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Griffith’s reaction wasn’t really considered, when Guts made the decision to leave. He didn’t even plan on telling him; one of many many soldiers, he’d hardly be missed. As they’re not even friends, he doesn’t expect to be above notice.
And, in all honesty, he didn’t want to know how Griffith would react. Shock, at the thought that he’s capable of any sort of ambition. Anger, at the ingratitude and lack of commitment. Dubious, with the decision that Guts can never accomplish such a thing. However he responds, it may make Guts waver, and so he didn’t wish for it.
Anger was a surprise, the determined look on his face, the quickly drawn sword, the demand for a duel. A good surprise, one that made him feel worthy. Like Guts was worth fighting for.
But apparently not worth much. Guts is Griffith’s sword, rusted with innocent blood and chipped by all the work done in the dark. He should have known, expected that it wouldn’t be a fair fight. He respected him, and expected respect in turn, but he should have known better— he’s a tool, unworthy to be dubbed a friend.
As he had charged at Griffith, as his sword closed in on his shoulder, a handful of dirt was thrown in his face, momentarily blinded him. A moment was all Griffith needed—
A blade sunk into the crook of his arm, nearly severing his forearm— pierces a vascular area, where the delicate pulse point and veins rise against his skin. Blood surges out like an outburst, like his body is screaming in response, and he falls to his knees. And he’s ready to shout some words as well, get them out there before he loses consciousness, but they leave him when he looks into Griffith’s eyes.
White, reflecting the snow billowing around the two of them. Empty, sightless, as if he were the one blinded, like Guts’ eyes were abstracting his. They just look at each other, not speaking or moving, until Guts passes out.
When Guts wakes up, heavy and dazed, Griffith is the first thing he sees, at the foot of the bed, standing and staring. What transpired hasn’t left him, not even for a moment, replaying even in his injured haze. The— indignance, hurt, shock, it’s too strong to leave him.
“We may need to amputate it. The doctor said to see how it heals.” His voice is soft, clothes ruffled and face pale, suggesting he was with Guts for a while, possibly the entire time. “I’m not sure which outcome I prefer.”
“As punishment?” His own voice is cracked, dry from disuse, and he wonders quite how long he’s been here. He’s hot, numb all over, and his injured arm already felt departed from his body.
When a tool ceases being useful, you throw it out. That’s what this is, huh? If he’s not useful to Griffith, he no longer has a right to live? Is that how little he means to him?
He considered that he’d invoke resentment with this decision. After all, they’re not friends , they don’t help each other. That battle with Zodd— Griffith should have never interfered but he did— “Do I need a reason to put myself in harm's way for you?”
Guts had gotten ahead of himself. At the time he truly thought they were friends, didn’t consider their standing. He’s a soldier, and defected soldiers are punished. He knows this, he shouldn’t be hurt by it.
“No… insurance.” Griffith approaches, stops halfway to touch Guts’ arm, heavily wrapped. There’s no sensation. He shudders in discomfort.
“I don’t fight fair. But you knew that.” He traced the gauze, how it circled around his arm like a snake, freckled with blood at the junction of his arm. Follows it down to where it’s wrapped snugly around his hand, anchored at his thumb, the other fingers free. Griffith touches the peek of skin, mirrors his fingers with his own.
Of all his fights, there was never a single lasting injury, only battle scars that muddled together with no distinct memories. Only Griffith has been able to wound him like this.
“You said… that it doesn’t matter if I’m cruel. You said you didn’t care.” His fingers slip past, through the other’s, curling into his knuckles— he’s holding Guts’ hand. His fingers could only twitch in complaint, otherwise, he’s compliant, lacking the power to pull away. Like a trapped bug cupped in human hands, the frantic flap of its wings a trivial tickle.
“Was that a lie?”
Guts squints at him in confusion, then understands. In truth, it was never a matter of whether or not Griffith was cruel, but rather that it didn’t matter. Guts believed in doing what you must to survive, no matter the consequences.
Or he had, but his time with the band of the hawk softened him. He would’ve expected, been prepared for an underhanded attack like that in the past, may have been able to dodge or at the very least adapt and overcome. But he had trusted Griffith, let his guard down.
Though Griffith wears the face of the betrayed. Guts doesn’t care to explain, to correct. Let him feel it, a fraction of what Guts was feeling. “I thought you treated your stuff with better care.”
“But you won’t be mine.”
There’s something manic in his eyes— Guts could see his irises in full, with slitted pupils, his eyes restlessly held wide open, bloodshot. Like Guts would disappear if he blinked, looked away, relaxed. Would he?
He’s not desperate to get away, he’s not that driven. He thinks of Casca’s lonely voice, the warm fire by his comrades, Griffith’s proud figure before them..
He could never be like Griffith, act and decide solely on his own. Even this decision to find himself wasn’t entirely his; he was driven to it by Griffith.
