! That's what I am to you! I'm nothing but a meatshield, a–"

"You are mine." Griffith hisses, suddenly coming forward again, their noses almost touching with his forceful, oppressive posture. "Whatever shape that takes is secondary. You are not like them. Soldiers come and go. Soldiers follow and soldiers leave and soldiers die. Not you. Not you, Guts."

He suddenly has a terrible, overwhelming thought. 

"If I wanted to leave," He asks, in a low, measured voice. "Would you try to stop me?"

"If you try to leave me," Griffith assures. "I will kill you." 

His face is dark, eyes wide and unblinking, unnerving.  A predator’s gaze.

They come to a standstill like they never have before, not even when they first met, when Griffith shoved his sword into the soft meat between Guts’ armor and let him bleed to the floor to unconsciousness. The way they looked at each other then – not even that compares to the weight of Griffith’s stare now, the storm ravaging inside the blue, a shadow over his features Guts knows only enemies have ever seen from him.

Is that now what he is?

"You..." Griffith says, then stops. "You cannot leave. I forbid it."

Guts sighs, pained. "Griffith..."

"I forbid it.” Griffith interrupts. “There is no other place you should be. There is no dream you should chase. Your place is here, with us. Do you understand?"

Gut’s chest clenches in on itself again, a weight in his stomach, the acrid taste of betrayal. "So that's it? That's what you think of me? I don't deserve a dream?"

"Not if it takes you away from me."

"What difference would it make?!" Guts questions. "If I left?! You have soldiers! You have a whole fucking army!"

“None of them are you.” Griffith replies, forcefully. “You— I want you here. That is my command. Dream or no dream, ambitions, desires, all of those… They do not change a thing. As you are, right now – that is what I want to keep. And the further I go, I want you to come with. I do not have any intention of leaving you behind. I never have. Not when we first met, not now. I want to keep you, Guts.”

The thought burns. It’s an offer he can’t take, but can’t refuse. It’s an empty promise, and Guts knows it.

“I want a dream of my own, Griffith.”

“Is that what you really want…” Griffith challenges. “Or do you want it because you believe I will not respect you if you don’t?”

It feels like a slap in the face. It’s worse than a punch, a stab, a bite. It’s evil and demeaning, a – a crack in his armor he didn’t even know he had, and the pain that flares in his chest and the heat that climbs to his face in almost unbearable waves is proof enough that Griffith has hit it square in the center, a mortal wound. 

Guts has never had a dream before. Sorry bastards like him don’t dream. They go from campaign to campaign, enemy to enemy, blow to blow, one after the other, and try to make it as far as they can. They have little food or money, no brains or decency, and they know each sunrise they get to see is a victory. Their worlds are small. 

Respect? That is not something a mercenary gets to have. Stupid, fruitless things like — like – What? 

Belonging? Camaraderie?

He had those – he thought he had those. With the Hawks. His men, his raiders, sure. Maybe they do respect him. They have a good thing going, but – That is not what he means. The inner circle, Casca and Judeau and the others… Fuck, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand. He is not like them, he doesn’t have what they have, ambitions and desires and things like that. They are not the same. And Griffith, larger than life and burning bright, Griffith, so much bigger than all of them, how could Guts ever compare? 

How could he mean anything if he doesn’t have that?

The hands return. They feel cold. The palms are sweaty on his cheeks, nails sinking into flesh. Insanely, he wishes those fingers could sink further, past skin, into his bones. He wishes there were any way he could feel even closer, to not drift away again from his… His…

“You have my respect. You have it.” Griffith whispers intensely. “More than anyone, you have it. Is that enough?”

No. That’s not enough, it’s not, but Guts doesn’t know what he can say. 

“If I make you walk beside me wherever I go, so I cannot ever be out of your sight again,” Griffith offers, leaning closer. “Is that enough?”

The closeness of Griffith’s face, the charged, rippling light of his eyes, it feels like Guts is sinking into water. He can’t breathe right. He can smell wine in Griffith’s breath, he – he swears he can feel his body heat, despite the chill of late autumn and the lone candle flickering in the room, no fire to keep them warm. Something about Griffith blazes, in a pit deep below, like his soul is a fiery void, and Guts feels like he’s being sucked in, being eviscerated. Griffith pulls something from deep inside his body, a hidden, twisting emotion he can’t recognize, something that almost fills him with fear.

A want. 

“If I build you a throne beside mine when I rule the world.” Griffith offers, gently. “Is that enough?”

“I…” Guts starts, but not even he knows what he meant to say. 

“Whatever mark I carve for myself in this world, you will have a place in it.” Griffith promises fervently. “Sword, friend, lover. Whatever will keep you with me.”

