Work Text:
“Why do you keep asking me this? You sure are picky.”
Guts rather wonders why Griffith is on his bed. Why did Griffith come to his bedroom in the middle of the night. Why is he clean now. And where did the blood come from that first time?
Was it Griffith’s blood or someone else’s? If so, then who?
Would it really matter, though?
Why has everything come down to this?
... It’s because it is his fault, isn’t it?
Furthermore, why is Griffith acting like that. And not even Guts himself demanding to know, asking out loud the question, is enough to make Griffith blink. Or flinch. Perhaps frown his eyebrows, maybe even twist his lips.
Since a few weeks ago, there’s just not enough suffering in the world to crush Griffith’s heart.
“You know I’ve always been like this,” Griffith says, in that calm tone of his, looking at the wall as if Guts isn’t at his side.
“Look at me then!” Guts challenges. “If that’s true, then stop giving me that crap and look at me when you say it!”
After all, he is the one with the courage to stare at Griffith since their little chit-chat began —to hell if it already feels like decades now—, awaiting any sign of trouble to break through Griffith’s aloof expression. And, when he seems to turn his neck, Guts’ pulse increases, swearing there should be an emotional crack across the surface.
In reality, there are no fissures of any kind.
“This is how I am,” Griffith announces, each word is pronounced slow and clear enough to tighten Guts’ throat.
Guts clutches his fists. He’s ready to throw a punch, to make the answers he needs to come out for once and for all, even if it means taking Griffith by the arms.
But his rage renders him unable. It’s weighty, settling on Guts’ chest, sprouting out until it encircles his cortex, shutting down all doubts he’s dying to spit out.
Now, he’s empty.
Just like the beginning.
Guts lowers his head. There’s nothing else to look at aside from his fists, the sheets, and Griffith’s legs.
This time, he is fully dressed: his shirt is ironed, his jacket is spotless, and his jeans aren’t ripped. There’s not a single wavy hair of his head out of place. What’s lacking, that freakish crimson necklace Griffith always used to wear, has left a gap across his chest, a void whose eyes are fixed on Guts.
He is not the same Griffith from that night.
The messy, lost Griffith under his door frame.
The Griffith whose clothes were wrinkled, torn, and his hair bathed in dirt, as he threw up on the floor. The living, breathing Griffith Guts was so sure he held onto his arms, before he shoved him against the wall— running away. The next day, that Griffith had already been replaced by the one who showed up at school: who dazzled so brightly, that the darkness from yesterday seemed to be nothing but an illusion.
Guts knows it wasn’t, though.
The sharp scent of smoke souring his senses, Casca’s anxious voice at the other side of the phone line, the pain in his back and shoulders from Griffith’s aggressiveness, Gambino lashing out at him in the morning for not scrubbing well enough the kitchen’s floor, the filth stuck under his fingernails…
It’s all engraved in his mind, proofs that still run through his veins.
At that time, even when feeling more like a zombie rather than a human being, Guts kept thinking about it. Perhaps, because of how shining Griffith’s presence was amongst the crowd, the school, the town, and life itself, a part of him became one with the fire at the club, freeing himself while leaving a body without a soul wandering through the school halls.
Or did Griffith actually disappear after sipping that drink one of those freaks gave him?
However, he already seemed… off while listening to their performance —no matter how much Guts screamed at him, Griffith wouldn’t react, as if he were high above, walking on air with slow moves—. Was Griffith, then… sentenced when that damned rock band had set their eyes on him? When Guts couldn’t manage to follow them and it was too late to rescue him?
To get him out of the van?
Deep down, Guts knows it. At least, theoretically, that they must have done something to Griffith. And that whatever it was, he wasn’t able to do anything to stop it.
“... Why did you come?” In the end, he can’t help but try.
Even when Griffith stares at him in silence.
Guts can’t tell if Griffith gets it, but pretends to think about it in order to have extra time to answer, or if they no longer speak the same language at all.
Either way, Griffith closes his eyes, and Guts’ heart skips a beat when his voice rings in his ears.
