Archive of Our Own

The first time Guts meets Griffith, when he’s teetering on the edge of consciousness, the glinted tip of a modest sword the rotten culprit, he’s furious. Who is this man, who garnered the level of skill to incapacitate him, him? 

Pride in his own sword, Guts had plenty of. That sword is what has gotten him by all his life, wielding it is his pride, his joy, his strength.

Yet, here he is now, taken down by the sword of another. Effortlessly, blade as cool as the tone of those glassy eyes watching him, no, regarding him, studying him. They observe him like Guts is a damn battle plan, like the sight of him sprawled out in a vast expanse of grass, wounded, is something to be figured out. He’s furious, at himself for taking the hit, at this man for defeating him at what he’s best at, what he thought he was best at. Furious because this man has the audacity to sit tall at the end of it, unscathed, which might bleed more than the puncture in his chest.

However, as his vision blurs and distorts, icy waves cascading down a pale face the last image his mind fights to cling to in order to keep the fiery spirit alive, he’s reminded of something, a distant thing, faraway, and yet, achingly vivid.

He’s reminded of a long ago dream.

The cobblestone streets are dirty, covered in a heavy layer of dirt and grime, brown puddles from the previous night’s storm. The center of the village is overcrowded, shoppers and sellers alike congesting the walking paths. 

That’s why little Guts finds himself away from it all, from the crowd and the chatter and the noise. He finds himself in a back alleyway, eyes filled with wonder at the sight before him:

Kids. More than one, more than three, even. They run around in the alleyway, sweaty and covered in grime, not unlike Guts himself, and they laugh in combined merriment; freedom evident on their faces. They have to be around his age, they can’t be older than nine or ten. They’re playing a game of some sort, a form of Tag, by the looks of it. Their bare feet splatter in puddles, hurling the rainwater up their legs, staining their already filthy clothing. Yet, their laughter knows no bounds, weightless when it spills from upturned lips.

Guts wants to join them, wants to play with them and laugh. He’s never had the luxury, not with Gambino, not with anyone, not ever.

He moves to jump in, if they’ll have him, when suddenly one of the boys detaches himself from the group, taking an easygoing step towards Guts, like they’re already familiar, already friends. 

Apart from the rest of the children, Guts notices how different this boy appears. It’s in his looks, the long silvery hair falling past his neck, over his shoulders, suspending all the way down to the middle of his back. Large eyes, penetrating him with deep pools of curiosity, overwhelm Guts. They don’t appear threatening, however, so Guts releases the iron guard he’s built around himself, lowering his defenses.

The boy approaches him, fearless in the way he carries himself, small smile on his face like he’s welcoming Guts into his life without even needing a proper inspection. Guts doesn’t know the first thing about making friends, but he couldn’t expect it’d be so simple. But the boy stands toe to toe with him now, and despite being noticeably shorter, he stands taller. In the confidence alone, he towers above Guts; he’s not nervous, unshaken, unwavering in his expression.

“Hello,” he greets, polite and courteous in his tone. “What’s your name?”

Guts eyes him, instinctively wary around strangers, no matter their age. However, the boy just waits, patience in the way he smiles, blue eyes never leaving him, as if he’ll stand there as long as it takes. There’s a sense of command in the silence, like he’s waiting for Guts to fulfill an obligation. It’s odd, almost eerie that someone of such a young age can hold himself in this way, a note of power rippling off of him, without a sword, without an army. 

Impressive, Guts thinks. 

“Guts,” he finally reveals.

“Guts,” the boy echoes slowly, sounding his name out like it’s a foreign word on the tongue, testing the shape of it in his mouth. He must approve - why would he need the approval of a fellow child - because he nods his head once, like an offering of peace, a sign of solidarity. 

“Nice to meet you, Guts. I’m Griffith.”

Griffith. So well-spoken, soft but firm. A far cry from what Guts is used to back with Gambino and the band. Briefly, he wonders where Griffith learned to compose himself in this way, like he could keep up with conversation with men much older. Realistically, he most likely could not, but he presented himself as someone who could. Is he practicing to grow up and become some kind of noble? Someone high and fancy? Or is this just who he is, naturally?

