Disclaimer: I don't own Berserk, and I don't think I'd want to.
Warning: This is Berserk…
Pairing: GutsxGriffith
Summary: Griffith weighs his options. Guts or his ambition?
My friend gave me thirty two volumes of Berserk last week. Needless to say, every other fandom got put on hold. There is sadly little ficage, but whatever. Griffith is my favorite character. He's so intriguing, you never know if he's being genuine or not. Ah, one day I'm going to go into a Griffith character study. And this is probably a crappy fic in that regard.
Set a little bit after Griffith meets Guts.
By Moonlight
Griffith stares at the sleeping boy next to him, his thin fingers ghosting over the necklace resting against his chest.
Their naked bodies are intertwined, accentuated softly by the moon. The big circle of light that is the moon covers them in security while they rest in the grass, blankets doing a poor job of keeping out the chilly air.
Strong hands are coiled in his silver hair, clutching like a feeble, dying child.
The night seemed so beautiful that they had made a decision to leave the camp and make a bed on a grassy little hill not too far away so they could fully enjoy it. Guts had laid out, his muscles rippling as he made himself comfortable, smiling so genuinely in invitation for Griffith to join him.
They had made love to the delicate rhythm of the trees swaying, dancing in the moonlight to such a sweet song in such a terrible world.
Griffith smiles slowly, remembering the pin prickles of Guts touch. Nails grazing his hips, the pressure enough to leave a pleasant ache while lips attached themselves deviously to his neck, caressing and leaving miniscule bites. It is especially glorious tonight, with the light playing with the shadows on their skin. Guts looked –looks almost peaceful.
The boy is rough awake, anger Griffith is familiar with lodged in his heart, threatening to spill out any moment. Asleep, he lets his age take over, showing the youth in his face.
Griffith loves to be cuddled under his chin, loathe does he to admit it. He feels safe in Guts' arms, all his precious dreams and ambitions nearly melting away.
He frowns, biting down on his plump lower lip. Griffith is undeniably fond of this boy, to the point where he does not want to acknowledge the deeper feelings crawling up his heart, scraping and clawing to make a place there.
No.
The hands in his hair smooth and comb, and he looks up into dark eyes staring back with devotion –love?
Guts smiles down at him, placing a kiss on the corner of Griffith's mouth, then his nose, and finally his forehead.
The giant is sometimes too gentle.
"I thought you were sleeping?"
Griffith can feel the bubble of happiness swell inside of him, and it is both a comfort and an annoyance. He can't lose sight of his ambition, his life, and his future for this boy who is unrefined and so simple.
It hurts. This hole he has sunken to.
Guts shrugs, his mouth quirking up oddly. "I think I've forgotten how."
Griffith chuckles quietly, smiles as it vibrates on Guts' chest.
"I should rekindle your memory, hm?"
No.
Dark eyes blink owlishly, and then lips are placed once more on Griffith's mouth, a tongue pressing at the seam insistently until he complies, sighing against the other.
"Mmm… I think we have more pressing matters to attend to, ya know…" Guts mumbles near his cheek, easily flipping them over and maneuvering himself between Griffith's bare legs.
Griffith stifles the hopelessness in his stomach sitting there like a dead corpse, taking him to an early grave. He is so very smitten, so very off of his goal and at the same time he is right on track.
Confusion takes over in the heat of the moment, the stars forming into one large shining being, morphing into a little boy chasing the moon.
An… omen?
They move softly, languidly, like this is all they were made to do -to be one. The moment Griffith laid eyes on this boy; he knew… he knew he would have to retain all the self control he could.
This is truly going to be a test to the strength of his dream.
Maybe he's just delirious. Behind his eyes, colors float with no direction or shape, just lazy blotches of nothing.
Or insane.
In this moment though, Griffith decides. He will mold and create a tool born from love, from obsession, from war. He will forge Guts to be a standard to live by, and in that way, he will ascend.
He nuzzles the strong neck, feels thick fingers brush through his hair once more, and he smiles to himself.
Really, he is no different than a Christian upholding their faith, by any means necessary. Guts will not be an obstacle; he does not have to be.
Griffith will teach him obedience.
And then, his dream will be tangible without loss.
The moon fades in time, the sun rising to glory, casting a bloody hue on the world awake.