“We haven’t had the chance to talk since that incident at the club,” Griffith points out. “I wanted to see you, to tell you what happened, since I figured out you’d want to know.”
Guts tries to swallow. However, there’s a lump in his throat. “... So? What went on between you and those freaks?”
“It was nothing special.” Griffith begins, like most occurrences in his life: being popular, charismatic, beautiful, a genius, it’s all too common for him. “They just wanted to get famous, so they tried to use me to uplift their careers.”
“Stop the cryptic—”
“Have you heard of human sacrifices, satanic rituals?” Griffith’s eyes snap open. His tone is the same as the one he would use in the past to talk about whatever book was his latest philosophical reading. And, right as he dived deep down into the details, Guts began to get confused amongst many matters, conjectures, and what ifs with no clear answers.
Now, his blood runs cold.
“There are lots of rumours about artists who either sold their souls to The Devil, or offered a human sacrifice to Him, in order to become famous, gain money, lovers… It’s common in that industry, you could say,” Griffith illustrates, matter-of-factly. And it’s the carelessness, of the easy way his statement unfolds, without any tension across his body, nor worry in his eyes— that crawls under Guts’ skin. Rushing his pulse with each pause and silence.
Then, the corner of Griffith’s lips lifts, discreet enough to miss.
It’s the most expression Guts has got out of him in ages.
“So, they tried to use me as a sacrificial offering. It seems to have worked out more or less, since they got what they wanted, but I’m still here.”
And just as quietly, as softly as Griffith’s voice, the words strike Guts’ skull, splitting it in two.
“What?” He utters. Faster than his thoughts, his consciousness stretching over Griffith’s explanations, filling his mind with images he can’t make sense of, accelerating his pulse. “Human sacrifice…? Sacrificial offering? They got what they wanted?!”
Griffith blinks. Guts’ strident tone isn’t loud enough to reach his ears and disturb him, much less his hard grip over his shoulders.
“What’s that supposed to mean?! Aren’t you hurt?!” Guts yells, with a voice that doesn’t seem to come from him.
“No, I’m not. It didn’t, really,” Griffith clarifies. “No matter what they tried to do, I was able to remain conscious during the whole ritual.”
It hurts, though. Guts realises faintly, slowly. Otherwise, why did Griffith look as if he had been dragged through the mud by his hair?
It should hurt. The scratches, the bruises, his bleeding nose…
It must hurt. His flesh burned by a rope, squeezing his wrists— Griffith’s teary vision betrayed him…
Or perhaps, that was Guts own getting blurry.
At least, it’s uncomfortable… to have yuck and drenched clothes rubbing against one’s skin.
The corners of Guts’ eyes sting as the sequence of events plays out in his mind, over and over again, with each image and intention becoming clearer, but harder to digest.
Someone has done this to Griffith.
A whole group, in fact.
And they are still out there. They are being praised endlessly by their acquittances, their friends, the whole town, the world itself.
Their damn music plays every fucking morning on the radio, not as if anything hadn’t happened, but as a reminder of how helpful their presence, their contributions, have been to keep alive the spirit of those who died consumed by the fire, promising to build a better future, like angels send by God.
In reality, all they did was butcher Griffith, as if he were an animal at the slaughterhouse. They gouged out his insides, his very essence, his life. They left Griffith empty, on the road to die by himself. All in exchange for the fulfilment of their sordid dreams, while robbing Griffith of his own.
Guts can’t swallow it— that those freaks have got away with it. That this has happened to Griffith of all people. That this… Griffith is supposed to be the same one who came wounded at his home in the dead of the night, talking like that, acting like that…
He is not.
However… If Griffith, this Griffith, says it’s all alright, that he’s fine, that he has successfully recovered from his injuries, that everything’s the same as it used to be...
That he’s the same Griffith as ever, then…
It’s when the silence has stretched long enough that Griffith takes the initiative to speak.
“As much as it sounds out of this world, it’s the truth,” he states, with his gaze over a point in the bedroom Guts can’t focus on, but makes him furrow his eyebrows.
