Work Text:
‘'Hey now, hey now
Don't dream it's over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
We know they won't win
…Now I'm walking again
To the beat of a drum
And I'm counting the steps to the door of your heart
Only shadows ahead
Barely clearing the roof
Get to know the feeling of liberation and release
… Hey now, hey now
Don't dream it's over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
You know they won't win
…Don't let them win.’’
(Don’t dream it’s over - Crowded House)
———
The field was immersed in the dark calm of the night and a tense silence enveloped the Band of the Hawk’s camp. It was a cold, still night, like only the nights before battle can be. The scattered fires were dying out, and the men were either sleeping or at least trying to rest. But for some time, Griffith had felt strangely incapable of finding peace in moments like these.
Lying at the edge of the camp, he watched the silent expanse and breathed deeply the cold air, focused on every single sound. The tension of the impending battle seemed to wrap around him like an invisible rope. He could almost imagine the clash of weapons, the dull thuds, and the bodies falling, the sensation of victory slipping through his fingers like water, just a moment before he could grasp it. And, as in every night before a vigil, Griffith was completely immersed in that thought, in that absolute need for victory.
But that night, he felt that he was not alone.
Next to him, barely a breath away, was Guts, deeply asleep. Griffith could sense the warmth emanating from his body, felt each slow, deep breath, like a rhythmic, constant beat that seemed to penetrate into his own thoughts. He had always known that Guts was different from the others: he possessed a wild and cruel energy, a strength that seemed to defy any limit. He had understood this the first moment he saw him fight. In Guts, there was a darkness he had never found in anyone, a ferocity that seemed devoid of any real purpose, but which, with incredible naturalness, had merged with his own dream.
That thought obsessed him.
As he watched him sleep, Griffith felt a sudden vertigo, as though his own ambition was not enough to fill the emptiness he felt at that moment. Guts had become his right hand, the beating heart of his army; through him, every victory had become closer, every dream seemed more within reach. Yet, despite the strength Guts gave him, Griffith realized he wanted more. It was not enough for Guts to be his warrior, the leader who would help him build his empire. He wanted him… on a level he could not explain, a level he almost feared to recognize. He wanted him beside him, not just for what they could achieve together, but for what his presence made him feel, for that strange sensation of completeness and disorientation that only he seemed to provide.
Looking at his face, laid out in an unusually relaxed expression, Griffith wondered if Guts had ever felt that same strange and subtle connection between them. His eyes closed, his tense features softened by sleep, made him look different, almost vulnerable. Griffith was tempted to reach out to him, to touch him, even just to feel that it was real, that the closeness was not just an illusion. Yet he knew he could not. Guts would never understand that desire, that need that went beyond mere comradeship.
He was about to turn his gaze away, to return to staring at the stars with the same cold ambition he had always nurtured, but every fiber of him was drawn to that breath beside him. No matter how determined he was to ignore every weakness, Griffith could not deny that the thought of Guts tormented him like a sweet and terrible obsession. Because, even when he had everything under control, he felt that in that man there was a part of him that escaped, something he could not possess.
Griffith clenched his hands, letting his nails dig into his palms. Every emotion he felt toward Guts seemed to come from a dark well that he could not afford to explore. If he even allowed himself to feel something so human, so pure, he would find himself trapped in an unacceptable weakness. Guts was a perfect tool in his hands, the sword with which he would conquer every dream. And yet… how could he ignore what he felt? The desire to see him close, to be more than a commander, more than a leader, to be able to whisper to that man what he had never dared to say to anyone.
He turned toward him, breathing deeply, as if he could find strength in that moment of respite. Griffith’s eyes returned to that face, and at that moment, he understood that he could not afford to lose everything he had built, yet, at the same time, he could not give up what he felt. It was a secret bond, an unspoken pact between them, something he would never admit aloud, but that tormented him more than any battle on the field.
With his breath barely broken, Griffith moved slightly closer, feeling Guts’ warmth like a flame that could burn everything he had fought for. But, just for that night, he would allow himself to stay there, watching the man who had changed everything.
——
Griffith held his breath, his eyes lost on Guts, who slept at his side, unaware of his gaze. The dim light of the moon barely illuminated his body, the contours defined, the muscles taut and toned. He had changed. At first, when they had met, Guts had been just a rash boy, a wild force capable of destroying everything he encountered, but he was not yet complete. He was not yet the warrior Griffith had forged by his side, the one who had allowed him to realize such a great vision.
Guts’ body had become a work of strength and discipline, every muscle shaped by years of battles and clashes, each scar a testament to what he had endured, to what he had chosen to endure. Griffith lingered on those scars, on the marks that decorated Guts’ skin, like engravings that told of a life of suffering and sacrifice. Every time Guts rose, every time his body was put to the test, Griffith saw it as a challenge, a constant affirmation of his existence.
And yet, even as his body seemed to strengthen, perfect in its hardness, Griffith could not help but notice something different. There was a deeper wound, one that could not be seen. Guts had fought against the world, against destiny itself, but he could not fight against his own inner pain, that torment that reflected in his eyes. That fire that always burned within him, impetuous and invincible, but at times seemed threatened by the shadow of something elusive.