Guts nods his head once, a sign of respect. Griffith seems to like that.

“Guts,” Griffith addresses him carefully. “Would you like to see something interesting?” 

He speaks so high and mighty, as though he knows everything about everything. He explains Guts’ motives and intentions back to him as if he’s spent a lifetime studying him, like Guts is a novel he’s read over and over again, front to back. He calmly lectures Guts, and Guts hates that he’s the subject of the lecture. Doesn’t this guy understand how arrogant one must be to deliberately give an analysis of someone’s way of life directly to their face? Way of sword? 

Fury rushes through every bone in Guts’ body, like a red-hot branding to his skin. He grits his teeth, clenches his jaw like a wild animal, spitting out insults aimed to deal a low blow and attack aggressively— Are you a homo? 

But Griffith only takes his wrath in stride, eyes twinkling with delight like he’s amused, like he’s buzzing with excitement at the sight of his test subject fighting back. Where does this guy get off acting so self-important with his unsolicited speeches? Guts has heard far more than enough.

But now he lays, face down in the grass again. This time by the hands of this infuriating man, his arm twisted out of place, bone jutting where it should never be. Be it by sword or hand, he can’t be better, stronger, he can’t win. What’s even worse is that, this guy is good, Griffith is good. Great, even. A swordsman who exhibits high levels of the finest skill, flawless in his planning, direct in his approach to battle. Excellent.

When he holds Guts’ face between his palms, marking his fate, sealing his place in the world with a verbal claiming, Guts can only stare at him, the cheers of high adrenaline from the band fading away to nothingness, and blue, blue eyes is all he can see, all he can fixate on. 

Fascination swarms him, curling through his gut, crawling up his throat, filling the space between their faces. Fascinated by his talent, by his charisma, by the way he can read Guts so exceptionally well at first glance. As much as it pains him to admit it, a wound to his pride, not one word spoken from Griffith’s lips was incorrect. 

Griffith knows him well and it’s only the beginning. 

Guts doesn’t know whether he should shake his head of drifting, distracting thoughts, or run towards the person who has made him feel understood for the very first time in his life.

He does not know yet. 

All he knows is his sword. 

Now, with that sword clasped in hand, he’s got a commander to serve.

Griffith runs, hair swishing back and forth with each clap of foot on cracked cobblestone. He doesn’t slow, arms pumping on each side of him, small pants in and out. Guts follows, he can do nothing else but follow. Follow—his friend?—no, they’ve only just met—Griffith, just Griffith. Follow Griffith.

The world around him shakes and smears as he runs, gasps for air darting through his parted lips. Griffith is fast, determination pulsing through him, felt even through the gap of space between them. 

The alleyway fades behind them, the children playing diminish. All else disappears, until all that exists is that cobblestone path and Griffith. All that exists is that curtain of white spilling down a small back. 

Guts follows the only form of existence left, the way he would a light in a cave of complete darkness. He follows Griffith into an uncertain fate—but it’s Griffith, someone who seems more sure than Guts has been of anything in his life. He’s not afraid with this boy, not wary, even as he’d led further and further from what he knows, from familiar ground. 

He follows, anyway.

Everything Guts thought he’d learned about Griffith, thought he’d known about Griffith, comes crashing down around him, crumbling into small particles that float away like ash. It happens in an instant—one second, he’s under the impression that Griffith is not only his commander, but a friend, his closest friend, and that he is Griffith’s closest friend, too. One second, he’s certain they’re not only friends, but lovers. 

He could have never imagined they’d cross that line, Griffith was never even supposed to be more than his leader, the one who owned him. But as time passed, they formed a bond; late night talks that stretched far past waking hours, when the campground fires had dimmed completely and band members were tucked inside their tents. An amount of time spent with Griffith that no other band member was granted the privilege of. And a privilege it was; being alone with Griffith unlocked a side to the man that was rarely seen by anyone, if at all. A softer side, a gentler side, where he could let his position of commander slip, even if just for a fleeting moment. 

Guts thought that meant something, being that close to Griffith, being the only one allowed such access. He was sucked in even further the first time they were intimate, then got dragged under a high tide of passion and lust when that intimacy became a regular thing between them, like it was as natural and normal in their routine as battling.