Of course, he believes him. That’s not even to be questioned, but…
“Are you…?” Guts tentatively blurts out, vacillating with each memory of Griffith sitting down next to him in class, smiling at him amongst the students crowd, how excited he had seemed when talking about going to the club, being at his side at the show, reaching out to him at the end of the day, before the van closed—. “You… okay, then? Really?”
“I already told you,” Griffith repeats, and nothing about his attitude has changed, while everything about Guts’ world has. “I am fine, Guts.”
Then it’s true, Guts tells himself.
Even if he can’t wrap his head around it.
What matters is that, despite all the insanity he went through, Griffith is in front of him, with no scars over his face, wearing neat clothes that make him look more like him, how Guts remembers Him: immaculate.
After all, it hasn’t been a secret that, since weeks ago, Griffith has been glowing. There’s been a mesmerizing light reflected on his face, a sparkle that catches people’s eyes as he walks. Nevertheless, his radiance has never felt inappropriate, but rather... warm.
Everyone was relieved to know that the class president had survived, since Griffith, as the anchor leading them through the grief, has taken care of the arrangements of the memorial assemblies with utmost diligence, carrying their sorrow on his shoulders.
That’s why, when Gaston’s body —what was… left of him, at least— was found days later amongst forest bushes, animals and soil, the whole class knew they could count once again on Him, while they wept in each other’s arms.
Meanwhile, Guts has remained more or less the same, if not worse. He didn’t go to any of those assemblies, even when either Casca or Rickert insisted, only to Gaston’s.
However, at the end of each of them, he would lurk at the corners, seeking a chat with Griffith. But he is always too busy to spare a glance at him, surrounded by too many people and tasks at hand— it means that Guts has to grow into a loyal dog, just to catch a sight of its owner.
And his ears perk when Griffith’s footsteps resonate through the room.
Instinctively, Guts squeezes Griffith’s shoulders, just to be thrown off by the lack of sensation. He raises his eyes, finding Griffith too close to both his customised entry and exit: the window.
“Hold on!” Guts barks, trembling as he grips Griffith’s wrist. “Where’re you going now?!”
“To home. I’m rather hungry,” Griffith replies, nonchalantly. Guts’ grasp tightens.
“Hungry…?! You… You haven’t answered a shit!”
“I’m sure I have. Didn’t you want to know what happened with The God Hand?” Guts attempts to come up with an answer, but his jaw clenches. “That’s what I thought.”
Always such an asshole towards everyone.
Always knowing what to say to shut people up at will. “Hell. Alright, then! But you ain’t going anywhere.”
“Perhaps you want me to stay?” Griffith asks, suddenly.
Guts blinks, loosening his hold over him. He’s about to speak again, but his heartbeat obstructs his thoughts, and Griffith is faster than he. “You always put that face on when you want something and cannot say it.”
“Fuck off,” he growls. “What? You think you can come here and ask for a slumber party? We ain’t kids any more.”
“Oh, I know,” Griffith makes clear, starting to approach him way too close, with danger. Guts steps back. “But you still behave like one.”
“That’s so fuckin' rich coming from you.” What about all the times Griffith would ask him to go out with him? Just to show him what bugs, junk, and whatever crap he’s been collecting? Uh? What about that?
A hollow laugh dies in Guts’ throat. “Who’s always been bugging me to look at his shit? Better go and have a look in the mirror, I ain’t the kid here.”
Once again, they both have taken their seats in his bed. Griffith doesn’t add anything right away, narrowing his eyes instead.
It’s a brief victory Guts savours.
“You know,” Griffith says after a couple of minutes, with a tone Guts can’t decipher. “When we were children, we used to play a lot of games. Mercenaries, pirates, thieves… and you’d always lose against me.”
“Because you’re a cheater. Hell, you wouldn’t even hesitate to knock me out.”
The yellowish hue of the ceiling lamp enhances every feature across Griffith’s face: the way his curls fall alongside his jaw-line, his long eyelashes framing the corners of his stare, the outline of his pupils, razor-sharp— are all reflected at him.