Lover? A chill goes down Gut’s spine, charged like lightning, stealing his breath and his reason, freezing him in place. Lover is not an option. It has never been an option, it shouldn’t – it shouldn’t be presented as such. Not – Not even jokingly, that’s not – Griffith cannot do this. He can’t say this type of shit.

But again, when has that ever stopped Griffith before?

Guts is stupid. His whole body reacts to Griffith’s comment, his thoughtless, insane suggestion, and Griffith zeroes in on it like a vulture. Like a hawk. His blue eyes are penetrating, excruciating, capturing in every jerk and every sound Guts makes, trapped between his hands, and the visible reaction to his words is an opportunity Guts should never have given him, a something they should not dare touch.

“Would you want that?” Griffith asks, like a snake. Coiled, ready to strike. Sensing prey. “We can be equals. I will make it so. Equals, in every way, Guts.”

Griffith’s grip on him is unbreakable, the sureness of his fingertips on Guts’ skin like a brand, tight around the sensitive skin of his nape, touch – touch, touch, a touch Guts does not reject, never rejected, not even when he was a kid, Griffith held him fast and put his face close to his, breath on his lips, and told him he was his—

Guts realizes far too late what Griffith is about to do now. How that old memory has transformed before him, his heart pounding a mile a minute inside his chest, begging, begging, and he doesn’t know what for. 

“Wait.” Guts protests, but it’s weak. It barely sounds like anything at all.

Griffith does not.

“We— This isn’t—!” Guts exhales, erratic, eyes hazy with uncertainty between staring wide at Griffith’s eyes – or Griffith’s mouth. His heart feels like it’s about to burst from his chest.  “Griffith…!”

Holding him— Griffith— His face— So close— They shouldn’t— Don’t touch— Griffith—!

He pauses, just a small, aching second, and in that second, when he should have been jerking back, Guts holds and, in a split second, swears sees something in his eyes that makes him freeze. A glint of something bottomless, a stretching into infinity in the blue of Griffith’s eyes, primal and vast, consuming; staircases leading nowhere, trails that never end, loops and loops that will always bring them here. 

Before he can think, it all slips shut before him, and Griffith’s lips touch his, and he becomes nothing.

Guts eyes shut slowly, and for a moment, a groundbreaking, sweet moment, he is not himself.

A mouth, soft. The sound slick when they move, warm and fearful. The taste like skin, like wine, breath hot on his tongue, hands on his face, silky hair brushing against him, white and pure, he's always wanted to touch it, Griffith's hair, Griffith, Griffith–!

Guts wretches himself away, a gasp on his lips, the rush of cold air on his warm, spit-slick tongue. His mouth is watering. He feels like he has run a marathon, his heart slamming against his ribcage, a wild animal who has tasted blood. He tries to lean back to leave Griffith’s overwhelming, looming presence, but he cannot. His body will not move, and Griffith’s grip is unshakable. He knows he should take a step back, like he should take a second to think about this, but he can't. Griffith's proximity is like a haze, an encompassing force – Guts can smell him so close, the scent of flowery oils, sweet and delicate, trying to mask the man, the beast beneath, but Guts can see him as clear as the moonlight, knows his scent from memory, knows his touch when he shouldn’t.

Forced to look up at him, it occurs to Guts, almost as an afterthought, that Griffith is beautiful. Up close like this, it’s almost unbelievable. He doesn’t look or feel like a regular, mortal man. Guts keeps expecting panic, the disgusting surge of fear and nausea that always comes when a man gets too close, a man so powerful, more powerful than him, standing taller than him, trapping him in and leaving him defenseless, but it never comes. Griffith is not – He is not that, he is not just a man. He’s a man and he’s a god and he’s his leader and he’s his friend – he’s beautiful, and it all comes crashing down on him like a storm all at once, drowning him, and suddenly, the air of Griffith's mouth is the only air he can have.

Guts lurches forward, ravenous, wanting for the first time in his life, and they both make a sound when their mouths meet again, echoing into each other, and Griffith’s hand slides into his hair, gripping tight the short strands with enough force to sting, blunt nails scratching his scalp. It’s overwhelming and it’s crazy and it’s agony.

And Guts keeps wanting it.

They press together so hard their lips hurt, almost knocking teeth, frantic. One kiss and a gasp, open mouth and hot breath, a swipe of tongue, and Guts snarls, and chases it – opens his mouth and Griffith attacks, like he always does, no weak spot unexploited, and the swirl of his tongue around his own makes Guts rasp out a sound he has never heard himself utter before, a cry that has only ever existed deep inside his soul, in the confines of his dreams.

Dreams – Guts never dared to dream of this.

