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Ballrooms are remarkably stuffy places, that’s what they don’t warn you about beforehand.
They tell you what to wear, how to smell, what to say. They're especially forward on what you should never say, though it’s a good part of your own wit there.
Guts didn’t care for it, not one bit. That’s why he didn’t understand why, of all people, Griffith insisted he come along and play nobleman for the night.
Guts did not take this in stride, but he grit his teeth and followed his orders, just like any other, because he’d do anything for Griffith. That’s just how it was.
So, there he was, standing in a corner, looking like a half-assed bodyguard, nursing a thimble-sized glass of fine wine. Behaving.
Though; If looks could kill, the princess would turn to a pillar of salt and fine lace ruffles. The way she laughed with Griffith like his little bride was stomach churning. The blush that colored the gentle swell of her cheeks set off a dark feeling in Guts that he couldn't seem to suppress.
It wasn’t jealousy, it’s not like Guts wanted her for himself, he found her annoying, childish, and spoiled. It was something different, something impossibly, cavernously, worse.
The smile on Griffith’s face was just as white as the sparkle in his eye, a golden ratio. He said something that couldn’t be heard over the waves of chatter that filled the room.
She smiled back, girlish and coy, saying something in return, batting her eyelashes. The whole song and dance. A beautiful little canary in a gilded cage.
He then excused himself with the proper pleasantries, bowing in a practiced flourish that caught the eye of more than one.
Guts only relished the sour taste lingering in his throat. When had he become so mean? He wrought no joy from Griffith’s adoration. However many noblemen and women admired him, they had no idea who Griffith was. They could only see the impeccable man, not the gruesome painting in his attic.
Horribly, Griffith turned his attention in Guts’ woeful direction. The worst outcome of this night, Guts wanted nothing more than to be left in the corner of the room to nurse his self-hatred in the company of his solitary drink.
It took remarkably few strides for Griffith to cross the entirety of the grand room, only snagged singularly by a blonde who shallowly complimented his hair. He took it in stride, running through the pleasantries again with a smile. He was a keen thespian. Guts couldn’t help but feel that part of him enjoyed it, playing the modest and humble knight. Sir Griffith.
When he reached Guts, there was no such spectacle, a narrow smile served as greeting. “You seem to be enjoying yourself.” His comment was slyly sarcastic, playful enough not to start anything.
Guts wasted no faux mirth, he offered only a tight lipped frown, swirling the remaining wine in his glass.
Griffith raised a brow. “You might as well pretend to enjoy yourself, there's plenty to eat and the music is quite enjoyable, wouldn't you say?" He smiled again, more genuine, boyish amusement, wagging his finger merrily to the swells of the lulling music.
Guts sighed through his nose. “I don’t really see the fun in it.” He admitted, wrestling down any sense of amusement at the look on Griffith's face.
"You're a bit of a case, aren't you?" His amusement seemed to grow, cheeks rosy with the pleasant warmth of wine and dance. He really didn’t hate it here, at least not right now.
Guts shook his head, smiling. Damn it.
Griffith matched the previous sigh. “We don’t have to stay a moment longer you know, I’ve said my piece for the night, but I will tell you the gardens are quite fine and they’re open to guests of this party, just for tonight.” His smile was widened, eyes utterly alight with mischief.
“A garden?" Guts scrunched his nose.
“You no longer have a choice in the matter, set your glass and follow me.” He commanded, turning to lead the way.
Guts could’ve protested but he didn’t fight Griffith on anything these days. He set his glass on some counter, probably not the “correct” placement but it was inconsequential. He followed.
The garden was dark, figures, it had to be late.
They strolled on until the light beaming from the castle was a distant glow, nothing more than a dim lantern.
There was something to be said about the magnitude of the garden. It seemed to stretch on endlessly, with each turn you faced a new and distinct species of shrubbery or flowering plant. Griffith pointed out a few that he recognized as they walked.
Guts didn't feel the need to say anything, listening to Griffith hum about snapdragons and roses was keeping an even wash over his mind. He could doze off to it.
“That’s dog rose, said to cure the bite of a mad dog. It also makes a fine marmalade." Griffith smiled, gently grasping a small pink flower between his fingers, aware of how he was pulling so as not to tear it. The contrast of the bright flower against his pale fingers was attractive, graceful in the way only fine oil paintings can be.
Guts nodded, interested if not a bit morbidly aware of the irony. “The bite of a mad dog?" He hummed.
Griffith released the flower, “that’s what they say….” He turned attention to the sky, squinting up at the foggy blanket of stars.
Guts followed suit, the cover of dark roiling clouds was generous, it seemed they were in for rain.
Griffith voiced what they both were thinking. “I think we’ll probably be caught in the rain before we can make it back inside…shall we just continue?” He offered, smiling.
Guts couldn't argue with that reasoning, more so, he couldn’t argue with that smile. “Why not, our asses are getting soaked either way.”
“Good lad” Griffith teased, continuing down the sprawling pathways of darkened greens and muted pinks. He looked different dressed up in fine clothes, missing the weight of his sword. His arse looked tight in those tailored pants too.
Guts immediately chastised himself, throwing the metaphorical cold water on his head. Lousy thing to think about one’s closest friend, utterly shameful. He was no better than the scum he spat at for such things.
