He lingers there, a predator satisfied with the prone look of his prey, pointedly ignoring the intimate suggestion that tickles the inside of his thighs, tempting them open. All at once, he surrenders himself, dropping over Griffith in a sea of muscle and bone that blankets completely.

His head seeks out the nook of Griffith's neck, laying his head as sweetly and lightly as possible, and inviting the press of Griffith's hand through his hair. He wants what neither of them ever enjoyed or can hope to have: a mother's touch, or a gentle lover's caress. They're not worth such kindness.

"We could leave any damn day and no one would find us," he murmurs, a traitor to the bitter last. Let Griffith have the strength between them, the conviction and the stiff upper lip. Guts never pretended obedience or service to any cause but blood-letting. "You, me, Casca and the sun. You'd hate that?"