On that duel, that sunny day on the hill, Guts had not ever thought it would end up like this. His body had always been a machine of death, something to wield for destruction and pain, not pleasure, never pleasure – but now, he feels like he is made of flame, made of muscle and blood in a way he's never been, mortal in a way not even the brink of death could make him feel. Guts has been used by so many people, so many he'd wanted to please, he'd wanted to be seen by. They had taken so much. But Griffith – this is new, Griffith takes and gives and demands and – fuck, climbs on top of him, pushing him back and forcing him to lean, throwing his knees besides Guts' thighs on the bed, hovering over his lap, holding his chin with one hand to prop his head up, forbidding him to break the kiss, throat bared and head back like in giving prayer to a lost god.

Guts had offered himself on that day, and Griffith had taken him by force, but not like this.

This, he suddenly realizes, Guts is giving him. Into him. He wants to.

Guts' mouth swallows Griffith's greed like water, down his throat and into his bones, and his hands suddenly learn how greed aches – they raise and grip the back of Griffith's shirt tight, and immediately, he realizes it's not enough; Griffith's whole back undulates like waves crashing against the sand, the push and pull of their mouths wet, and Guts' hands close in on his ribs like it's the only thing keeping him afloat. His fingers sprawl across his body, large and rough and unsuited for kindness, but Griffith exhales a sigh, a whiny thing against his teeth, and then comes forward to press his chest against Guts’ own, like there was no other thing he could want more.

And yet – more, more. Guts wants more. As if reading his mind, Griffith pulls back with a heaving inhale, a long, lingering kiss that leaves Guts’ lips tingling, and his entire spine crawling with writhing, burning frustration. He groans in dismay, and Griffith – Disheveled, panting, a mess like Guts has never seen him before, just – beautiful—

Griffith smiles, all teeth and mischief, in a way Guts hasn’t seen him smile in years.

“Mine.” He breathes, and it – it sounds like affection. “You’re mine.”

Guts wants that so bad. So bad. He – he’s a dreamless, worthless bastard, a blemish on this earth, but maybe if he have this light upon him, Griffith’s burning and shining light, maybe he can be worth something, maybe he can dream of this every night and not feel like his world is empty anymore, maybe he can dare and want and reach and touch—

Griffith moves his hands lightning-quick, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him back, throwing him off guard and forcing him to the bed, looming over him with his face half-hidden in darkness, a gorgeous, infuriating mystery.

“Will you hate me if I order you this?” Griffith asks, languid, in a voice Guts has heard so many times, and yet, never like this. Sensual. Intimate. “Do I have to order? Or will it be freely given?”

Guts doesn’t know. He can’t do anything but give out a low moan when Griffith’s hand strokes his neck, his hair, rough and male and undeniably good. He doesn’t know why it feels so good now, when it never has before, but the bed seems soft and cloud-like beneath him, the night suddenly doesn’t seem so cold, simmering with warmth, and if this is the effect Griffith has on other people, Guts is almost upset it has taken him this long to experience too. 

“Or…” Griffith leans, and whispers the words against Guts’ mouth. “Will you fight me for it again? Like when we were children?”

Guts cannot help the urge to scoff. “You’d like that.”

“Hmm, I would.” Griffith admits, with a half-smile. “Perhaps even more so now.”

Guts laughs, disbelieving. Just how fucking cheeky and confident can one guy be? “Bastard.”

Griffith hums, pleased, like it’s a compliment. Maybe it is. “C’mon, Guts.” He goads. “Fight me for it.”

“You were just – kissing me. You want me to make you bleed now?” Guts taunts.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Griffith reminds him. “Mark my pretty face, maybe? You liked that on the day of our first duel. Or other parts of me, if you wish?”

The tease catches him off guard, an old memory crumpled and faded like an old painting coming to mind, and Guts hates that he can feel himself blushing a little at the reminder of their first meeting. He didn't – thats so fucking embarrassing, Guts didn't think Griffith remembered that at all. The comment about his pretty face, something Guts should never had said; He is so damn stupid, was that some sort of sign? Did – had he really been thinking those sort of things about Griffith from the beginning?

“I—” He stutters, and Griffith fucking enjoys his discomfort, clear as day. He leans even closer, his hair falling in waves of silver around him, a rain of silky softness, an innocent prettiness that does nothing to disguise his wicked nature when he says:

“I do not fight fair, and neither do you.” Griffith muses, and relaxes his thighs to sit himself on Guts’ lap, full body contact, directly on top of Guts' – oh – half hard cock.

“Fuck.”

Griffith laughs, a hearty chuckle that shakes his whole body, that Guts feels directly on his dick even through his breeches.

"That can be arranged." He says. "But only if you win."

