Work Text:
The garden is littered with detritus from last night’s party: snuff boxes adorned with precious jewels, sodden embroidered handkerchiefs, lilies and white roses trampled underfoot. Guts treads slowly through the hedgerows, each step echoing his pounding headache. The castle towers above the hedges, haloed by the rising sun and thick clouds of mist. At this hour, with no one in sight, it’s preternaturally gorgeous. Even Guts, with his untrained eye and a hangover to boot, can see that.
Last night’s end-of-summer soiree had been lively, as was custom for the royal family. The blue and white candy-striped tents have since been disassembled, the carriages of aristocrats packed away, but the memory of the party lives on, whirling like a maiden in a music box. Guts recalls the snarl and hiss of bonfires lighting the chill nighttime air, the slurry of constellations drifting lazily through the sky. How he’d spotted Griffith across the lawn among the crowd of revelers, cutting a dashing figure while the fire illuminated his face.
Ah. There it was. Griffith — the real reason for last night’s merriment.
Guts had allowed his gaze to wander more than was decent: along Griffith’s rich purple coat; his thick rope of hair in its matching silk ribbon; the small, almost feminine curve of his feet in their white heeled slippers. Though Guts was experienced at schooling his expression after years in Griffith’s service and a lifetime of training before that, he could not help the flush that crept up his neck then. He swallowed roughly, dragging his gaze up Griffith’s thighs, slim and well-muscled in their dark tapered breeches. A noblewoman in a peacock blue gown stumbled over to Griffith and put on a whole show, complete with batted eyelashes and heaving bosom. Griffith had met his gaze then, as if he’d known the whole time that Guts had been watching. His eyes gleamed with mischief as he feigned interest in the woman, and Guts had smiled in spite of himself.
It’s this image of Griffith keeps Guts up all night, long after the others have gone to bed. Certainly the hangover doesn’t help, but he’d be hard-pressed to sleep even without the mulled wine to blame. Maybe Guts has pilfered too many erotic novels from Griffith’s study, but he can’t help imagining an alternate scenario, where Griffith politely excuses himself from the woman, traipses across the lawn, and leads Guts through the hedges until they’re entirely turned around. Stumbling into a rosebush, laughing in disbelief as their mouths mesh. Guts, stripping Griffith’s clothing away piece by piece, until he’s naked as the day he was born, a beautiful wraith among the foliage. Tonguing Griffith’s nipples reverently, cupping the soft swell of his ass, kneeling before him to kiss the divots in his hips. Settling him back into the wet grass, a fist curled in his hair as he presses inside, flooding Griffith with heat to the sounds of whooping laughter beyond the hedge.
Guts, flustered, turns a corner and deposits himself on a stone bench. He gazes up at the castle again, shielding his face from the sun, his brocade jacket rippling faintly in the breeze.
That’s when he hears it.
At least three women — no, four — on the other side of the hedge. Two with deeper voices, the others high-pitched, words hushed but quickening with excitement:
“He’s even prettier than Beatrice, and that’s saying something!” says one of the deep-voiced girls.
“I’m standing right here, Mary,” a high-pitched one — presumably Beatrice — says.
“But it’s true, is it not?”
“I suppose,” Beatrice relents.
“Oh, he’s a dream!” Mary cries. “I’ve never seen anyone like him!”
“You know what they say about men that pretty…” The other deep-voiced one.
“Isabel, don’t tease.”
“I’m not teasing, Elinor, I just don’t think Lord Griffith has eyes for us. Have you seen the way he looks at that swordsman?”
Guts inhales sharply. Swordsman? What swordsman?
“His name is Sir Guts, I believe?” Mary says. “The mean-looking man?”
Guts nearly chokes. The swordsman they’re talking about… is him? But of course; what other swordsman would it be?
And Griffith? With eyes for him? There’s no way. Never mind last night’s fantasy. Griffith would never… not really…
“Come along, ladies,” Beatrice says. “Our breakfast is growing cold. We’d best not waste time thinking of Lord Griffith while we’re betrothed.” Her voice sounds rigid, like she’s trying to convince herself.