Guts cannot recall when did Griffith’s gaze begin to hone, losing its softens to pierce through him.
“I always have the upper hand, Guts. You should already know it,” Griffith reiterates, his words wrapped in a shameless manner that throws Guts back to a familiar place.
The first time Griffith said it was years ago, when they were fighting off in one of those remote, dreary locations only Griffith knows about, in the outskirts of the town, right where he dislocated his shoulder.
Guts’ injury healed, but since that day, Griffith’s ruthless has remained carved in his muscles’ tissues, below the surface of his memories.
Griffith is capable of being enough of a jerk to split his joint when he was out there just doing his business, and smile… as if he had caught a treasure with his hands, so silly like a child.
Throughout the years, even at school, it’s the same shit over again: Griffith conducting himself in such a way that leaves everyone either speechless by his exceptionality, or embittered by it.
At first, it would puzzle Guts —because… how can a guy like that exist, uh? So shining and perfect—. But now, it rather feeds… this curiosity he has about Griffith.
The same one that pushes him every day to see what Griffith’s up to, what he can do, since he’s aware of how far Griffith can go if he wishes.
He could accept all the elite opportunities that have been given to him, escape from this hole no one can pinpoint on the map of Midland, and make a name for himself out there.
When Griffith holds himself in an auditorium full of nobodies, when everyone cheers at his perfect scores, after Guts knows how much time Griffith spent studying the previous night, and when he giggles, with that quirkiness showing through his dimples…
It places this gentleness inside Guts’ ribcage, leaving him cozy.
Looking back at it, Griffith’s first attempts to talk to him would make Guts turn up his nose. Somewhere, in the flow of time, Griffith grew into him, becoming attached to his hip.
But now, there’s a void on that same spot, even if Guts’ conscious that, for a guy like Griffith, spending time with him must be nothing.
Perhaps, this situation is not so different from how Griffith used to love to fuck with his head, because he doesn’t move, he doesn’t talk any further, he doesn’t even glance at him.
It’s infuriating.
Guts wants to keep pressing him about what happened that night, doesn’t matter the details climb up the bile in his throat— go after those freaks, track them down and find them.
He also needs to learn how to deal with this new Griffith, how to understand him, and then punch him for being such a pain in the ass, so elusive and full of himself.
If he could just… reach Him.
Either figuratively or materially.
That’s when he notices, funnily enough, that Griffith seems quite close to him now —I wanted to see you, he said, didn’t he?—. Guts’ able to feel his breathing; it follows a calm, steady rhythm, as if... this type of conversation, this position, doesn’t mean anything to Him.
But Guts’ heart is racing, similar to when he’s getting ready to fight everything and everyone who’s on his way, when he’s cornered.
This time, he’s battling and clashing against Griffith. With himself— when he’s with Griffith, there’s always this sense of urgency, of being drawn to Him, until he cannot focus on anything but Griffith’s face engulfing his view.
It’s a need… everyone has around Him.
So, it’s natural that, while Guts tries to look for any defect in Griffith’s pores, his gaze wanders, falling onto the flesh of his lips.
And they seem…
“Get off the bed.” Guts own grumble comes out as a surprise to him. To Griffith, not so much.
“Fine.” It’s all he says.
Like Guts orders, Griffith gets up, way too fast, heading towards the window. The sight of it makes his stomach drop, flashing back to Griffith’s farewell from minutes ago.
That’s not what he wanted to say— he did want Griffith to stand up, to stop being too damn near him, but that doesn’t mean that he wants Griffith to go outside in the middle of the night again.
To lose him for a second time.
“… Wait!”
In a rush, Guts extends a hand to Griffith, catching him. He tries to organise his thoughts, before Griffith turns back to look at him.
Yet, it’s too late.
“You’re quite indecisive, aren’t you?” Guts squeezes him tightly. Griffith’s displeasing tone begins hammering his head non-stop. “Better start making up your mind before crying out for me. I’ve got better things to do.”
“Better things to do?” Guts echoes. The impatience inside of him grows, setting him in motion. “What are those better things? Uh? Stuffing your face with food? Then call me to clean all your shit again?!”