"Win what?" Guts asks through gritted teeth, but a gasp escapes when Griffith lowers his head and bites into his neck, sensually, then a growl when the bite turns nasty, mean, hard. He learns a new kind of pain, a pain that feels good, a sting that bites at first and then spreads into throbbing tenderness, and he sinks his nails into Griffith’s ribs in retaliation, both of them animals, teeth and claws.

Griffith does not answer directly. Instead, he whispers, close to his ear, like a confession:

"I have nothing but greed in my heart."

They breathe together, and Guts’ heart beats so strong he thinks Griffith might be able to feel it.

"I covet and I envy and I pillage."

Griffith's hands slide lower, selfish and hungry, through every bump and ridge of Guts' body, his chest, the dips of his belly and the lines of his ribs, cutting hip bones - then, boldly, he latches onto skin and slips inside Guts' shirt, contact scorching hot, and pushes the fabric on his wrists all the way back up, touching, touching, making Guts' stomach jump and clench with unexpected, tingly sensation, his nipples hard, everything almost unbearably warm.

"I took you because I wanted you."

His fingers knead into Guts muscles, his chest hair, a heady appreciation in his touch, over smooth and scarred skin, and he admits, "I could not stand the idea of not having you. This is what I do with the things I dream of, Guts. I take them."

Griffith starts to grind slow, and Guts hisses through his teeth, neck straining under Griffith’s lips when all his muscles lock up in reaction to the sheer wave of pleasure that runs up his body. Griffith is warm and real above him, pressure and touch, and Guts doesn’t know what to do but lie there beneath him and let himself be consumed.

"What about you? What kind of man will you be when you have a dream, Guts? When you desire something of your own?"

Unbidden, Guts lets out a choked moan when the grind turns harder, more insistent, all across his hardening cock – the weight of Griffith's erection dragging along his, all foreign sensation, bursting stars behind his eyelids when the forces his eyes shut. Impulsively, his hands clutch Griffith's hips, thumbs digging into the jut of his hip bones, and the sharpness of them stretching across soft, pale skin makes Guts feel almost faint.

"Grab it with both hands, bloodied and ravenous? Hungry for it?"

Hungry, that’s the word – Guts is hungry, he feels it gnaw on his stomach, his navel, his cock, and starved, he dares to slide his hands down and grip the curve of Griffith’s strong, clenching thighs, the curve of his ass, feel it shift and move when he strains to drag himself all over Guts’ most sensitive parts, obscene and amazing.

Griffith hums, drawn out, a tease of a moan.

"Will you tear down everything on the path between you, like a beast?"

Griffith’s hand closes around his throat, not big enough to encircle it, but powerful enough to grip, to squeeze.

On a split second, Guts’ body reacts with animal instinct so intense he can't even think before he moves.

"Will you bite–"

He grabs Griffith's legs in a bruising hold and pushes up into his hand, forcing him to bend the arm and lose grip, and as soon as he feels it give, he flips them on the bed and slams Griffith down onto the mattress, so hard his head bounces. Griffith hisses, wincing, and the sound startles them both, and it’s the only thing that stops Guts from crushing Griffith’s head against the wall on instinct.

Guts pants, trembling, and realizes only after that what made him move was fear. 

There it fucking was – fear. He thought it wouldn't show up, he didn't want it, but somehow the grip around his neck for just a moment, it had felt too much like weakness, too much like before. There are cold, prickling ants climbing all over him, sweat sticky on his palms and back, a low ringing in his ears that drives him crazy. He can barely take in a breath. 

Shame fills him near to bursting.

Griffith stares back at him, eyes wide, mouth parted in heaving breaths, watching. Guts' hand is around his throat now, wrapped across his elegant, swan neck, corded muscles straight under his finger, delicate and so easy to crush, and he feels so fucking ashamed. Shame of his weakness, shame of being ashamed, shame of doing this to Griffith, of destroying the hazy air between them, shame of wanting it as bad as he did–

After a long beat, Griffith smiles.

"Like that." He praises, and tips his head back, offering his neck as both reward and dare.

The apology that climbed up Guts' throat gets choked before it can pass his lips, eyes wide and incredulous at Griffith's blatant enjoyment of the attack.

At being pinned down, subdued – Griffith is more powerful than he could ever be, Guts reminds himself, a regal and divine thing, almost too precious to touch, and yet, this is who he is, with Guts. This... This is who he has always been. A cunning, mean fucker who dislocates your shoulder if you cross him, that will stab you and demand your loyalty in the same breath, a man who can be trapped beneath another one and still have all the advantage in the room.

He offers his neck to the grip when Guts flinches at the barest touch. Guts' fingers clench reflexively and he leaves out a small little whimper, half pain, half delight, and his blue eyes flash with amusement.

