Work Text:
Griffith isn’t the same. Not anymore. He feels the shift, a monumental feat as if an earthquake turned the mountain that is his mind into little more than discreet shambles of what it once was. The only man capable of being his destruction did in fact destroy him, beautifully—cruelly. And those words of farewell, meant as a gentle reminder of their three years of friendship no doubt, echo in his head like a taunt. The split in his sword is felt all throughout his body, even if Guts had cut the swing of his giant dragon slayer short of doing any harm to Griffith whatsoever. Guts’ lingering kindness burns like acid in his stomach. He is mute; the pain in his throat is too monopolizing to choke any words out. He can’t retort, can’t force Guts back to him with enticing promises and compromises.
Guts is leaving him, and Griffith can’t do anything about it.
“See you,” he said. See me? No you won’t. I know who you are. I know you’re never coming back…Guts. My Guts. You were mine, my possession, and now…
He hears something distant, feels a faint grasp on his shoulders. He’s being prodded by Casca—ever the loyal soldier to him. He wants to shove her away. He burns hot where she touches him, while he wants to let the cold consume his everything in that moment, mind body and soul. He wants to be numb because at least then the ache that pulses within his chest with every heartbeat will fade away.
Without Guts, he wants to be nothing.
He pushes Casca away from him, more weakly than gently but softly all the same. He stands, shaking, too minutely for the others to notice. Does it still matter, though? Will his posturing mean anything anymore? He wants to turn around, wants to catch a glimpse of that broad back that has charged into battle with brave and premature fervor so many times before. He can follow those footsteps in the snow. He can change Guts’ mind. He can—
“See you.”
Griffith blinks hard. This isn’t like him. He knows it’s not, but he can’t think straight. He feels as if he’s downed ten too many glasses of liquor, then crushed the glass and swallowed the shards. He trudges forward, away from Guts’ trail. One, two steps. A third. A fourth. He passes Casca, then Corkus, Pippin, Judeau, Rickert. He raises a hand—not the one he raised a moment ago in attempt to keep Guts by his side.
“Let’s be off, then. We have more celebrating to attend to.” His voice is wrong. It’s tight, hoarse, cold. His hand throbs.
“See, what’d I tell you? Griffith isn’t gonna be shook up by some loser who just came along for the ride. That asshole can get mauled by wolves for all I care,” Corkus jibes.
“You know Guts isn’t like that,” Casca says. “He cared. He said he did. I don’t know why he’s doing this…”
“Just let it be, Casca. He decided this for himself,” Judeau says.
He decided this for himself…yes, he wanted to leave me…so badly that he…
Griffith stops thinking. He doesn’t want to see the replay of the calm, sure look Guts gave him before taking everything from Griffith. Before beating him and taking away the one possession he ever cared about.
He hurries forward. “I will meet you at the tavern,” he calls behind him, not sparing his soldiers a glance, “but don’t wait up.”
Griffith isn’t thinking.
He’s wet, and he’s cold. He’s not sure what he’s saying to Charlotte. He doesn’t quite know if he’s making sense at all, but words are pouring past his lips with all the bravado he used to muster, albeit false now. It’s a show, always a show, to get what he wants.
Charlotte seems satisfied with what he’s saying, so without further probing he takes her lips with his own. She resists in vain, raising her hand to persuade Griffith away from her body, but she cannot deny what he is to her.
Griffith seeks with his tongue, but it’s not Charlotte he’s looking for. These lips aren’t the soft, supple ones of a princess, but rather the firm and shapely ones of the man who abandoned him. Griffith is kissing Guts, he knows it—Guts is the one submitting to him now, gazing at him between kisses as if Griffith is the entire universe, as if he wants to be fucked by him.
With a harsh tug, a command Guts would surely understand, Griffith takes control and leads to the bed. There he strips Charlotte, her soft gasps filtering into rasping moans at Griffith’s ears. He’s ready, oh so ready. Guts is staring at him, only him, deep brown eyes embroidered by a war-rough exterior. Griffith leans down, sealing their lips together once more. He takes all of Charlotte’s moans in stride and swallows them like they are Guts’. The throbbing from earlier is back, but his body aches now in the best of ways.
“I’m going to…” Griffith lets his eyes wander down, seeing nothing but lean muscle built from years upon years of intense physicality. He can’t help but let his hands roam as if he’s examining what is rightfully his. What has been and will always be his. His hands drop lower, lower still until his fingertips meet a sweet wetness between legs. He inserts a finger, then another right after, hearing Guts curse and sigh.
“Griff…ith…”
Charlotte’s voice, alien to Griffith in this intimate moment, is a nuisance. He rips a strip of fabric from the silken sheets of her bed and wraps it around her mouth, tying the knot behind her head. She consents to his ministrations without question—
And that’s when the façade begins to crumble.
Guts would never be so obedient.
He would never let you fuck him.
You think he’d ever love you? He left you! He doesn’t give a damn about you.
But then, you never deserved him anyway.
Griffith, already at the point of no return, lowers his hand—yes, the hand that held the sword Guts demolished—and guides himself into Charlotte. It’s Guts, though. It’s always been Guts. He thrusts deeply, feeling for solid muscle and listening for barrel-chested groans, but is left disillusioned when all he’s presented are soft curves and soprano gasps. He thrusts harder, deeper, trying to fuck Guts but realizing with each passing moment that he cannot and never will. All he has is Charlotte, the well-meaning and simple princess of a pawn in what was once his dream. As the mirrors of his illusion shatter around him, the ringing in his ears returns along with the unpleasant pulse in his chest.
“See you.”
Griffith is moving faster now, hips pushing and pulling in desperation. He doesn’t want to be in bed with Charlotte. He knows what this will mean for him. If his demise could end with Guts in his arms, maybe that would be okay. But Guts is gone and Griffith knows he will never touch him again. He’ll never see that authentic smile again, shy and sure all at once, nor listen to Guts assure him that he is there for Griffith. Guts was never planning on seeing Griffith’s dream through, and Griffith was never going to be able to show it to him.
In that moment, that crushing void of a moment, Griffith comes with all the vehemence a human body can conjure. It’s not a pleasant feeling; whispers scratch at the walls of his mind as he finishes within Charlotte, and she cries out in pleasure or pain—Griffith can’t quite tell, and he doesn’t quite care. He pulls himself away from her, and she rolls over, exhausted and delirious. Griffith, however, lets the whispers consume him.
But of all the voices vying for his attention, one reverberates the loudest among them.
“See you.”
Griffith wraps his arms around himself. He perfectly recalls the deadpan gaze, the balanced decision held in Guts’ sword when he raised it against Griffith. There was only one possible route to victory over his former warrior, and Guts had skimmed over that path like it was a footnote. Where is he going? Where can he go without Griffith? He has half a mind to throw himself out the window he came through to the princess’s room and set off searching for Guts. But the trail is long gone in the rain that succeeded the morning’s snow, and Griffith doesn’t know what he can even say to Guts if he finds him.
Instead, the hopelessness of it all wells up and runs down his porcelain cheeks. He curls into himself, but the tight shell of his position does nothing to deflect his demons.
You’re all I ever wanted. You knew that, didn’t you? And yet you threw me away. Just like I’d throw my dream away for you.
In the dancing light of the fire, his Behelit whispers in foreign tongues. It sounds of bats and nightmares and all things dark, and he listens to it.
“See you.”
Slowly, the echoes of Guts’ voice fade, giving way to the voice of the Behelit.