Griffith’s gaze darkens, stripping away his facade of apathy for something rawer— that Guts finds buried under Griffith’s white pupils, like a mirror of his own rage, lurking.
It’s enough to make his blood evaporate once Griffith places a hand on his chest.
“Get off of me, you’re too annoying.”
It’s a pattern of dismissing him, of pushing him away, to then come back and render him vulnerable in such a way that leaves Guts naked in front of Him, while He remains fully dressed, all with that straight face and that voice.
Guts wants to beat him, but his muscles froze at the thought; he wants Him to shut up, but to be the one to shut Him up. This thing that says it’s Griffith, that looks so much like him, and yet, Guts doesn’t know where the real one begins and the fake one ends.
He goes for his wrist, digging his fingers against the skin. His insides are beating faster, harder. There are too many feelings swirling, longing for what he’s aware he desires, but struggles to ever obtain.
“Annoying, uh...”
“Yes, that’s what you are.”
From a while, this is how it’s been between them: a cycle where they move away, get entwined again, just to split paths in the end. Each time, Guts believes he has figured Griffith out, that he knows how to fix himself now, and it’s possible to build a bridge to make him and Griffith a less uneven pair.
But then, reality smacks him, realising that he hasn’t.
Not yet, at least.
It’s not easy to untangle Griffith’s mind.
Nonetheless, it’s the only way to soothe the throbbing in his chest.
At the corners of his eyes, Guts notices that Griffith has leaned in, silently. All of his gaze hovering over him, as if he were a fucking dissected bug for Griffith to study.
It almost makes Guts want to curl up.
Truth is, he can’t help that guilty pleasure, hidden within his body, locked up in his sternum, that stirs up at Griffith’s attention, like blissful relief, driving Guts to confront Him.
He isn’t afraid. He has got a lot to yell at Griffith for, it’s about to come out— until their noses lightly brush.
Griffith blinks, retreating a little.
Guts forgets the words at the tip of his tongue, his large hands still holding Griffith.
He’s sure that Griffith hasn’t moved. Yet, it’s as if he did.
Otherwise, there’s no other explanation as to why he narrows his eyes at him.
And Guts, drown by Griffith’s rich essence filling up the thin air left between them, senses his own lips tingling against Griffith’s, straining his insides.
His muscles begin to clench —to defend what, Guts’ not sure—. But once he exhales, the tension decreases. Griffith wrinkles his shirt, and this feeling, that lurks awake under his skin, that expands over his persona, reaches the remnants of his judgement, rationality and common sense.
All at once, it snaps.
The first thing Guts realises, it’s that darkness surrounds him when he closes his eyes.
The second one, it’s that there’s silence, both outside and inside.
Thirdly, he notes Griffith doesn’t react, even after a few seconds —whole minutes?— have passed, taking him as it is.
It’s almost… accepting.
He doesn’t taste like anything in particular —what was he expecting?—. Griffith tastes like… Griffith, cold. Guts doesn’t hate it per se. It’s just different to what he’s… used to.
In fact, it’s nice.
Comforting for the heat inside of him, even.
Which makes him go for another peck.
But right when reality begins to creep at the loose edges of his mind, breaking through the rush of adrenaline as he’s about to pause, Guts registers a faint stroke.
It slides down his neck, bristling him in the same way he did when Griffith would take his hand many years ago, to hang out on endless afternoons —it almost made Guts feel okay, normal, after quarreling with Gambino—. Griffith’s fingers are still slender, and the pressure of his grasp is just like he remembers it: good.
It’s sufficient to bewitch Guts again, accelerating his descent into Griffith’s mouth.
They both fall abed, with the muffled sound of the sheets, and Griffith’s figure fits under him. Guts, reluctantly… seeks to caress his arm; palpate it to make sure, over the puffy jacket that envelops him, that it’s real.
That, below it, there’s Griffith’s body, breathing.