Guts feels like he is losing the ground beneath his feet.

"This is how I want you." Griffith says, voice low and tight under Guts' hold, a spider web of seduction. "Just as you are."

“Why.” Guts asks, despairing. 

“Because you are exactly where you're meant to be. Here.”

"Even with no dream?" Guts snarls low in lingering hurt, leaning forward to snap his teeth closer to Griffith's own mouth, a threat and a plea, all at once.

"No." Griffith says. "I won't allow you to dream of anything but me."

Guts inhales sharply, a shiver running down his spine, and that is his mistake, his undoing – Griffith pulls his legs from under him and unbalances Guts, threatening to topple him back, but instead, he spreads his knees and locks him between them, hip to hip, and forces his shoulders down the mattress for leverage to push his cock forward, to rub himself against Guts in the most lewd movement he has ever seen.

A moan escapes his mouth, surprised.

"Dream of me like this." Griffith says, pleads, orders. His word is temptation, it's suggestion and it's law. "Brought down and under you."

The idea burns, lust plucking at every nerve, pulsating. He dares to push back, a thrust unpracticed and uncertain, and when Griffith meets him halfway and their cocks slide together through fabric, warm and weight and friction, his shoulders hitch to contain the shiver of appreciation that runs through him.

"Dream of us fighting together at that hill." He tempts, like a siren. "Of making me bleed, of making me human again."

Guts groans, face hot, and curls into himself to lean his forehead on Griffith's collarbone, to peer down at the place where their bodies slide together; it's obscene, the bulge of their cocks straining against fabric, fuck, a little pool of wetness on Griffith's light-colored garments, the little patch of dampness where the head of his cock beads with pleasure.

He thrusts up, slow, watching it drag across Griffith's own, chasing that little damp spot, and they both make a mewling sound, twitching into each other.

"Bring me back down, Guts." Griffith demands, panting. "Show me."

Guts squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed, and yet thrusts up, because he can't help it. He feels like his blood is boiling, sweat running down his back like he's been fighting for hours, hips aching too much to keep still, cock throbbing.

Guts didn't think himself capable of this at all – of this desire, this attraction.

He knows that among men, he's the odd one out; a man who won't chase any skirt he sees, who hasn't had sex before and rarely even jerks off, who won't share stories of looking down at a girl's tits when she leans forward or the shape of her ass when she bends over. He wakes up hard in the morning and treats it the same way as when he has an itch or a sore, another annoying bodily function, and knowing that now he's a high ranking soldier in a famous army of the kingdom makes noble women try to fuck him makes him very uncomfortable.

He also knows some of his comrades prefer men. He knows that.

He just didn't consider that could also be an option for him.

But everything about this says otherwise. The hard chest beneath his own, the undoubtedly male voice close to his ear, the cock – everything about it is so... so fucking sexy. His skin feels like it's stretching tight over his bones, arousal thumping inside like a drum, and each hitch of his hips into Griffith's is both shame and revelation, it’s a fire in a pit inside him he thought he couldn’t ever fill.

He's had no practice, but animal instinct guides his hand as he thrusts, he grinds and he twists, trying to better anchor his feet and knees on the shifting sheets and squeaky mattress so he can push harder, Griffith's thighs shaking where they hold themselves open on his sides, his noises bitten and choked, taken from his mouth like stealing riches against his will.

Griffith's hands come once more to stroke his hair, eager handfuls between strands, caressing him everywhere he can reach, and he gives as good as he gets – he's skilled where Guts fumbles, and gyrates his hips with easy and cruel precision, guiding them both into a rhythm that has their entire lengths sliding against each other, cockheads sensitive where they bump together, balls heavy and sensitive, agonizing pleasure-pain when they meet harshly mid-thrust, the feel of fabric both suffocating and dirty, hot, like soiling the perfect image of this man Griffith wants to be, like dragging him down like he so fiercely demands.

He likes it. He fucking loves it, god. He can feel the vibration of Griffith's pants and gasps under his gripping hand, his long throat, the curls of his gorgeous, silky hair – he needs more skin and it’s almost a shame he must loosen his hold on his neck to explore, wrap both hands around the frilly collar and rip it apart like it was parchment, fueled by a lust so intense it turns him into an animal.  Griffith makes a noise when the fabric tears, but not in protest. Approval. The light jacket falls apart and is immediately forgotten, because the undershirt is much easier to lift, to expose hardened muscles and body hair so light you can barely see, but feels so soft under his fingers, his whole body silky, even when he catches a scar or two under his palms.