The hedgerow rustles as the women move away. Guts, on his side, remains seated long after they’re gone. When he’s sure he’s alone again, he treads slowly back to the palace and up to his quarters, tearing his clothes away and burrowing beneath the sheets. He thanks his lucky stars that Griffith upgraded him to a private room as he takes himself in hand, his sighs of frustration muffled in the blankets. Dawn seeps through the curtains as Guts strokes himself slowly, his breathing growing more labored. The bronze clock on the armoire tick-tick-ticks with each of his ragged breaths.
Griffith, charismatic and all-knowing. Griffith, svelte and pretty. Griffith, the only man he’s ever admitted to looking at like that, even in the privacy of his own mind.
He comes in the sheets with a gasp, Griffith’s icy blue eyes burning a hole in his brain. It can never be, nor should he want it to. Griffith has never had eyes for him. Certainly he hasn’t.
So why should those women have said such a thing?
Mercifully, the hangover has faded when Guts wakes four hours later, and is promptly informed by the chambermaid that he has been summoned by Lord Griffith.
Guts does what he can with his appearance — splashes a little water on his face, changes into his court frippery — and strides through the vacant gallery that connects their quarters. It’s not ideal that they’re so far apart, but Griffith had insisted on upgrading him, and to share a living space would be indecent. Never mind that they’d occasionally shared a tent when they were roughing it as mercenaries — Guts on a separate cot, of course. There are different standards here at court.
Just as Guts is about to exit the gallery, he hears the low, sniveling voice of Minister Foss, in conversation with another. Instinctually, Guts ducks behind an oak display cabinet, the painting of a woman in a tall white wimple sneering down at him.
“Keep your voice down, Foss,” says his companion, none other than the Queen of Midland. Each of her words is as chilly as an ice pick. Guts can’t see them from this angle, but with how their voices carry, he’d guess they’ve stopped no more than three feet from him.
“Apologies, Your Highness,” Foss says gravely. “These new developments have… excited me somewhat.”
“New developments, pah! It’s just standard court gossip.”
“Have I ever steered you wrong, my queen?”
“I suppose not. But we need more than idle chatter to go on. The castle is already running amok with Julius dead.”
“With all due respect, my queen, it has only been three days. The storm will pass eventually.”
“Still, I don’t like it. I’m certain that Lord Griffith is to blame.”
Guts’ head pounds dully. He recalls the last time he concealed himself like this, behind a swath of curtains in Julius’ chambers; the sure, quick way he plunged his sword into the count’s heart. His equally-swift movements to dispose of the guard at Julius’ door; the crushing dread when he realized he’d killed the boy, Adonis. For a moment, Guts loses the thread of the conversation, leaning heavily against the cabinet, his body pricking with sweat. He wills himself to focus on the queen and Foss again, though the queen’s next words are more jarring still:
“...I can’t say I have much experience with inverts, or at the very least they’ve learned to conceal themselves at court.”
“Lord Griffith has the clear markings of one,” Foss says, as informally as if he’s discussing the weather. “Excessive care to his appearance. No interest in Princess Charlotte, from what I can tell, beyond a desire for power.”
“He’s perfectly good to my Charlotte,” the queen says, dismayed. “But you believe it’s all a front?”
“It certainly is. I’ve seen him observing that swordsman many times, under the guise of helping him perfect his technique. There’s no doubt in my mind.”
Guts wrinkles his nose in disbelief. Griffith, an invert? Like the court ladies suggested earlier?
“Thank you, Minister Foss,” the queen says, a sly edge to her voice. “I suspect your observations will prove most fruitful. We’ll discuss this later in my quarters.”
The queen’s skirts rustle back the way she came, with Foss clip-clopping behind. As soon as they’re gone, Guts lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Their conversation spins in his mind like a whirligig.
Griffith, an invert?
Griffith, interested in him?
Griffith stands by the high arched window in his chambers when Guts finally meets him, gazing down at the sprawling gardens and languidly churning moat. He wears a simple white tunic and trousers, cinched with a brown leather belt. Guts bites his lip, imagining how easy it would be to wrap his hands around that waist.
…If he were an invert. Which he isn’t.
“You’re late,” Griffith says lightly.
“Got tied up in the gallery. Had to dodge old Egghead.”
“Oh? I ran into him earlier. He asked what I thought of the party; I almost told him I’d been expecting a poisoned chalice.”
Guts barks with laughter. “You didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.” Griffith smirks. “But I can hardly resist baiting him. Speaking of which, I noticed you enjoyed some of the wine last night yourself.”