Is Guts strong in the same way? Could he ever compel others like Griffith?
He suddenly climbs onto his lap, straddling him, which makes Guts both shiver and cringe away. It took time to grow accustomed to skinship with companions, to understand that it’s a show of comfort and trust, and he was only really okay with it from Griffith, but not like this. It’s intimate, their faces are too close together, his body’s light weight somehow crushing.
His hands circle where Guts’ neck and shoulders intersect, not quite choking but nevertheless a possessive hold. The muscle there is soft, loose, though he should be straining to get away. “What should I do?”
Not rhetorical— he truly doesn’t know. Those fingers shake against him, betraying his wavering spirit.
Besides betrayed, Guts is surprised. He hadn’t expected such a reaction— he expected Griffith to simply unsheathe his sword, strike him in punishment and insist that he continue to fight. Or, make an example of him, kill him. Not this emotional aspect
“I can’t.. let you leave again…”
There’s no possible way Griffith needs him. Guts has been a good soldier, he may have made a difference in these wars, but he wasn’t irreplaceable. What has he really done besides kill in the name of others? (Like that child, with a sword torn through his belly, incapable of even last words as he drowns in cold blood, his last moments spent staring into the eyes of a stranger, neither of them understanding why it happened) It’s not a mistake someone like Griffith would make.
A hand leaves Guts to touch the sword at his hip, pull it out slightly, the silver metal winking at them. His eyes drift over his shoulder, to Guts’ legs, ankles.
A cold chill floods his fevered body. “Wh— I can’t fight if you do that…!” He should be either killed or let go, there’s no point in doing such a thing—
Griffith’s eyes stay there, so intent that Guts could feel a throbbing in the tendons. His toes curl, and he tries to withdraw his legs, but they’re heavily bound to the bed, and he’s weakened by whatever was given to him.
“But then you’ll have to stay here.”
“What use am I to you then?”
Griffith nods contemplatively, draws even closer, eyes rising back to Guts’. “It’d be worth it.”
He leans forward and Gut’s heart pounds, and he could just turn his head away but he’s stuck in place, held there by Griffith’s presence, always so overwhelming, commanding. It’s a— relief, maybe, should be, when Griffith’s face falls into Guts’ shoulder, his head dipped down into the crook of his neck. “You can’t leave.”
When he speaks, his lips brush against his skin, and it’s too much like a kiss— Guts blushes, despite the circumstances, and lightly struggles. “Griffith, you can’t keep me here.”
Griffith grits his teeth, right at his throat, like he’s going to bite into it. Guts’ skin prickles. “Just enough to weaken you… so you’d lose in the next fight. Every fight. So you can’t leave.”
And yet… this isn’t enough to make Guts hate Griffith. He’s already offered Griffith his life, countless times— it’s not entirely out of place for Griffith to thwart it as he has. He wasn’t sure if there was anything Griffith could do that would make Guts truly hate him, oppose him. After all, the desire for a dream was spurred on by feelings of… admiration in the first place. Even if his arm ends up lost, he still won’t hate Griffith.
The fault lies in Guts for being weak, soft, trusting in the first place. Griffith did this to him, changed him like this.
But does he regret ever joining the band of the hawk? Meeting Griffith? He can’t say he does; it’s given him his first and only taste of worth. Value in the time passing, camaraderie, a desire aside from mere survival. This was all given to him by Griffith, it seems justified for him to take it all away— and Guts really feels this, this desire to please, this willingness to give in. For he’s not yet Griffith’s equal, he lacks the resolve to rebel with his entire self. But that’s why he has to leave, even if he doesn’t want to— he wants to, needs to change.
“You would make me stay here, even if I don’t want to?”
A shuddered exhale against his skin. “Only you.”
“Wh… Why? You can have your dream without me, you’re already so close..”
Charlotte, with her small frame and bouncy curls, large innocent eyes like fountains that you can throw coins into for good fortune (or reach in to fish the gold out). Content with not being equal, with just being close, she’d gladly give Griffith the throne, just as long as she has a seat beside him, no matter how small and far. Guts won’t be, can’t be like her.
And he knows Griffith is manipulating her, taking advantage of that innocence, it’s a battle plan, how he construes actions to make her stumble, trip, fall. A plan Guts isn’t needed for, that’ll take Griffith to the finishing line. Guts brought him this far, and that’s enough.
Watching her, and how she resigned herself to her given position, didn’t consider trying to be Griffith’s equal— he hated and envied her in equal parts. He doesn’t want to be the same as her, like a flower that arches towards the sun, not even close enough to fear being burnt. Though he’s at the ground, he should at least try and reach upwards, feel that heat, that rivalry, that friction. Pass the line of being provided for, towards being opposed. It feels unachievable, but the sun is just a star, and there can be more.
But how easily he was stricken down.