Guts doesn’t need to imagine how tender Griffith’s flesh must be, since he has already seen all of Him— as their crotches grind against each other, sweat beads on his forehead, and Griffith lets out a sound, with parted lips, that Guts’ not sure exists, but it’s enough to make him go deeper, sinking his teeth into Griffith.
Then, there’s a whine, salty flavoured, that shakes his core, breaking them apart. The first colour Guts spots amidst the lights and shadows, it’s red, a tiny drop blossoming on Griffith’s lower lip.
And that’s…
“... I will go now.”
Finally, it all comes down to him.
“What—” Guts’ words stumble upon each other, his heart beats in his throat, and he must gulp for his voice to clear up. “WAIT! Hey, I— Griffith—!” this time, he quickly slips from his grasp.
“I already told you,” Griffith repeats, with a sharpening in his voice that leaves Guts dazed. “I’m hungry.”
Hungry of what. It’s what Guts is about to ask —and more. There’s more, of course. Not necessarily questions, that pile up inside him, making his body heavy; because he swears he’s going to apologise, that it was so fucked up, and he’s never done that, he would never…—, but Griffith has escaped, the curtains fluttering in his absence.
Immediately, Guts peeks out of the window. There’s no trace of Griffith on the roof, the road, much less in the sky, under the pale moon that dimly illuminates the scrap in the yard.
At the top of his lungs, Guts calls out his name. When no one answers, he rushes downstairs. However, as soon as he appears in the hall, Gambino roars at him for being too noisy, too irritating, and the biggest mistake in his life.
There’s also the stink of cheap alcohol soaking the living room, making Guts’ senses hazy as he returns to his bedroom.
Now, with the door closed, he’s lying on the same bed Griffith was minutes ago.
Where they both lied.
What the fuck happened.
He kissed Griffith. He didn’t mean to— it was… it was an accident. That’s why he told Griffith to get off, because shit like that could happen. And they aren’t… together. They aren’t like that. Even if that nasty rumour keeps circulating around, ringing inside Guts’ ears.
If Griffith is, that’s fine. But he…
The worst of all, it’s being left with the ugliness of it.
I’m hungry. That’s got to be one of the dumbest excuses he’s ever heard from Griffith, utter bullshit.
Although at this point, maybe he shouldn’t be surprised, since Griffith’s always been like that: taking and coming as he pleases, with his head stuck up his own ass to care about trivial matters.
He’s the same asshole who dislocates his shoulder, messes up his kitchen, and the next day acts as if anything hadn’t happened, smirking at him. The same self-centred Griffith who loves to stand out amongst the crowd, acting as if he were a godly being above anyone. Above him.
… And he’s as beautiful as always, even more so.
Why does Griffith have to go? Something just… took over Guts. Something familiar, but no sufficiently for him to grasp.
Yet, a part of himself swears that, in the middle of that frenzy, before Griffith ran away again… that reddish bite on his lower lip was gone, healed.
Perhaps, it’s all on his head. And Griffith’s… fine.
Still, Guts didn’t want to hurt him.
He didn’t want him to go that fast.
But why does admit that it upsets him, makes him feel so… Heartbroken?
There is a raindrop on the window. At first, Guts doesn’t pay much attention to it. But then, one more falls, and another, splashing enough to smudge the landscape of scrawny trees hanging around him.
Not long ago, the sky was pitch-black. And now, all the shadows have faded with the arrival of dawn, whose cold air settles on his loins as the atmosphere gets cloudy, increasing the pressure on his head.
That night Griffith came to his bedroom was months ago. Still, the memory has remained vivid in his mind, repeating itself under his eyelids the few times Guts manages to close his eyes because that fucker, Griffith, won’t even let him sleep in peace.
Back then, the more walls he smashed, the more Griffith’s image would taunt him, transforming his dreams into nightmares; awakening an itchiness, from deep inside, that Guts couldn’t seem to scratch off, even when his nails dug his skin, shredding it.
Nowadays, it’s all those recollections, feelings and sensations, that seem to be the only source keeping him barely on the surface for most of the time.
It’s what he was thinking of when escaping from prison, besides the crappy music and food.