Guts fidgets. “Yeah, about that. Sorry.”
“I don’t mind if you make merry on the job, but do it discreetly, and be careful here. Pay attention to who offers you a drink.” Griffith stares down at the gardens again, where servants clear away the last of the debris. “We may be employed by the King of Midland, but we’re still in enemy territory.”
“Don’t I know it.” Guts fidgets some more. “I’ve been, uh… hearin’ things.”
“Like what?”
Guts immediately regrets his words. “I mean… I think Foss and the queen are gettin’ creative with how they… tear you down.” He scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “Usually I just ignore things like this, but it seems like they’re plotting.”
“Out with it, Guts. Plotting what?”
Guts places his weight on one foot, then the other. He feels like he’s six again, about to be chastised by Gambino. “I think they’re gonna spread rumors about you. About… who you go to bed with.” He can’t believe he’s actually saying this. “I heard Foss sayin’ you were an invert. That they could use it against you.” Griffith’s eyebrows raise slightly. Guts, unable to gauge his mood, barrels on. “And earlier, in the garden, I heard some ladies saying somethin’ similar. More gossip, but Griffith… I think you should be careful. I dunno why they’d say those things—”
Griffith’s eyes narrow like a conniving cat’s.
“To clarify,” he says, studying Guts’ face. “There are rumors going around. That I sleep with men.”
Guts’ face flames red. “Yeah.”
Griffith purses his lips in concentration. He does look pretty, Guts notes, as he has many times before. Even prettier than a girl. But never mind that; petty rumors like these could interfere with Griffith becoming king…
“Would that bother you?” Griffith asks, jerking him from his reverie. “If I slept with men?”
After all these years, Guts is never fully prepared when Griffith questions him directly like this.
“It ain’t… I mean, it ain’t normal.”
Griffith steps closer, so there are less than two feet between them. “Says who?”
Guts remains rooted in place. “Says…” Well, no one exactly. There aren’t any laws about it that he’s heard of. But it’s not something he witnessed growing up with Gambino. All of those men were pretty aggressive in their love of women. Except for Donovan.
“Guys like that, they’re all…” Lechers? Perverts? Evil?
Griffith’s gaze penetrates him. There’s no other word for it — Guts literally cannot move. His breathing sounds warped to his ears.
“I sleep with men,” Griffith says, voice like polished silver. “And I take pleasure in it. What do you have to say to that?”
Guts hears his own labored breathing. He feels dizzier than he did last night, with the booze flowing through his veins. Griffith, without breaking eye contact, smiles serenely.
“Am I wicked, Guts? Should I face the consequences?”
Griffith. Griffith isn’t Donovan. Far from it. It’s an insult to put his name in the same sentence as that bastard.
Griffith, who sleeps with men. Who doesn’t care if others know it. Griffith, who Guts rubbed one out to this morning…
“Well, Guts? I haven’t got all day.” The words themselves are imperious; the tone, surprisingly soft. Perhaps Griffith has seen something on Guts’ face that he cannot.
“I don’t care,” Guts says at last, and means it. “But I don’t want them draggin’ your name through the mud.”
“People will talk,” Griffith says gently. “They always do.”
The ornate gold clock on Griffith’s writing desk sounds the hour.
“My,” Griffith says. “Look at the time. I’m behind schedule already. We’ll reconvene later — I promised Casca we’d meet this afternoon, and I’ll have to adjust my plans for Minister Foss and the queen, given this new information.” He’s brusque and back to business. Guts nearly shakes his head to recover from the whiplash. “And Guts?” he says, as Guts stumbles to the door.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.” Soft, again. “For this information. It’s been… most illuminating.”
“Sure. Of course."
Guts nods once and clicks the door shut.
Guts’ first thought that evening when he returns to Griffith’s quarters is that he’s got the time wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Because the Griffith he finds is far from the composed, enigmatic man he’s come to know.
Griffith is slumped in one of the tufted leather armchairs by the fire, collar undone and feet bare, swirling a heavy red goblet in his palm. His hair dries in damp coils down his back, as though he’s just come from the bath.
“You said tonight, right?” Guts asks. “At this time?”
