Griffith drifts in and out of sleep. His nerves are soothed by the weight and warmth of Guts pressing into the mattress beside him, and it's a yearned-for comfort after the past nights of Guts in the chair or upon the cot, the careful and agonizing distance between them.
But Griffith's sleep is rarely easy, and his thoughts wake him, revisiting the points Guts brought up but to no satisfactory conclusion. He sleeps again, dreams, wakes again, considers.
Guts stands beside him in a meadow, sun on his shoulders and a grin on his lips, boyish, a different Guts who knew less pain or who has somehow healed, a dream Guts who basks in the freedom of the road. "You ever feel watched here?" the sunlit Guts asks.
Griffith blinks, and he's back in his castle, laying on his bed, and the warmth isn't sunlight after all, only Guts. He looks as though he's expecting some response, so Griffith responds to the dream Gut's question.
"I always feel watched." He has, ever since he received the Behelit. Part of his destiny, he thinks. Watched by the gods, or by the Behelit itself, or by the creatures that lately he has seen in every shadow.
Leaning over, he takes a light kiss from Guts' lips, then sits up to scan the room. Nothing. A lingering warmth like sunlight. "What do you see?"
"Nothing," and the truth of it stings, a flaw in the air-tight wall of their defences. Many nights of watch, and still this slip of a threat prevailed against them. Guts can't name it or give the measure of its reach, but it seeps into the plane of his awareness, raises the hairs on his body, keeps him tethered to an edge.
Enemy and unseen mean arrows, on most counts. Spies, on lesser days. Assassins, on those rare occasions when Griffith's slights have amounted to more than crippling inconvenience, and he's tarnished noble pride, along with treasuries. They don't add up prettily and compact to haunting, but here they are, desolate before the quiet understanding that whatever's lodged in the confines of the master's rooms has a hold of the fortress it's not compelled to surrender.
Griffith kisses him, a mother blessing her child, or a woman trying the lips of her first lover: forcibly effeminate, but thoughtless — a fleeting fancy, nothing to build on or grasp whole. Guts kisses back meaner, teeth and a hard push, something to wake the feeling inside this man, who can't be troubled to take this damn well seriously.
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.
He hisses under the renewed attention, slow to remedy it with a gentle tug, first at Griffith's sleeves, wrinkling under Guts' hands, then at his shoulders. His grip turns steely, catching now and holding, half lifting and half nudging back Griffith like an anchor that should be deposited to serve its proper use — a possession Guts can shift and place as he pleases.
Griffith's weight serves him, a faint and negligible complication that Guts won't pretend to be obstructed by past the initial effort of a laughing half breath.
"Nothing means you don't need me here now," he warns with a slight show of teeth, no where as menacing as he might have been those precious few moonrises ago, when Griffith had yet to glimpse new ways to stab at his softness.
Nothing, so he pushes Griffith back, just strong enough to signal there are conversations that precede lust, and they're speaking those words now. "Talk."
Griffith makes a feral little rumble in his chest, irritated at being held at arms length. He wants, and does not like being denied the things he wants, especially not when it was Guts' kiss that got him thinking that there might be opportunity for more.
Guts' control over him is perhaps more than either of them consciously realizes, because Griffith lets himself be subdued, and surrenders the information Guts demands.
"Nothing means I should never again let you leave my side," Griffith argues. "After that last night we were close, you spent several days at a distance, always just out of reach, sleeping in that chair and then your damn cot. We didn't touch for days, and I got worse. You touched me, and it lifted. It's stayed lifted, and you've stayed close. I don't know if it's touch or proximity. I don't know if it will work the same with Casca. I intend to find out. I don't know if it's an unrelated coincidence, or if it's something about you unrelated to touch."
It's all just a theory at this point, but Griffith spills it out for him as demanded, laying out the key points. He's thought it out in far more detail and has calculated possibilities and hypotheses--would a lock of hair be enough? Is it skin contact or can there be clothes or armor between them? If skin, why? If not, then is it a proximity of hearts or heads? Is it because of his deal?--but he doesn't expect that Guts wants to hear that level of hypothetical speculation.
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But Griffith's sleep is rarely easy, and his thoughts wake him, revisiting the points Guts brought up but to no satisfactory conclusion. He sleeps again, dreams, wakes again, considers.
Guts stands beside him in a meadow, sun on his shoulders and a grin on his lips, boyish, a different Guts who knew less pain or who has somehow healed, a dream Guts who basks in the freedom of the road. "You ever feel watched here?" the sunlit Guts asks.
Griffith blinks, and he's back in his castle, laying on his bed, and the warmth isn't sunlight after all, only Guts. He looks as though he's expecting some response, so Griffith responds to the dream Gut's question.
"I always feel watched." He has, ever since he received the Behelit. Part of his destiny, he thinks. Watched by the gods, or by the Behelit itself, or by the creatures that lately he has seen in every shadow.
Leaning over, he takes a light kiss from Guts' lips, then sits up to scan the room. Nothing. A lingering warmth like sunlight. "What do you see?"
no subject
Enemy and unseen mean arrows, on most counts. Spies, on lesser days. Assassins, on those rare occasions when Griffith's slights have amounted to more than crippling inconvenience, and he's tarnished noble pride, along with treasuries. They don't add up prettily and compact to haunting, but here they are, desolate before the quiet understanding that whatever's lodged in the confines of the master's rooms has a hold of the fortress it's not compelled to surrender.
Griffith kisses him, a mother blessing her child, or a woman trying the lips of her first lover: forcibly effeminate, but thoughtless — a fleeting fancy, nothing to build on or grasp whole. Guts kisses back meaner, teeth and a hard push, something to wake the feeling inside this man, who can't be troubled to take this damn well seriously.
"What does it look like, what you see?"
no subject
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.
no subject
Griffith's weight serves him, a faint and negligible complication that Guts won't pretend to be obstructed by past the initial effort of a laughing half breath.
"Nothing means you don't need me here now," he warns with a slight show of teeth, no where as menacing as he might have been those precious few moonrises ago, when Griffith had yet to glimpse new ways to stab at his softness.
Nothing, so he pushes Griffith back, just strong enough to signal there are conversations that precede lust, and they're speaking those words now. "Talk."
no subject
Guts' control over him is perhaps more than either of them consciously realizes, because Griffith lets himself be subdued, and surrenders the information Guts demands.
"Nothing means I should never again let you leave my side," Griffith argues. "After that last night we were close, you spent several days at a distance, always just out of reach, sleeping in that chair and then your damn cot. We didn't touch for days, and I got worse. You touched me, and it lifted. It's stayed lifted, and you've stayed close. I don't know if it's touch or proximity. I don't know if it will work the same with Casca. I intend to find out. I don't know if it's an unrelated coincidence, or if it's something about you unrelated to touch."
It's all just a theory at this point, but Griffith spills it out for him as demanded, laying out the key points. He's thought it out in far more detail and has calculated possibilities and hypotheses--would a lock of hair be enough? Is it skin contact or can there be clothes or armor between them? If skin, why? If not, then is it a proximity of hearts or heads? Is it because of his deal?--but he doesn't expect that Guts wants to hear that level of hypothetical speculation.