The last time Guts saw him, Griffith was dead. But it rather seemed as if he were slumbering, and the reason why the bedroom was eerily silent was because Griffith’s breathing had become so light that it escaped Guts’ stunned senses.
At any given moment Guts showed worry, Griffith would open his eyes and mock him for having fallen into his prank.
Said cocky remark never came, though.
Guts realised that the only sound he was hearing was his own heartbeat, pumping.
In retrospect, Griffith did stay quiet. His figure, lying abed, looked almost angelical: his hands resting on his abdomen, his long hair spreading out over the mattress, the impassive air that surrounded him…
It was an eternal frame of his youth, defiled by the blood that stained his pyjamas when one lowered his gaze; bringing up a dose of reality to Guts.
A reaffirmation of his own actions as his mind detached from his body.
It was an impulse— at that point, everything could very well go to hell after the deaths of Gaston, Judeau, and Casca.
Guts had wanted answers.
Griffith kept refusing to give him one.
So, naturally, he managed to cut his way into making Griffith speak —to look at him when he said it—. He remembers being above Griffith, how the view allowed him to see how damn surprised Griffith had seemed by his intrusion —because of course Griffith could take and come as he pleased, but not him—. And he had put on a good fight, boosting Guts’ adrenaline.
So much so that, when it ended, Guts thought he had woken up from a dream.
In the end, Griffith wasn’t as strong and invincible as he had imagined.
And it didn’t make any fucking sense. Shouldn’t Griffith of all people, with his demonic powers, have a high chance of surviving, despite all? Be tougher to kill? Struggle a bit more against him?
However, if that were the case… it would have been terrible. It would have been a waste of all Guts’ efforts, as well as… Gaston, Judeau and Casca’s lives.
Even so, he can’t help but wonder, going beyond the edges of his mind.
Lately, he does that a lot.
You’re a fuckin’ monster! That’s what he shouted at Griffith’s face, just right when Griffith had lost his strength and they fell into bed, over each other.
Everything about Griffith was, if not rotten, already starting to. His skin had lost its moisture, discolouring his checks; his lips were cracked by thirst, and the tiredness creeping under his eyes intensified, as strands of his hair fell off. Like an astute dog, Guts could smell it, trace it, making his insides churn.
Even if his groin and tail tingled each time he dug deeper.
You make me sick! Guts also barked that night, as if he had seen something of himself in Griffith’s gaze.
Something he, at least, told himself he didn’t like.
Griffith’s new… food tastes were, at first, a shocking discovery. It had been only one time that Guts had the privilege of watching him, almost grasping the full extent of it. Not the splash of dry blood over his shirt, dyeing his gums after chewing, but the rawness of the act itself.
Griffith indulged in, when lucky, a feast of warm viscera, which would usually be putrefactive as he, for some reason Guts can’t explain, had a preference for the dead rather than the living. It was why, once Griffith toured up fresh meat with his teeth, a brief relief could be heard through his gulps.
At that time, in front of that scene, Guts understood what Griffith meant when he said he was hungry: that his stomach had been, in fact, growling from a bottomless pit.
He also understood why Griffith told him, many years ago, that he was a rough person, because his mind went blank when thinking about who else could stomach seeing Him in such a state.
The answer was simple: no one. Guts found uncountable buts and ifs as to why the rest couldn’t, shouldn’t— while he, driven by a primal instinct, tried to talk Griffith out of it.
Turns out, he was close to Him.
Griffith was in the palm of his hand the whole time.
And the proof of it was in how Guts could kill him by touch alone.
I'm hungry, Griffith said that night. Well, if he didn’t want to get Casca and the others involved, then why couldn’t Griffith tell him straight about the nature of his appetite?
Looking back at it, Guts never minded that detail at all.
Truth be told, he really didn’t care much about whether Griffith was digging graves for food, or if he did kill people. The world would be better off without the jerks from their school, and who could care about a bunch of old corpses, anyway?
As long as their group were spared, and Griffith was safe, it would be… fine.
After all, how could Guts completely blame him? Griffith was just clinging onto any chance to survive, to stand up —with nails, sweat, and teeth—. Something he, at least, can... understand.