Griffith studies him vaguely. “Yes, I suppose I did,” he says, turning to the hearth. The flames bathe his face in color as they roar and lick the grate.
Guts settles into the matching armchair and watches Griffith closely. Everything about the way he holds himself is so un-Griffithlike: no piercing stare, no proudly-squared shoulders. He smells good, at least, strong and sweet like the lilies from the garden earlier today. Not that Guts tends to notice such things. Not unless they’re related to Griffith.
“Should we plan some other time?” Guts asks. “We already rescheduled this morning. And, uh… figurin’ out what to do with Foss and the queen seems urgent.” He feels moronic, prattling along. Griffith is clearly in no state to be planning.
Griffith sets his goblet on the side table and faces him again. There’s a slowness to his movements unlike Guts has seen before.
“Tell me, Guts,” Griffith says, tracing slow patterns with one finger along the arm of his chair. His voice is steadier than his body language would suggest. “Do you think I’m abnormal?”
“What?”
“I have always known there was something different about me,” Griffith muses. “In other ways. But in this one, I am not alone. There are plenty of others like me; you just haven’t met them yet.”
“Is this about earlier today? About…” Guts has no idea how to broach this topic. About you sleeping with men?
“About my sexual proclivities, yes,” Griffith says. “Your opinion matters to me, you see.”
Guts isn’t sure how many more surprises he can take today. Griffith… values his opinion? On something like this?
“I don’t think of you any less, if that’s what you mean.” Guts wills himself to get the words right. He’s never been articulate like Griffith. “I didn’t know a lot of people growin’ up.” He thinks of the red-blooded men in Gambino’s troupe, each trying to outswagger the others. “And if any of ’em had those thoughts, it was, uh. Probably not the right place to voice ’em.”
Griffith nods slowly, his gaze already seeming clearer. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense.” He traces the curve of his upper lip. “You’re awfully understanding. Considering you had the same upbringing.”
Between his solo session this morning and his conversation with Griffith earlier, Guts isn’t sure ‘understanding’ is the right word. In some ways, he’s more conflicted than before. But as he looks at Griffith now, a warmth blooms in his chest mixed with something sharper; a shock of lightning piercing through a white sky. And that’s not something he can ignore.
The words are on the tip of his tongue. If he asks them now, perhaps Griffith will forget by tomorrow…
“Griffith.” His voice rumbles like it’s being dragged over hot coals. “You sleep with men. Do you… kiss ’em, too?”
Griffith chuckles lightly. “Yes, Guts, I do.”
“Can I…” Guts’ chest aches. “Can I kiss you?”
Griffith smiles sagely.
“Of course you can.”
Guts — or dream-Guts, whoever this is — leans forward and kisses Griffith on the mouth. It’s even more pillowy-soft than he imagined. Guts’ body gnaws with hunger; he tangles a hand in Griffith’s hair, the other cupping his waist. There’s no way this is happening. He’s dreaming. He got roaring drunk last night and he’s dreaming.
“Guts,” Griffith sighs, two dots of color forming on his cheeks.
“Hey.” Guts kisses him again, heart turning one giddy somersault after another. He smooths Griffith’s bangs out of his eyes, and Griffith looks surprisingly young, with his forehead bare like that. Guts pulls away, his body crying out in protest.
“Tomorrow,” Guts says. “If you remember this tomorrow, come find me.”
He leaves Griffith there to nurse his drink, heart pummeling in his chest as he retreats to his quarters.
Though it’s drizzly and gray, Guts returns to the hedgerows early the next morning. He paces the row of sodden lilies over and over, his boots leaving dark imprints in the muddy earth. If it were drier, he’d swing his sword, but he doubts his muscles are relaxed enough for that. Not even the cool morning air can clear his head after last night’s fitful sleep.
What had he been thinking? Using Griffith’s moment of vulnerability to declare his own feelings. Surely Griffith remembered. He’d be discharged from the Hawks for sure. He’d never see Griffith and the others again. Guts flexes his fingers as thunder claps overhead, shaking the entire clearing to its foundation.
“Brooding in the rain. How very like you, Guts.”
Guts whirls around to find Griffith at the other end of the hedgerow. He’s wrapped in a pale blue cloak, the hood pulled snugly over his head. Guts runs a hand through his own drenched hair, laughing to expel the bundle of nerves in his belly.
