Griffith rumbles at that rough kiss, always interested in a challenge, and he rolls over onto Guts, straddling him, ready to wrestle or kiss or both. His eyes flick closed, once, twice, irritated to be interrupted from this interest by practicalities and questions. But it's Guts, and he'll do nearly anything for Guts.

So he looks again, hands resting on Guts' chest and thighs tight on either side of Guts' hips as he studies the room. He doesn't even feel it, now. He's too distracted by Guts. Blindness or safety, perhaps both, but while they're close enough to touch Griffith feels as though nothing can hurt him. Only sunlight, never shadows.

"Nothing," he echoes, dropping his head in a flash of white hair and kissing savagely at the front of Guts' throat, then the side, nipping roughly at the skin just below his jaw. That sharp, challenging kiss has got his attention, and now he wants more than anything to prod at Guts until he gets more of it.