His belly is taut, shivering with strain. Tacky with sweat. Watching it undulate down, from chest, to navel, to groin, and then feel the pressure on his cock when they grind together, it almost undoes him. He grips Griffith desperately, everywhere he can reach, his flank, his ribs, his chest, when his fingers catch on something, a coarse line of rope instead of all the smooth, satiny sensation under him, and he grabs it in reflex, and realizes—

Griffith's weird amulet gleams blood red even in darkness. 

Its weird face and creepy aura are just as unsettling as it was when he last saw it, exposed to the open when Zodd attacked them, Griffith slumped down on a crushed pillar like a broken doll, a protection that had finally failed. Guts hates the thing. It's off-putting and disgusting and he knows Griffith keeps it close as even more than a lucky charm, as a representation of—

Guts stops.

Griffith is still gasping and heaving, eyes closed and head back, trying to continue their pace, but he quickly realizes Guts has halted. His eyes peer open, looking dazed, shit, a tinge of pink on his cheeks, and he sounds half-breathless when he asks, "Guts?"

Guts raises his eyes to look at him, calculating. God, he looks good, gone and pliant, but Guts knows better than to take that at face value; if Griffith wanted to take the upper hand back, he probably could, in a flash. There is a game being played and Guts is losing, Griffith is – Griffith has unleashed something in him he will never control again, has stolen his soul and sense from his mouth with his teeth, and has not given him enough back. Promises, temptations, distractions, Guts cannot let himself be swayed by that, or else he will lose himself in Griffith’s power again. This can’t be it. It cannot, Guts needs more, he is ravenous for it, and now, suddenly, he knows how he will take it.

He knows what kind of man he will be for his dreams. 

"A dream for a dream." He bargains, and with a quick curl of his hand, twirls the thin rope of Griffith's necklace between his fingers and pulls it apart, snapping it cruelly against Griffith's nape, ripping it from him like he is stealing his heart right out of his gaping ribcage. It hurts, somehow, he swears that for a split second the thing bites him, but it’s lost when Griffith cries low both in surprise and sharp pain, twitching beneath him, a mere second of weakness before a deadly, dangerous stiffness sets in, and the whole world stands still.

And Guts waits with bated breath for him to attack.

He doesn't, but his stillness is suffocating. They lie together, pressed chest to hip, but the writhing, fluid intimacy between them dies a sudden and terrible death, and despite the overwhelming, pressing need in his body, Guts revels the rage he can see in Griffith's eyes, the unlikely upper hand he has found himself with, just for a moment, savors it like he hasn't savored anything in years.

Griffith is – he is a fucking menace.

Here he lies, under him, pretending to be subdued when he's manipulating Guts into staying with his pretty face and sensual body and piercing words, trying to take away his freedom by giving him promises of more shackles, a hole even deeper to sink himself into; it all twists and muddles together inside him, the admiration and the anger and the disappointment and the hope, desires he thought had died starved inside him, brought back to life at Griffith’s call. What will he do now? Be Griffith’s lover? His dirty secret while he goes off and marries the princess? He will be no more equal than her. Keep going to battles as soon as the order comes, taking and taking in Griffith’s name, in the chase of his dream, while he looks at the sky and not at them, not at him?

No.

Guts has a demand of his own.

Griffith wants him to stay? Fine. Does Griffith want to consume him entirely? Wants Guts’ loyalty, and his sword, and his body and his heart? Wants to… to blur them together like this, like blood on water, until it all stains red?

If that is what Griffith is promising him, he will have to lose himself in it too.

Guts will stay and fight for him. He will bleed and he will kill, will raze entire cities if needed, he will obey every order and destroy every obstacle, he will dream of Griffith, asleep and awake – In return, he wants this.

He wants that damn thing off Griffith's neck.

“You’ll have me.” Guts tells him, a siren call of his own.

And I will have you.

Griffith stares at him without blinking, without breathing, a corpse-stillness to him that is almost frightening. His whole body is warm, and Guts only knows it because he can feel it beneath him, because otherwise, he would think he would be marble-cold to the touch. There is a violent, dangerous feel to him, to his gaze – Guts holds the Behelit in his hand, grip tight, but Griffith spares it no glace. It’s all for Guts, his sharp eyes, his hostility.

He throws the Behelit on the floor.

He hears thunder. It might be his own heart. The night outside is soft and cold as snow.

Griffith takes in a shaky, broken breath, the beginnings of a sob—

And closes his fingers into Guts' hair with a punishing, vicious hold, and pulls him down into a bruising kiss, their mouths knocking painfully against each other, whimpers of pain and pleasure mix together in between their tongues and teeth. Guts’ inexperience is clear from the way Griffith’s lips move, practiced and skillful, to coax his mouth open, to tilt his face sideways, to slip his tongue around Guts’, all wet and hot, and it’s so easy to be caught up in it, to lose himself into the movement, to allow himself to be consumed by Griffith in the darkness.

