In the end, sleep compels him, a bead string of moments, blinking awake then submerging. Beside him, Griffith is a silent sun, warmth crackling but subdued. Fueling Guts alive.
He wakes with a sudden gasp, less nightmarish than elusively chilling, the feeling of stares and touches in the night. Not Griffith, for all their limbs chase each other to borrow any residual heat some days.
Not the band, who've learned in days that precede Guts to never interrupt Griffith's sleep, or enter his bed chamber unbidden — for fear of what company they might find there, or what mood might have seized their leader in the night,.
So, then. His eyes open slowly, despite the urgency that burns the back of his lids. He licks his lips. "You ever feel watched here?"
He knows without checking that Griffith's awake and prone. He always is, fright and fight equally compelling him.
no subject
He wakes with a sudden gasp, less nightmarish than elusively chilling, the feeling of stares and touches in the night. Not Griffith, for all their limbs chase each other to borrow any residual heat some days.
Not the band, who've learned in days that precede Guts to never interrupt Griffith's sleep, or enter his bed chamber unbidden — for fear of what company they might find there, or what mood might have seized their leader in the night,.
So, then. His eyes open slowly, despite the urgency that burns the back of his lids. He licks his lips. "You ever feel watched here?"
He knows without checking that Griffith's awake and prone. He always is, fright and fight equally compelling him.