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The tavern is rowdy, but that’s to be expected. Drunken revelers flounder about, sloshing drinks and starting up shanties just for them to fizzle out again. The Hawks have spread out along a large oak table by the fire, while barmaids flit about and swarthy townsfolk loom, in search of women to woo.
Guts, not usually one for these events, finds himself swept up in the merriment in spite of himself. It’s likely he has Griffith to thank for that. Their leader doesn’t join them often for these outings — he’s typically up at the castle, rubbing elbows with nobility — but he sits at the head of their table tonight, throwing back drinks with the rest of them. Well, because he’s Griffith, he’s tipping back drinks in that measured way of his, looking just a bit too refined for this bawdy place. Guts, wedged between Judeau and Pippin midway down the table, smiles and swirls his drink. Good old Griffith.
“That friend of yours,” says a voice to his right, “You know if she's single?”
Guts turns abruptly to the sturdy, bearded man hovering over his shoulder. His face is florid, lips cracked and parched-looking, though it's clear he’s already had plenty to wet his whistle.
“Well?” the man nods to the other end of the table. Casca sits to Griffith’s right, eyes sparkling with mirth. Guts can’t possibly do this to her, but then again, it’s Casca’s decision to make.
“You can shoot your shot,” Guts says with a shrug, “But she’s a spitfire, I’m warnin’ you.”
“Looks plenty friendly to me,” the man says with a great belly laugh. “Can’t stand to see a gal like her ’round you rowdy folk, that’s for sure.”
Guts snorts loudly. She’s going to bust your balls.
“Go for it!” Judeau chirps, because of course he’s listening in. The man steels his gaze, hikes up his trousers in the most undignified way possible, and strides down the length of the table.
“Oh, god,” Judeau snickers, covering his mouth like a schoolboy. “I want to place a wager on how this goes.”
Guts downs his mead, unable to suppress a grin of his own. As someone who’s been on the receiving end of Casca’s ire, he almost feels sorry for the guy.
That is, until the man in question reaches the end of the table and approaches… Griffith?
Oh. Oh no.
It’s not that he hasn’t seen people try their luck with Griffith before. Men and women both. Griffith’s hot. Guts will admit he’s a little biased, but the number of people who have graciously been turned down by their leader, in his presence, says something. Maybe Guts does feel bad for the guy.
“Damn,” Judeau whispers, as Guts and Pippin look on.
The short end of the table contains a bench, too, albeit a smaller one. Which is really unfortunate for Griffith, because the bearded man slides right in alongside him as though they’re lifelong chums, clinking their glasses together. Griffith turns from Casca and faces the man, eyebrows gently raised, mouth parted quizzically.
The man launches into a speech, gesticulating wildly. He’s completely forgotten to leave his drink on the table, so his ale sloshes about. Guts can’t tell from this distance, but the way Griffith glances down at his breeches, he imagines he’s just been spilled on. Casca stares in wide-eyed disbelief, perhaps too much in her cups to say anything.
The man all but soliloquies without allowing Griffith a word in. Guts, an increasingly uneasy feeling in his stomach, pushes back his chair and stands up.
“You think they’re okay?” Judeau asks.
“Hope so.”
Guts sidles up to the others in his best attempt to look casual. Even so, he’s aware he hovers over the bearded man, his shadow ominous. Griffith looks up at him, eyes glimmering with amusement.
“So,” the guy says loudly, slamming his mug down at last. “Whaddya say, princess? Fancy giving an old clod like me a chance?”
Griffith folds his hands neatly in his lap, and Guts almost laughs at how prim he looks, surely about to give this man the most brutal takedown of his life. But no, he just faces him directly, with a look of genuine apology in his eyes.
“I’m not interested,” he says simply, “But thank you anyway.”
The man peers at him for several long, stony seconds. His eyes turn to slits, lips curling back from yellowed teeth like a rabid dog. He slams his fist on the table, knocking over his drink for real this time. It lands in Casca’s lap; she yelps and hops out of her seat.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says, standing abruptly. He grinds his teeth in a way that looks almost painful. “I should’ve known.”
Griffith frowns. “I beg your pardon?”
The man’s hands curl into fists. “Should’ve known you were a sissy.”
Oh. Oh, shit.
“Sissy. Faggot.” The man’s loud enough now that a barmaid turns their way, alarmed.
“Hey,” Guts snarls, gripping the man’s shoulder. “Time for you to move along.”
The man spins his way. “What, and let your fag boy make a fool of me?”
Griffith huffs delicately. “You’re doing a fine job of that on your own.”
“You asshole!” the man yells, spittle flying in Griffith’s face. He makes to close the short gap between them, to do — well, Guts isn’t sure what, exactly, but before he has time to think he’s landed a punch to the man’s face. He hears the sickening splinter of bone, watches a spray of spittle and one of those yellowy teeth go flying past Casca’s ear. A barmaid screams. Casca and several of the Hawks draw their weapons. The music screeches to a halt.
“Hey, get that shit out of here!” the bartender bellows.
“You fucking meathead,” the man spins on Guts, speech garbled and bloody. “So protective of him, hmm? He warming your bed tonight?”