Griffith bites his lip so hard it stings. The metallic taste of blood swiping on his tongue makes Guts’ cock twitch.

Griffith’s knee bends awkwardly between them and he uses it to push Guts away, in a baffling movement – he won’t let Guts’ mouth go, won’t loosen the grip on his hair, but he’s shifting impatiently under him, almost as if he’s trying to escape, and it drives Guts crazy.

“What?” Guts asks against his mouth, the word barely making a sound in between Griffith’s teeth. “What are you doing?”

“Like this.” Griffith hisses, yanking on his hair painfully, in a childish demand, and when that stops Guts just long enough for Griffith to gain advantage again, he squirms on the bed like a snake, shoving one of his feet in between Guts’ legs, interlocking their thighs instead of spreading himself under him.

“Better.” Griffith says, and before Guts can ask him how in the fuck this is better, Griffith’s hand closes around his cock over his clothes, wide and warm and sure, and Guts startles so bad his entire body twitches with it. 

“Fuck.” Guts moans, and Griffith’s thigh, now conveniently placed, rises to grind on the underside of his balls, while he grinds his own cock on Guts’ thigh, and his whole hand  gropes the length of Guts’ cock with no shame, down and up, maddeningly good, and looking at Griffith while he does it is a mistake, because he’s not embarrassed by it, he’s not looking away or looking down – he is looking directly at Guts, sharp-eyed and bright, beautiful and impossible and Guts feels like he might die here, in Griffith’s arms. 

Without thinking much of it, he too bends his leg so he can press his thigh more firmly to Griffith’s groin, and he tries not to be so mortifyingly ashamed of the sound Griffith makes so as not to avert his gaze for a single second. He forces himself to bring his attention to it, to the place where they connect, to feel the shape and weight of Griffith, the smell of his hair and the taste of his mouth, to experience this, because if he doesn’t, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever believe it was real. 

His hand slips inside the fabric, and Guts barely has any time to take a breath before it all rushes out in an embarrassing, needy grunt when Griffith’s fingers slide along his cock, far too sure and eager, and the surprise and pleasure of it leave him frozen above Griffith, paralyzed in bliss. No one has ever touched his cock before, he hadn’t realized it would feel so different from touching himself, so–

Griffith whispers against his mouth, “Let yourself feel it.”

Guts can't do anything but feel it. He feels it all, all too much, the way Griffith's hand squeezes around his length, fingers tightening and loosening, adjusting, until the – fuck – the grip becomes more sure, more comfortable on his wrist, and Guts hovers over him panting like a goddamn dying dog. There’s a mischievous, leery smirk on Griffith’s face, it almost makes Guts want to punch him, but it’s hard to when that is the mouth that reaches up to kiss his, playful at the corner of his lips, and then the hand moves, it holds tight and does a slow, teasing stroke, sliding the skin over the damp head with practiced ease, and a heave so pathetic escapes Guts lungs he can feel himself losing strength with it.

There is nothing he can do but stay there, barely holding on, arms shaking, while Griffith touches him like – he like owns him. Griffith’s hand goes down in slow strokes, then fast ones, then slow again, he glides the foreskin over and over, he pinches it up in one moment and worries it right below the head in another, and it’s all so confusing and overwhelming and good that it takes Guts a long moment before he realizes Griffith is studying him. It’s so, so overwhelming.

“I did wonder if you ever did this to yourself.” Griffith admits, quiet in the dark.

“Did you?” Guts pants, half mocking, and half honest, because that doesn’t sound like it could possibly be true. 

A tight stroke right below the head of his cock, short and brutal, makes his thighs twitch violently and causes a gasp to escape his lips. Griffith’s cock, grinding slow against his own thigh, noticeably and enticingly twitches too, his hips stuttering just a bit. It’s erotic in a way Guts can’t even begin to describe.

“You are a very impressive man, Guts.” Griffith says, matter-of-factly. “I hardly believe I was the first to notice. I know for sure I was not the only one, considering how I’ve seen men and women look at you. And yet, not a single one of them has made it into your bed.” And then, intensely, he adds, “I would know if they had.”

It’s fucked up he thinks that’s hot, but fuck. It’s hot. He doesn’t even know what Griffith is implying – is his virginity so obvious, or is he saying that… That if Guts had fucked one of those noble women who threw themselves at him, or one of the men in the Hawks, he would have found out? Like he had been watching Guts for it? That sounds all kinds of alarms in his brain, and yet, the alarm that is loudest still is the one that screams how fucking hot this all feels right now.

Could he believe this?

Had Griffith wanted this too, before now?

Had he thought about it?