He thought their relationship, whatever form that took, was important, meaningful. He thought Griffith held him in such high regard for more than the swing of his sword, more than the sheer force of his strength. He thought maybe Griffith had feelings for him, feelings like, like—

Well. Guts has been a damn fool. 

Griffith doesn’t view him as anything past what he carries in battle. Not as a lover, not even as a friend, he’s just another solider, just like anyone else. He’s not special, there is no bond, he’s just another sword of many, of thousands and thousands. He’s no different.

Griffith said so himself.

One second, Guts naively believes there’s something there, ignorant to the crushing truth. 

The next second, he’s nothing. Not Griffith’s equal, not Griffith’s anything. He’s a nameless, faceless soldier, dreamless and lost. Who was he kidding? Thinking up some kind of dream life, a world in which he is Griffith’s partner in every way? On the battlefields, in band meetings, in bed? 

No. He is not Griffith’s partner. He is just Griffith’s, a fact he learned the moment he lost their duel three years ago. He belongs to Griffith, the White Falcon, nothing more than property. His sword belongs to Griffith, his life belongs to Griffith. His body belongs to Griffith. 

He loathes the way he wishes for more, longs for more than all of this. But what might be the worst of it all, is that he’d give it all up if it meant Griffith would eventually view him as an equal, as a friend, as his partner. Because as much as he wishes he didn’t, he wants Griffith’s approval, to win it fair and square by showing him his own dream—he just needs to find one first. He’d risk abandoning what he’s good at, comfortable with, just to attain something of his own, something he can bring back to Griffith, like a prize he wants to show off, gain validation from.

With a heavy heart, he makes the decision to leave. He can’t imagine the news would blow over well once it settles in Griffith’s ears, so he doesn’t tell him. Maybe that’s worse, the not telling, maybe keeping secrets from his, his—commander, only commander—isn’t smart. But that conversation, it would be difficult, and Guts isn’t sure he’s ready for the blow that would land.

He isn’t sure he wants to see the look reflected in Griffith’s eyes—whether they’d warp into anger, disbelief, shock. Or if they’d remain just as unmoved as in battle, and he’d simply let Guts go—because based on his speech to the princess, his soldiers simply come and go, nothing more, nothing less.

Not revealing to Griffith gave him strength, gave him courage, gave him the drive he needed to ensure he wouldn’t back down from this. He will find a dream for himself and he will attain it, he will find his own success in life. Who he is now, Griffith’s loyal soldier, will be no more when he returns one day. He’ll be someone Griffith wants to bring alongside him, all the way to the castle, all the way to the whole damn kingdom—

But then he feels Griffith’s hands all over his body and he buckles. He feels lips pressed on his own, a tongue swiping at the roof of his mouth, hunger in every slide of their mouths, enough to steal the breath directly from his core, send his fingers tangling in white tendrils of hair. He gasps against plush, slicked lips and Griffith smiles in that smug way he does, like he’s proud of himself for eliciting such sounds from Guts, such sensations. 

Those glassy eyes burn bright at night, in moments like these, pale skin blotched with dollops of rosey-red, anywhere Guts can get his lips, teeth, and tongue on. Griffith sets the pace, as he always does—Guts has always been satisfied with this, stealing any ounce of pleasure he can from his commander, fighting to keep up.

But when Griffith’s cock pushes past the tight ring of muscle at his ass, and Guts can feel his commander’s chest rumble with honest desire, a fire lights in his belly, ignites him to switch things up, prove himself while he still can. Prove himself before he leaves, a swear to return only when he’s achieved his very own successes.

In Griffith’s lap, he takes the reins, a new development, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the commander himself, hands on Guts’ waist gripping harder, blue eyes widening for just a fast second, before he settles in the wooden chair he’s sat in and he watches Guts through a heavy-lidded gaze.

Guts lifts himself up off Griffith’s lap, until just an inch of his cock remains inside, then he slams back down until their thighs meet in a crashing reunion. The sound that thunders from Griffith’s chest is nothing short of animalistic, so unhinged, so loose compared to the collected leader out on the battlefields, the man everyone reveres. Here he is now, moaning underneath Guts, mouth hanging open while he watches his soldier move up and down off of his cock. 