Griffith observed his figure, the strong shoulder, the chest rising and falling with each breath. Over the years, he had realized how much Guts had become a part of him, of his plan, of his dream. Guts was no longer just a resource, a warrior. He was a part of that vision Griffith chased with every fiber of his being. Yet, looking at him now, something escaped him. A thought he could not grasp, like a dream that dissolved as soon as he touched it.
In that stillness, in that night that seemed suspended in time, Griffith tried to understand if Guts’ evolution was something he himself had somehow contributed to shaping. He had shaped him, yes, but perhaps not in the way he would have wanted. There had been no room for tenderness, for a bond that was more than an alliance. His mind, always focused on glory and power, had never considered how much that man had become something indispensable.
And yet, despite it all, Guts continued to be there, by his side, fighting for the same cause, beside him like a rock. That body so marked by battles, by scars, by the blows received and dealt, was the symbol of a resistance that Griffith admired, but at the same time could not fully understand. Guts’ body represented his loneliness, his fight against a world that had taken too much from him, and that he would never forgive.
Griffith moved even closer, not to touch him, not to awaken him, but to contemplate him, in a silence that spoke louder than words. Guts, with all his strength, with his endless struggle, was a presence that would never fully bend, a body that would never yield, that would always continue to fight. And, deep down, that thought seemed to calm him, like a quiet before a storm.
In the heart of the night, as his gaze lingered on the scars, the taut muscles, Griffith realized that, although he had forged Guts into a perfect weapon, he himself had changed. He had built everything around him, he had seen him grow, become something more. But, at that moment, he realized that he, too, was becoming something different. His kingdom, his glory, would never be complete without that man, without the warrior at his side. Guts had marked his life, and Griffith would never be able to ignore him.
Even though he couldn’t say it, even though he would never be able to admit it aloud, the truth was that, without Guts, he would never truly be free. His dream of a kingdom would have no meaning if he did not have someone to share it with. That strong and marked body, that indomitable warrior, was his rock, but also his chain. A bond Griffith knew would be impossible to break.
And as he continued to watch Guts, he thought, for a moment, that perhaps that dream of glory had never been just his.
——
And as Griffith remained still, his gaze fixed on Guts, a thought made its way through his firm resolve and fierce ambitions, insinuating itself like a sweet and dangerous poison: what if he, too, felt something? What if Guts, as rough as he was, as untamable as he was, could feel the same turmoil, that same strange attraction that had been tormenting Griffith for months in the most unexpected moments?
An idea so crazy that Griffith would have liked to dismiss it, yet it now pinned him there, in a suffocating silence, full of tension and possibility. He wanted to touch him, even just to see what would happen, to understand if that moment could mean something more than war, dreams, or the battlefield. That closeness was all he could afford, and in that moment, he found himself desiring it as he would desire blood and iron.
Without realizing it, Griffith’s breath slowed, almost in sync with Guts’. The sky seemed to envelop them, a silent witness to something neither of them dared confess. Griffith felt an unusual calm, a sense of completeness in that proximity that he had never experienced before. It was as if, for once, he could forget who he was, forget the cold, unshakable mask of the Band of the Hawk commander, and allow himself to become the man who, deep down, silently hid beneath every command.
But just as he gave into that silent desire, Guts moved. A small twitch, almost imperceptible, but enough to snap him sharply out of that enchantment. Griffith held his breath, as if he had been caught off guard, as if his very thought had been exposed to a silent judgment.
Guts merely turned to his side, a natural and relaxed movement, lost in deep sleep. Griffith watched him, trying to compose himself, to suppress the wave of emotions that had overtaken him. That night was his alone, that desire would remain locked in his heart, where no one could ever see it, where even he could not confront it in the light of day.
——
He shifted his thoughts to his dream, to the ambition he had cultivated with such ferocity: his kingdom, his throne. Griffith could see it clearly before him, even now, in the heart of the night and far from any royal palace. A realm he would build with his own hands, an empire where he would be the undisputed ruler, honored and feared. Every battle, every sacrifice, every alliance made and betrayed was just a step toward that goal.
And yet, within the grand image of his future, one face always stood out, no matter how much he tried to ignore it: the face of Guts. It was an annoying thought, even destabilizing. Griffith knew he could sacrifice everything for his dream, yet he felt that without him by his side, the kingdom would not be complete, that glory itself would be tasteless. It was as if Guts’ presence, despite having no official role or title, was the key that gave meaning and life to his very ambition.
He imagined a towering castle, surrounded by ivory walls and towers that pierced the clouds. Griffith had always envisioned it as an inaccessible place, to be reached only through blood and strategy. But without Guts, that castle seemed empty, like a desolate throne where no victory would ever be enough. The very thought of ruling without him fighting by his side, filling that silence with the sound of his laughter and words, sent a bitter shiver through him.
And as he lay there, beside him, he realized that his dream was no longer just a kingdom, but a kingdom where Guts would find a place beside him. A desire that tormented him and, at the same time, fueled him, like a secret he carried inside.
With an extreme effort, Griffith turned to the other side, averting his gaze from his companion. He let the coldness of the night fill the void left by that sweet weakness. The next day would see them both in battle again, both once more driven by a common purpose that, in the end, would prevail over everything else.
However, just before closing his eyes, a silent promise echoed within him: He would fight with every fiber of his being to achieve his dream, and perhaps, one day, he would find the courage to surrender to what he truly felt.