Had he ever, ever looked at Guts and felt–

“You do not stare at women lustfully, but neither do you do it to men.” Griffith ponders, a little breathless. “You do not have stories of exploits to share by the fire, you don’t crave marriage and courtships, not even Casca could sway you, and you have seen her naked more than many of the men have.”

Casca – Guts couldn’t even begin to explain himself and put to words how much Casca cannot hold a candle to the vision that Griffith makes beneath him right now. Because she has tits? Because she is a woman? There is no woman that could compare. What use does Guts have for a woman? A woman doesn’t – women don’t understand him, women don’t see him. Not even Casca. The only one who does is Griffith, Griffith, and Guts wants to believe so badly that’s how it will continue to be, that this could be real, he can barely take it.

“I wondered,” Griffith pants. “What was it that you thought of when you took yourself in hand. Swords?”

Guts scoffs, breathy. “Yeah, very sexy.” 

“They are.” Griffith smirks. “And you wield such a big one.”

Guts wants to swat him, but he can’t move his hands or else he will collapse, so he does the next best thing and bites the side of Griffith’s neck, just as a warning. “Stop comparing my dick to my sword.”

“Did I do that?” 

“Yes, you bast–” Guts chokes on his own spit when Griffith twists his fist around the head of his cock, where it feels the most sensitive, and the way Griffith smiles when he does almost makes his heart stop.

“Hm.” Griffith hums, hips moving slowly into a rhythm on Guts’ thigh again, purposeful, chasing. Guts wonders what he looks like, what it would feel like in his hand, and he sweats when he realizes that he wants to find out, wants to feel and touch for himself, another man, his commander, his friend.  “Tell me. What did you think of?”

“Nothing.” Guts shakes his head, thoughts hazy. “Just – took care of it. Nothing much.”

“That’s a shame.” Griffith says, casually. “But that is going to change.”

He pulls Guts down by his neck, hand brand-hot on his nape, until their mouths smash together clumsily, more bruise than kiss, enveloping him completely, and in that smallest space, in candlelight, in the dark, he promises:

“From now on, you have me.”

And he takes. He takes and he takes, on every stroke of his hand, when he grips firm and jerks Guts off, squeezing just right in that space just below the crown, where a wave of sensation seems to burst every time he touches it. The glide of the skin over the head grows wet with sweat and fluid, the warmth stifling and erotic, and when he thrusts forward, shame melts between Griffith’s fingers into desire, and he does it over and over and over again.

“You’ll desire me.” Griffith promises. 

His blood rushes and roars past his ears, his heart beating so hard it hurts in his chest, heaving, sweat prickling on his still clothed back, clothed legs, all so suffocating and incredible and good. His arms shake, strain and sting with the effort of holding himself up on his elbows above Griffith, his lower back on fire from leaning onto him, but nothing matters when all his focus slowly pools on his cock, all other sensations going dull past a wall of haziness when all the sharpness, all the details that matter are Griffith’s touch, the pleasure, that honeyed feeling making his spine writhe, making his balls tight, the tenderness of the head of his cock, that makes him jump and makes him ache when Griffith glides over it, hand calloused, craving more.

“You will fantasize about me.” Griffith promises.

He will. When he closes his eyes, when he touches himself, when he remembers moonlight – he will, he will. He will desire to stain Griffith’s pure white with his bloodstained hands, of gripping his hair, of biting his mouth and sucking on his tongue. He will ache to touch him back, to learn how to make someone else’s body feel good, he will – ah – he will crave hearing his voice, hearing him moan, hearing say his name, yes, he will crave it, he will never live without it again.

“You will dream of me.” Griffith promises.

“And you will dream of me.” Guts demands – and groans, and wishes, and pleas, and thrusts into the tight circle of Griffith’s hand, more and more, more—

“Yes.” Griffith says. In his ear, breathy. “I will.”

Fuck, oh, he comes in waves, sudden, clenching, hard, hips snapping forward and curling into himself, the world narrowing into the space of Griffith’s hand, tender and sensitive and wet, and he desires. He wants to never leave here, this space they carved for themselves carelessly; he aches to hold onto this feeling, for as long as it can last; and when it’s gone, he’ll long for it, long until he can get another glimpse, another taste, endlessly hungry.

His one and only desire.

“Stay, Guts.” Griffith orders, biting, grinding himself against Guts’ spasming leg with lewd, merciless force, while Guts can only press back and let him do it, let him take it, until he can feel warmth seeping through the fabric, until the choked moan Griffith gives is seared into his brain forever, until their harsh breaths clash against the cold walls, until the candle burns out, consumed whole.

“Stay with me.” It echoes in the dark. “Stay.”

And Guts does.

He stays.

And he hopes he dreams.