“No— I can’t.” He cradles Guts’ face in his hands, grips his cheekbones like he’s going to pull his face apart. “You have to be here. You—“
His hands leave him so that his arms can wrap around Guts’ waist, like an embrace, but there’s something fatal about it. Guts doesn’t like not being able to see his hands. “What caught your eye? What took you away from me?”
“I have my own feelings and wishes.” Anger, indignance rises in him, and he really tests the bounds now, pulling without regard to how it dug into the skin of his wrists.
“Something I can’t provide you?”
“...The one thing you can’t.”
Griffith withdraws to look up at him between his eyelashes. “Is it to get away from me? Is that all you want?”
...Guts averts his eyes, silent. The hands at his sides squeeze.
When he looks back, Griffith has pulled out a small knife kept in his sleeve, intended for emergencies, is this one? “Will you hate me for this? But you already do— can’t I change your mind? No, it appears not… But you can’t go, no matter what. I must have you.”
He crawls higher and higher along Guts’ near paralyzed body, sits only once he reaches his chest, where he rests right at his collarbone, thighs at either side of Guts’ head. The reason is clear once they clamp down against his ears, immobilizing his head.
And as it dawns on him, his only thought is if he would forgive this as well. While he should be more angry, more resistant, more opposed, he can’t help but—
Does he mean this much to Griffith? Is that what this means? He’s never acted like this before, so irrational, manic, almost berserk— to the point where he had no plan, no idea what to do, genuinely asking Guts for an answer. It must be indicative of how he feels about Guts, right?
It’s obsessive . And he should be scared, try and talk sense into him, but to be the object of obsession from someone so perfect, powerful,
It makes him happy. Griffith would even weaken him to keep him, he wants Guts , not his battle strength. It’s all Guts has to offer, and yet Griffith doesn’t even want it.
This is what he wanted, to just, matter. He’s jealous of Griffith, wants to be equals with him, wants to be like him, but beyond all, he just wants to be important to him. As important as Griffith is to Guts.
Rather than beneath respect, he was beyond it— he was wanted so badly that whatever means were justified. That’s what this means, no? The first, the only time Griffith has revealed the devil tail shrouded beneath his wings, underhanded in broad daylight, regardless of who was there, of his perfectly maintained image. Isn’t it an act of.. desperation?
Do what you must to survive, doesn’t that mean Guts is needed for Griffith’s survival? He wants that to be the reason, wants to believe it, wants to know what Griffith would do to him, for him.
Not beside or beneath Griffith’s future throne, but part of it, a vital piece of foundation, or perhaps the only part— he’d be closest to Griffith, the only one.
A dream, could he ever have a dream, it’s either fight back and sever what they have, chase the notion of self righteous ambition, or—
It’s a choice between what feels good and what is right. And Guts is so… weary, weakened, he’s slipping into the latter.
Though Griffith is the one who makes the final choice for him.
“I’ll take what I can get… it doesn’t have to be the whole thing. As long as I have… something..”
And then he touches the side of the knife to Guts’s face, introduces the sharp tip to the bottom of his browbone. It’s cold against his fevered skin, almost, oddly, comforting.
Two choices, two paths, two visions. Two eyes.
Take an eye, so only one remained, so only Griffith exists before him. Steal any hope Guts has at obtaining something for himself. Force a mutual obsession.
So this, can he hate him for this? To have his autonomy cut out of him?
His wrist turns, blade traces the arch to the corner of his eye. “You should only look at me.”
No, if it anchors Griffith to him.
It pierces the thin flesh, scrapes the bone of the bridge of his nose, not that painful yet, not quite— then a slow drag inwards like the blade is slipping on its own down the crater in his skull— both his eyes squeeze shut, he’s scared, truly scared—
But that only makes a clear line, a seam to cut along, which he follows so precisely, cleanly— knees squeeze the sides of his head, force him still, even as his shoulders strain against the weight atop them, veins in his neck pop out from exertion— even as his jaw falls open in a scream, the top of his head is unmoved.
It’s quick though, a small space to carve into, and the eye hollow quickly pools with blood, spills over and dribbles on all sides of his face, traces the contours. The shock strikes him quickly, voice swapped out with rapid breaths, which only quickens as the blood runs over his lips, into his mouth. And he’s finally able to open his other eye, blinks through the forced tears, and,
Griffith stares at him, at his work, and looks as proud as he is guilty, regretful as he is satisfied. Bent over like this, his necklace slips out of his shirt, dangles in Guts’ face, and he swears its lips are curved into a frown. Finally released, he weakly heaves his head forward, lets the blood stream over his chin, down his neck— Griffith leans forward to meet him, eyes desperate, fervid—
Guts bites into the behelit, into its spongy red flesh, one of his canines piercing an eye, takes his own bite out of Griffith’s dream….
And he allows it, stays in place, locks eyes with Guts all the while, finally finally relaxing.
Then the shock, the medication takes him away, and he follows it, anticipating what comes once he wakes.