It all started because of Guts himself, and that shitty band.
If he hadn’t heard them, if he hadn’t approached them, if he hadn’t told those freaks to leave Griffith alone, that he was too good for sick weirdos like them, they wouldn’t have confirmed their own twisted ideas about his... virginity.
They wouldn’t have begun their hunt.
If Guts had been strong enough, faster enough, if he had stayed at his side, Griffith wouldn’t be dead, a fucking sacrificial prop and, on top of that, having a demon wearing his face.
Instead, there wouldn’t be any masks nor rituals. The real, human Griffith would be right there with him, chatting about whatever junk he’s been collecting, which books he was reading, or sending him a message, asking is he’s still awake, to go on call for hours, even after having a busy day, full of obligations and study sessions.
But he wasn’t. He isn’t. Griffith is never going to do the things he enjoys again.
Neither is Guts going to listen to his voice, his laugh from the other side of the line.
Now, what he has is the double of blood dripping from his hands.
Corkus lashed out at him, yelling that he was a monster, that Griffith should have never trusted him.
Rickert, terrified, couldn’t say anything, even when Pippin tried to be his support.
His relationship with Casca had ended in the midst of a fight, both trying to help Griffith out. Judeau got involved for Casca’s well-being, but he also lost.
Gambino ditched him as soon as the news came out.
And Griffith is dead without any possibility of ever coming back.
Meanwhile, he, living, is deemed an insane individual. That’s what his medical record stated— a bunch of claims and adjectives whose only basis is the incomprehension of his life, what he has had to deal with, what he saw. So he’s called a Beast for wrecking a place that doesn’t let him be, tossed into four steel walls of solitary confinement, a mad dog whose head halter just needs to be tightened a little more for him to stop biting.
A fugitive from justice, could be added as well. But that would be such a joke.
What the fuck justice is supposed to mean in that hellhole where he crawled from?
That’s when a tingly, yet familiar, feeling descends over his neck.
If he gave Griffith a wound, it was fair that Griffith also branded him with one. He owns Griffith one million, but ending like one of those freaky creatures, like him, way too pitiful to laugh.
Big surprise that didn’t appear in any of the books Casca had checked out.
Even when their relationship had fallen apart, they were the only people who had heard the alarm set off regarding Griffith’s behaviour. Guts didn’t need to ask her for help, because Casca insisted on staying at Griffith’s side despite all, as she always did before she and him tried… dating.
On one hand, it was comforting.
On the other, Guts is not in the mood to think too much about the apprehension it stirs in him.
“Hey, son…” Slowly, the driver’s voice, raising over the scratching of the cartwheels against the asphalt, brings him back to the present. He sounds shaped by years of simple, peaceful times, a melody unfamiliar to Guts. “Where did you say you’re heading to?”
“Wyndham. Just lookin’ for a rock band.”
There are three people inside the old man’s car: Guts, him, and his daughter. But since no one’s talking, it’s like there’s only him and his thoughts.
He may as well answer before bashing his head against the window.
“I see. You must really love them, then. To think that you’d go that far…” Guts must resist the urge to retch. It helps that, reflected on the rearview, he catches the girl peering at their combo. “Well, you’re lucky. My daughter and I are on our way there. My nephew is back from business, so the family will reunite after decades.”
As the sky pours over the windscreen, the car’s wipers flicker incessantly. The driver’s eyes are lock on the road, squeezing in to see better.
Yet, at the edge of his view, he notices a subtle movement under Guts’ expression.
The old man clears his throat.
“So, which band is?” he asks. “Collette’s a big fan of music, you know, she’s always with her earphones on. Perhaps I’ve heard them before.”
Inside his pocket, Guts leisurely thumbs an oval stone that’s tied to a string. It’s a necklace whose bright, crimson paint, has worn off, and its surface is damp to the touch.
When he breathes out, it’s as if a weight has been left from his shoulders, a thorn that has long remained stuck in his liver, one he’s ready to rip with his teeth.
“The God Hand.”