Griffith, none the wiser, paused mid stride, holding an upturned palm to the sky. Rain.
Guts felt a few weak drops on the back of his neck, one trickled languidly down the side of his cheek, like he was crying.
The drops slowly turned from weak innocent things to fat vengeful spits, soaking large spots of their immaculate ballroom attire.
Griffith began to laugh. A raindrop rolled down the fine line of his nose. “Hurry, to the shed!” He giggled, pointing to a small shed that sported a few inches of roofing that would offer, at most, marginal protection.
Guts followed, mostly because the rain was getting pretty thick and it was increasingly hard to see in front of your own hands.
The shed did offer at least scant protection from the aggressive rain, but it forced the two of them into close quarters. Almost nose to nose. Guts had to hunch down a bit to even fit under the small structure.
Griffith’s hair was trampled, stray pale strands clung to his face and neck with the aid of moisture, curling into all sorts of charming ringlets. His cheeks were pink with the chill of such cold and sudden rain. Guts probably looked like a wet dog.
The rain continued to pelt them, but at least their heads were mostly protected.
“Oh well….” Guts snorted, an attempt to rouse himself from his wicked state of trance.
Griffith nodded. “Shame, you looked very handsome!” He exclaimed.
“Piss off, Griffith.” He sniffed, the sharpness of the rain was biting, especially in clothing designed for stiff dances and cordial conversation.
Griffith’s eyes were practically glowing, pinpricks of vibrant blue in the gray smog the garden had turned into.
Guts had always been a fool, but this was a different thing altogether. Taking the horse firmly by the reins. He did nothing.
“You're gonna marry her…aren’t you?” His shoulder was falling asleep against the wall, numb and fuzzy. He sniffed.
Griffith paused, the glee in his expression faded, left with a neat pinch of his brow. “Guts?” He prompted, coolly.
Guts could feel it coming, he’d stepped out of line, probably, but he didn’t really feel it mattered here, under this sloping thatched roof. He only hummed.
“Would you do anything for me, if I asked?” His voice was serious, low, and drizzled thickly with honey. Griffith was a clever man. Quick on the trigger.
The rain filled the silence. Pitter patter, doling, it prickled against his skin like needles. “Yeah…I would.” He didn’t hesitate, he knew the truth.
“Would you kiss me if I asked you to?" Griffith’s eyes were darkened, half lidded, his voice was even lower, nothing but a heavy and even whisper. Private, as if someone were listening in, prepared to hang them both as sodomites the moment Guts' throat bobbed.
Guts swallowed the knot in his throat, like a man, and hunched his shoulders further. “You can't…mess around like that..." He felt like he was being choked, his lungs were constricted like snakes.
Griffith lost none of his severe look, “but I’m not joking, Guts.” Breathy.
Guts wanted to cry, he wanted to grab Griffith by the throat. He wanted to do anything else.
"Yeah...if you asked me to...I'm yours…remember?” He finished, pins and needles assaulted his fingers. He was scared. Why was he so scared?
Griffith’s brows creased, like he was remembering something. "Yes, that you are….”
Griffith drew a quick breath, “you’re my friend, much has changed since that day, wouldn’t you agree?" His hair was wetted down to his throat, a Greek fresco drying in the sun.
It was far from sunny.
Guts made an odd face. He wouldn’t know how to describe it to himself. “You really think so? Or are you just saying that?" He couldn’t decide whether to sound fond or bitter, the result was something that flirted with both. Toeing an already blurred line.
Oh.
Griffith had not waited to wax poetic, he delivered no lofty proclamation of affection. There was no gentle phrasing, no affirmation. Physical, maybe.
Griffith was kissing him. Closed mouth, lip to lip, chaste and candied. His eyes were closed. Guts couldn’t do the same, he found it nearly impossible to move at all, flash frozen where he stood.
Tiny rivulets of water rolled down Griffith’s porcelain face, clung hesitantly to his delicate eyelashes. Guts could only stare. His lips were supple…so very soft. His wet hand was firm on the back of his neck.
Griffith pulled back just as quickly as he’d approached. His eyes were alight with a fae-like mischief, visibly contened.
Guts found his mouth was robbed of all ability. What could he say? What could he do?
Griffith rested a hand on his wrist, squeezing, “I apologize.” His voice was nary more than a whisper, choked, his smile had gone. He looked more akin to a scolded child.
Here, any option was the losing one. Guts was a sorry dog whose master had no intention of taking him out of inarguable misery.
“Don't…say that….” He dipped his head, groaning. He briefly considered taking Griffith and kissing him over again, but his hands were trembling, and he'd rather Griffith remain ignorant to that matter.
Griffith leaned his head against the cobbled siding of the shed, sighing gently through his nose. “Shall we head back? I see no use in waiting out the storm, it shows no intention of letting up.” His face was like an angel’s, some saint’s holy effigy mosaiced into the sumptuous halls of a church.
Guts was not the sentimental type, but he found that Griffith was beautiful. He’d known this before, of course, but here was where it winded him.
“Yeah…” His voice was dry and pliable, and his brows were twitched with something like fondness. His arms were prickled with goosebumps, but his chest was radiating warmth.