Guts grunts through clenched teeth every time Griffith’s cock lodges deep inside. He hurries, he slows, he pauses, he breaks—he can’t keep one steady tempo, not with the way he watches Griffith, his leader, pant and gasp and hiss while he holds onto Guts’ hips for purchase. The chair underneath them creaks, and sweat beads against Guts’ temple, warm like wax. 

He’s never done this before, never taken control when the two of them are intimate—but he wants to, needs to try, just once. Before the end. Griffith looks like he wants to question him, inquire as to why Guts is insistent on being the one in control, but every time his lips curl around the beginning of a sentence, a soft gasp leaves them instead, and his long, pretty eyelashes flutter.

Guts threads a heavy hand into silky hair and he yanks, hard enough for Griffith’s head to pull back so that he can kiss him, deeply, deeper than ever before, opening his mouth wide to take everything, everything he can. Griffith doesn’t know what’s to happen soon, so the best Guts can do is make this night special, if he can at all. 

Whatever he’s done seems to be working, Griffith melting underneath him in a way he’s never done before, as if he’s investing all of his trust into Guts, only Guts. If Guts was still an oblivious fool, he’d take that trust and cherish it with every bone in his body, he’d cradle that trust inside of his fragile heart, make room for that trust, even if it laid upon the entire organ. He would do it. For Griffith, he would do anything. 

But he can’t be an oblivious fool any longer. If Griffith cares, if he really cares, he’d understand, he’d let him go.

But there’s a reason Guts has remained close-mouthed on the matter—Griffith wouldn’t understand. Griffith is for something big, something huge, something beyond Guts’ understanding, and every soldier is a mere stepping stone in getting there. Including Guts. 

Long fingers wrap around his cock, stroking with a tight grip, and Guts gasps against Griffith’s open mouth, their lips touching but not quite kissing. Guts’ hips stutter, he curls in over Griffith, arms draping the back of the chair. Griffith hums melodically, pleased with Guts’ hitching breath, and he wastes no time in regaining the upper hand. He releases Guts’ cock after one more long pump, gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, like he’s reminding him who belongs to who, and then he moves; his hips jump up, fast, hard, pummeling Guts over and over and over. 

Guts swears, and the desperate rasp in his voice startles him, lips looser than ever. He doesn’t get a moment’s respite, Griffith moving faster and faster, echoed groans falling in the open space between their mouths. Guts can’t think of anything but this, but Griffith; the ripple of his flexing abdomen, the fan of his breath every time he pants into Guts’ mouth, the soft, snowy hair puddling in his fingers. 

Guts almost surrenders himself, almost makes the drastic decision to stay, stay with Griffith, stay with the band, stay in this, this embrace, this pleasure. He almost gives in, but he keeps his eyes squeezed shut to avoid looking in the hawk-eyes of the man deep inside of him, the man who can offer him everything and nothing at all at the same time. The man who can offer him a life away from a lone trail, but the man who can wipe away any speck of a dream for himself. The man who owns him, and the man who will always take, take, take, and when Guts really thinks about it, will Griffith truly give back? When he attains what he wants, will Griffith think of him? Will he think of this? Of nights like tonight? Will he give Guts his hand? His respect? His love? 

Is this love?

Guts gulps back a bitter laugh. Sure is a fucked of form of love, if it is. A twisted love. Maybe that’s always been a part of knowing someone as grand as Griffith—being swept away in the greatness that is their leader, their hero, the one who can do anything in their eyes. Maybe they all love him in their own way, Guts being no exception.

A white-hot fire flames deep down inside, and he knows he’s reaching the end, so he holds onto Griffith, grabs ahold of him because he can do nothing else. He wraps one hand around the back of his neck and he wraps another over a trembling shoulder. 

Griffith’s strength carries him, carries him, carries him—makes Guts feel weightless, makes him feel like this is okay, that life with Griffith, with the band, is fine and good and enough. He’s so close to snipping that shred of distance he wants to set between them, so close to forgetting all about it so that he can always have this, have Griffith—

But then he comes, and the release painted all over Griffith’s abs is the release Guts needed to solidify this plan, the very last he could give of himself. Seconds later, when he feels warm release spilling inside of him, it feels like a false hope and he goes cold. The fire smothers between them, yet Griffith doesn’t even know it. He doesn’t know, does he?