“Morning, Griffith.”
Griffith approaches him slowly. “You’re soaked through.”
“Yeah. I guess so.” Guts swallows his panic. It’s just Griffith, who he’s talked to a million times before. Griffith, who probably doesn’t remember anything…
Thunder rumbles again and the storm begins in earnest, slick white sheets of rain pelting Guts’ skin.
“Come along,” Griffith says. “There’s a gazebo five minutes from here. I can’t have you catching a fever.”
Guts follows Griffith as he weaves his way swiftly through the garden, cresting a tree-lined hill that borders the west wing of the palace. The sky grows swollen and dark. They duck into the imposing stone gazebo, away from prying eyes.
“Guts.” Griffith peels away his cloak and beckons Guts closer.
“Griffith,” Guts says, hoarse with want.
“About last night…”
Guts’ heart leaps as Griffith closes the gap, standing on his toes to slot their mouths together. He can feel his burgeoning erection as he clutches Griffith to his chest. Griffith wets his lips, whispering something in his ear.
“What was that?”
“Fuck me,” Griffith says. “Please.”
Guts exhales a hot breath. If his heart beats any faster, he’ll collapse.
“I can turn the other way,” Griffith murmurs. “If it's easier.”
“No.” Guts says firmly. “I want to see your face.”
Griffith’s cheeks flush pink as he disrobes. Guts, still clothed, channels all the conviction he has while swinging his sword, pressing Griffith’s naked body to one of the bone-white pillars. Griffith looks like a painting, framed by tendrils of ivy and lush green rosebushes, his pupils drowning the whites of his eyes. Guts fumbles with his trousers and slicks himself up with rainwater, drawing a low, exhilarated breath.
Like warmth after summer rain, his nerves evaporate. He cracks a rakish grin and places a hand between Griffith’s thighs, massaging the delicate, puckered skin of his hole. Griffith whines as Guts lifts him off the ground, wriggling the tip of his cock into his ass.
“Still good?”
“Just fuck me already.”
“Psh. Okay, okay.”
They rock slowly together as Griffith’s hole unclenches. Griffith cries out, belly fluttering with glee as Guts buries himself to the hilt.
“Oh,” he pants. “You’re so big.”
Guts, gloating, quickens his pace. The pleasure is indescribable. For all his fantasies about ravishing Griffith in the garden, he’d never imagined it like this: Griffith’s hole so tight and perfect, the frenzied rut of skin against skin, the rain muffling the world around them. Griffith takes his own cock in hand and strokes it lazily, his moans high and breathy as Guts thrusts inside him.
“G-Griffith,” Guts groans. “Oh god, Griffith.” He takes a fistful of Griffith’s hair and tugs. Griffith gasps, back arching sharply as Guts worships him with his mouth: his shoulders, his chest, the hollow of his throat. Guts plants his hands on Griffith’s hips — and sure enough, he can circle them entirely — his muscles seizing as he comes. Griffith’s body shudders in turn; wet curls cling to his forehead as he reaches his own climax.
Guts pulls out slowly and leans against the pillar, one of his hands still cupping Griffith’s waist. Griffith breathes jaggedly beside him, chest rising and falling as lightning sizzles the sky.
“Gods above, Griffith,” Guts finally manages.
Griffith quakes with laughter. “My thoughts exactly.”
“So, uh. I guess you remembered.”
“Of course I remembered, you oaf.”
“Tch. Jackass.”
They sink to the ground, sitting in comfortable silence until the storm passes. The sun parts the clouds and warms the foliage, casting them both in dappled light.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Griffith says abruptly, “I’ve developed a plan for dealing with Minister Foss and the queen. We never did get to discuss that, with all the recent excitement.”
Guts snorts in disbelief. “Hey, could you give a guy a minute? I just had my cock up your ass.”
Griffith chuckles. “Fair enough. Why don’t we go another round and then discuss? I think you’ll find the plan most fascinating. It involves a kidnapping, a burning building, faking one’s own death…”
“You’re crazy if you think I was listenin’ after ‘another round.’”
“And here I thought you wanted to protect my honor.”
“Well, sure, right after I’ve sullied it.”
Guts proceeds to make good on his word. They’ll quash those rumors — however true — eventually. But not before he pays tribute at the temple of Griffith’s body.