Guts lands another punch, and another. Slams the man to the floorboards, pinning him down by his shoulders. He’s aware of the Hawks on guard around him, not sure how Griffith’s reacting but already knowing he’s caused him shame. This wasn’t the plan at all. Bar brawls are nothing new, but when Griffith’s reputation is on the line…
“Guts, stop!” Casca wails.
Guts slows his fist midair. He sees Griffith, gripping the back of his chair, his face cast in shadows. Guts can’t even begin to gauge his mood.
“That’s it,” the bartender yells. “Out! All of you!”
None of them have to be told twice.
The Hawks disperse. Many of them head back to camp, some pair up to walk about town and process what they just saw. Casca gives Guts an absolutely withering look and storms off, he knows not where.
He hobbles a block or two away from the bar, bare fists raw and aching. Pauses at a bridge. The stormy gray water churns below while the moon hangs, large and impossibly white, in the sky. Guts closes his eyes as the salty sea spray cools his face.
“There you are.”
Griffith stands before him, leaning lightly against the concrete barricade. His cloak is loosely fastened; the translucent fabric of his shirt shivers against his pale skin. His hair billows about his shoulders, soft as lamb’s wool. Even under these circumstances, Guts aches to touch it.
“I’m sorry,” Guts says immediately, his voice cracked. “That was — that was completely uncalled for.”
“I’m not upset, Guts,” Griffith says, and it’s only then that he realizes Griffith’s gaze is gentle, kind. “I’ll admit, I was pleased, seeing you defend my honor.”
“Ha. You can take care of yourself, though.”
“That I can.”
“And I caused you a headache. Embarrassed the Hawks and everything—”
Griffith holds up a placating hand. “It doesn’t have to happen again. But it’s happened now, and I understand where you were coming from.”
“You do?”
Griffith turns to face the sea and lets the question hang there.
“Tell me, Guts,” he says, placing his chin in his hand. “Do you think I look like a woman?”
Guts laughs once, startled. “Where’s this coming from?”
“I don’t mind, exactly. But if my appearance delegitimizes the Hawks in any way—”
“No. That’s just stupid,” Guts says immediately. Griffith, with his piercing gaze and thick white curls and broad shoulders and cupid’s bow lips… he’s a mass of contradictions, sure, but that mix of masculine and feminine, the utter awe and confusion with which Guts looks upon him, that’s irreplaceable.
“You’re a badass,” he says finally. “The way I see it, if some regular buff guy kicked my ass on the battlefield, I wouldn’t think much of it. But if someone like you—” he doesn’t know where he’s going with this, exactly, but it makes sense in his head, “If you were the last thing I saw before I went straight to hell, well.” No, he’s fucked it up, it’s over, he’s always been poor with words. “I mean. You’re terrifying. You’re—” Griffith’s facing him with that hawklike stare, “You’re beautiful.”
Oh, fuck. Oh, no.
He’s said — what has he just said? It wasn’t the liquor talking, he’d been sure to pace himself…
“Oh,” Griffith says simply, an inexplicable softness in his voice. “Well. Thank you, Guts.” He casts his gaze downward, and Guts can’t make sense of it, not this shyness, not on Griffith.
“That guy was an asshole,” Guts says, trying to salvage the situation. “Has a lot to work through, too, if he’s that offended by men who prefer men — or, y’know, that he might prefer ’em sometimes. I, uh—” He coughs roughly. “He shouldn’t make it your problem.”
Griffith chuckles. “No, he shouldn’t. Incidentally, I do prefer men, but not of his kind.”
“I don’t think anybody does. Prefer his kind, I mean.”
Griffith laughs again. “You certainly know how to surprise me, Guts.”
Guts scratches his head sheepishly.
“Do you mind if I surprise you? Assuming I’m reading the room correctly, of course.”
“Whaddya mean—?” Guts says, and suddenly Griffith is placing a hand under his chin, tilting his face down towards him. Guts’ mind reels, like he’s on a boat and about to pitch forward—
And then he does, cupping the back of Griffith’s head, a hand curling around his waist, and pulls him in for a kiss.
It’s everything. It’s the dream he never knew he had within him. His fingers, curled in that thick soft hair, the slight curve of Griffith’s lower back and the generous curve of his ass… Guts’ hands can’t move fast enough; he kisses again, and again, and again.
“Oh. Wow,” Griffith says, his breath hot in Guts’ ear. Guts notes, with a spike of warmth, that Griffith stands on his toes to better reach him. Guts hikes him up onto the concrete rail of the bridge, allowing them both better access, and runs his hands along Griffith’s svelte waist.
“I take it I read the room correctly?” Griffith asks, smiling into Guts’ kiss.
“Yeah you did,” Guts groans. “I don’t ever wanna stop.”
“We don’t have to. At least, not for now.”
Griffith buries his face in Guts’ shoulder and caresses his neck, the sharp line of his jaw. And then, without prompting, he forms his mouth around Guts’ earlobe and gives it a sharp bite.
“Ow!” Guts says. “You jackass.”
“You knew that already.” And Griffith, the hellion, bites him again.
Guts guffaws, leaning in closer as the moon shines above, bathing them in brilliant white light. They’re on full display, but so what? Should anyone pass by, let them watch. Let them see what's his now.