When they catch their breaths, Griffith fixes him with eyes of stone, of course he does. Because Griffith knows him, he has ever since he observed him fighting from afar. He can detect anything, everything about Guts. That’s why when Griffith stares at him, wordlessly stares, eyes heavy and cold, Guts knows—

Griffith feels the distance, too.

Griffith runs. He runs and runs and runs.

But now, Guts can’t catch up. Griffith is too fast, too strong. Griffith keeps going when Guts can’t. Griffith doesn't look back when Guts wishes he would. Griffith doesn’t wait even when he’s got someone following him. 

He runs and he runs and he runs.

Guts heaves, gasps, whimpers. He’s trying, trying so hard. He’s fighting to keep up with him, fighting to stay with him. But he’s getting left behind and there’s nothing he can do about it.

A curtain of white hair stands out brightly, shining like the stars at night, but it’s far, far, far away. Further and further, stretching the distance between them, scarily so. Guts can’t do it, he can’t be on this boy’s level. He wants to, wants to so badly, but the boy disappears down that cobblestone path, taking all of the light with him.

Guts is all alone.

Just as they did three years ago, they stand across from each other, swords pointed at chests, unwavering concentration in their eyes. 

Griffith looks at him with eyes as cold as the snow beneath their feet. He’s not happy, but Guts wasn’t expecting he would be, not when his news was revealed through the lips of another, not even by his own. All signs of the Griffith he sees at night, away from everyone else, have vanished, nowhere to be seen. In place, is the furious, prideful leader of the Band of the Hawks, he’s not just Griffith, not Guts’ Griffith. Ice-cold particles cling to his long lashes, but they don’t fall because Griffith remains unblinking, like one blink could make him lose sight of Guts, make him lose sight of his goal—to keep owning Guts.

He has demanded another duel. Based on the results of their last duel, Guts knows what he’s stacked up against, the sheer power in that blade watching him. This time, the drive setting Guts’ own blade into motion isn’t just raw anger and force; it’s a genuine motivation unlike anything he’s felt before. He’s got a goal, something to aspire to, a life to build for himself before he comes back one day.

Deep down, the flip in his chest tells him much of the motivation comes from a desire to satisfy Griffith, in more ways than taking lives on the battlefield for him. He wants Griffith to prosper, go far, but he also wants Griffith to remember him, to hold him in high regard, to be more than he is now.

He knows it’s silly to long for Griffith, to long for someone with a future so big and powerful—Guts doesn’t even want that type of life, a life of the noble and royal. He doesn’t like it, and yet, he wants the man with the promising future to take him with him. He wants that bright light of a commander to want him, him, not his sword. He doesn’t care about the castle and the balls and the polite conversations—if that’s what Griffith wants, Guts doesn’t care. He just wants Griffith to spare room for another in his life once he’s earned it all—except, Guts doesn’t want in on the fancy life, he just wants in on Griffith’s life, only Griffith’s, in whatever life that is. 

So, he squares his shoulders and he focuses and he raises his blade, and so does Griffith.

One split second, that’s all it takes. In one split second, Guts sees it—the waver in Griffith. It’s a tiny movement, just a small hitch in his eyes, a small furrow of the brows like he can’t believe this is really happening, that he’s really having to face Guts in a duel again. 

If Guts was still living off of wishful thoughts, he’d think Griffith expressed hesitance, maybe even slight fear. Is that fear over the possibility of losing Guts? Fear over the fact that he’s raising his blade at the man he’s slept with, explored every inch of his body at night, formed a bond with, even if that bond is not viewed in the same way by both?

No. Those are not questions Guts can ponder anymore. 

No more of that.

One swing later and everything ends as quickly as it began.

Griffith bleeds red.

Guts remains untouched.

That’s when Guts realizes that the mighty can fall as well. The invincible can be hurt, too.

You’ll be fine, Guts wants to comfort him. This will have been worth it when I return one day.

