Griffith's smile is wide and happy, iced liberally with playfulness and challenge, and he lets himself be fenced in by Guts' powerful arms and legs. One of his knees is slightly bent, and as Guts climbs over him, that knee rests against the inside of Guts' thigh, intimate and forward and yet innocent of all charges because Guts did the climbing and Griffith only let it tilt a little to one side, nestling against Guts' thigh.

His hands come up again, curling around Griffith's scalp with a possessive reverence that is typical of how he likes to handle Guts, and he closes his eyes as their foreheads touch, blissful.

"I will," he promises, voice all cheerfulness and triumph even as he promises deference upon ultimate defeat. Guts is his, and the castle is his, and for this blessed moment he is free from his curse, protected by Guts's presence. His fingertips caress idle circles against Guts' scalp, offering affection even as Griffith keeps his eyes closed and demands nothing more. The moment is too precious to risk.