Instead, he says nothing. Griffith will be able to pick himself up. He always does. He’s a leader. A Godlike figure. He will be fine.

But as Guts departs, when he leaves the band behind, chin raised while he travels through the snow, he makes the mistake of glancing over his shoulder. Just one more time.

What he sees wounds him, carves a hole in his already aching chest. Griffith fallen to his knees, curled in over himself, like the injury he bears is too great to handle. Like the wound created by Guts’ sword is too much, too intense—as if he’s forgotten he’s faced hundreds of wounds on the battlefield.

The White Falcon having lost his wings, a God made mortal again. It’s a shock, seeing him in such a human light, vulnerable in front of his band. Normally, Guts doesn’t see this shed version of Griffith unless they’re alone, intimate, passionate. But here he is, in broad daylight, broken down, core open for all to peer in. He’s wounded and hurt and silent, and Guts almost returns to pick up the pieces.

He doesn’t.

This time, Griffith will have to put himself back together, just as The White Falcon should.

Guts does not look back again.

Guts loses steam and he stops running, his legs refusing to carry him any longer. He bends down with his hands on his knees and he gulps down excessive lungful breaths. Sweat pours down his temple, lathering his cheeks, dripping off of the point of his chin.

His feet ache, his chest burns, even his back hurts.

Griffith is gone, far away by now. Guts will always wonder what he was meant to see, what had Griffith running so fast to show it off.

“Come on, Guts!”

The shout cuts into Guts’ thoughts sharply, startling him. He jerks his head up, but he’s met with no one. A blink later, he hears it again.

“Guts!”

Griffith’s voice, a distance ahead, far enough to be faint, not far enough that Guts can’t hear him at all. The trail he runs down stretches on and on, a seemingly neverending path. But somewhere down there, Griffith must stand, calling out for Guts, waiting for him.

Guts straightens his posture, wincing when a leg cramps up, tight coil near his ankle. He soldiers through the pain just as he’s been taught to all of his life.

He runs and he keeps running. Even when it hurts, he keeps running. Down that cobblestone path, rushing, dragging, he doesn’t stop. Not once. His face burns but he continues on, all the way until everything morphs around him.

As if out of thin air, a castle suddenly appears, tall and magnificent. Guts has to angle his head back just to see the entire structure, in awe of its striking visuals.

Then just up ahead, his eyes finally land on a familiar curtain of white. Griffith stands still, not far from the massive staircase leading up to the castle’s entrance. He stands with his hands placed on his hips, back to Guts.

Guts carefully approaches from behind. “Griffith?”

Griffith turns to look over his shoulder at Guts, eyes sparkling with amazement, a strangely beautiful expression. He smiles through his closed lips, and then points a finger. “This castle.”

Guts lifts a listening brow, standing side by side with Griffith, their shoulders brushing. “What about it?”

Griffith grins proudly. “This castle will be mine.”

“This entire castle? Yours?” Guts chuckles, unbelieving of such a grand statement.

“Yes. I will have my own kingdom, I am certain of it,” Griffith answers smoothly. Then he turns to train his eyes on Guts. “I can share it with you. I would like you by my side.”

Guts scratches the back of his head while he continues to observe the castle and all of its splendor. “I don’t think I’m really cut out for that type of life, Griffith,” he grunts. “That life is likely meant for you, not me.”

Griffith watches Guts like he’s pondering deeply, stewing in Guts’ argument. Then he removes his eyes from Guts and stares high up at the castle again. He smiles like he’s made a final decision for the both of them, so sure of it, so absolute.

“One day, this will be ours. You’ll see, Guts.”

When Guts sits alone at night, perched in the grass away from the noise, or against a peaceful tree that overlooks a blanket of snow—he gazes up at the night sky and he finds Griffith amongst the stars; a shining light, a powerful force to be reckoned with, high above.  

He wonders if Griffith looks for him as well, if he finds Guts in the skies or the seas or the trees or the books.

When he closes his eyes, he sees that young boy with long white hair—with dreams and ambition, eyes beaming as he speaks to Guts with wisdom far beyond his years.

Sometimes, Guts can still see him running.