Title: Ill-gotten
Author: Juxian Tang
Fandom: Berserk
Pairing: Guts/Griffith
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Remember the scene when Caska takes care of Griffith, then splashes the water, and Griffith topples her? Now remove Caska and replace her with Guts :)
ILL-GOTTEN
"Wow, look at this, I've splashed it. Ain't I a clumsy one? Sorry, I'll bring you another blanket."
But Guts doesn't have time to get up, even to move because Griffith suddenly charges at him, colliding with Guts' body. It is such a violent, desperate movement that Guts is stunned. And at the same time his mind clenches in realization that this is all the strength Griffith is capable of. Not enough to make Guts shift or even sway.
"Hey, hey what're you doing, easy…"
But Griffith keeps pressing against him, his helmeted head lowered, his broken hands pushing against Guts' chest – urgently, stubbornly, as if he hopes that he still can overcome Guts, even though he hasn't been able to do it in a momentum.
Guts spreads his arms in confusion, not knowing what to do – and then submits, surrenders to this desperation. He doesn't want to upset Griffith, to remind him even more about his weakness.
So he slides down onto his back, letting Griffith fall over him.
Well, if Griffith wants it – whatever it is – let him have it.
The rough mat on the cart's floor hurts his wounded back a little, and Guts winces, but Griffith's weight pressing down on him doesn't make things any worse at all. In fact, it astonishes Guts how someone can weigh so little. It is almost unnatural. Griffith sprawls on him, pushing down feebly, and it seems the heaviest part of him is the round helmet that hides his face.
"Well?" Guts says cautiously.
But it seems that the effort to topple down Guts has taken all Griffith's strength, and now he just lies on Guts, panting like a sick dog. His body feels incredibly hot even through the bandages covering it almost entirely; Guts wonders if he is feverish. Griffith's mutilated hands crawl very slowly, like some broken insects, travelling from the floor to Guts' torso. Griffith sticks his fingers in Guts' bandages – as if trying to hurt him. He probably would have if he were stronger – but like that the only thing Guts feels is slight discomfort.
He feels weird, too. What does Griffith mean by that? If he weren't in such a state – and if Guts were a girl – he would have almost thought Griffith tries…
No. Guts sweat drops at this thought. What strange things come to his mind.
It doesn't matter. He thinks he cannot really figure out what happens in Griffith's mind. What horrible shifts occurred there during that year he spent in the dungeon. It would've been strange if someone retained complete normalcy after that.
So the only thing he can do, Guts decides, is go with the flow. He sighs and puts his arms around Griffith carefully. Maybe Griffith needs reassurance. Maybe he just needs to be kept warm.
Griffith is so thin… somehow Guts can't help but find this thought extremely distressing. Yes, he'd been holding him before, in prison and when Zodd appeared, but only now it really strikes him. Under the tips of his fingers, Griffith's vertebrae are like sharp pebbles, no flesh left there at all.
Guts doesn't know what he does wrong but suddenly Griffith starts shivering. As if Guts' fingers bother him in some bad way. Guts hesitates whether to let him go or hold him tighter but Griffith's fingers claw into his chest with even more force, almost total self-abandonment.
It is so sad. Griffith shakes, clings to him and breathes hoarse and shallow, and Guts thinks with strange melancholy that holding him is really all he can do. Because he cannot change anything; he cannot undo anything. Griffith he had known once is gone – and this pathetic shattered man is the only thing that is left from Guts' friend.
Then Griffith moves a little, shifting his leg, raising it. And in this movement there is something so definite, so not leaving a room for a double interpretation, that Guts freezes in shock.
Griffith opens up against him – bringing their crotches together – in a gesture that is so undoubtedly sexual that it can't be taken for anything else, no matter how much Guts would wish otherwise.
It's insane, Griffith must be out of his mind completely, what he's doing… Guts was never willingly… would never willingly… and Griffith, even with what Caska told him about that pederast governor… Griffith had to do it reluctantly, he was suffering because of it. And just think of now, when his body is all damaged…
Flooded with these thoughts, stupefied, Guts lies there, as if in hope that it was a mistake, it was something he imagined. And then suddenly Griffith rubs his crotch against Guts'.
Not imagined. No.
Guts reacts instinctively, his body like a tight spring – he throws Griffith away, tosses him on the floor. He hears a short painful gasp that breaks from Griffith's lips as his body hits the wooden planks but Guts doesn't care. Shivering with cold anger, he rises on one arm, looking down at Griffith. His voice shakes with indignation.
"What… what are you doing? Have you gone mad?"
Griffith's impossibly blue eyes stare at Guts. His eyes are the only thing alive about him, when his body is turned into a broken, burnt wreck. He looks at Guts steadily, bearing Guts' glare, without hesitation or weakness. Almost like he used to look before - when he was himself, Guts' commander, the White Hawk.
"What are you doing…" Guts whispers.
He cannot help it: the anger is gone. He can't muster it – as he looks at Griffith who lies before him, not a single place in his body unscarred, free from bandages, and his eyes shine blinding blue through the slits of the helmet.
Fuck me.
It is unmistakable. Griffith's lips verbalize these two words, one of them an obscenity. He shouldn't say that; shouldn't dirty his mouth with it. Somehow Guts can't imagine Griffith's voice pronouncing that.
But Griffith won't ever say that aloud anyway; won't ever say anything. Guts will never hear him talking again. Never.
Guts blinks; then reaches his hand. The metal of Griffith's mask is cold but his breath where it catches Guts' hand is very hot. Guts puts his palm on the helmet, not touching Griffith's face.
"No," he says. "Don't do it. To yourself. To me."
They have never been like that, haven't they? Even in the times they were closest, it was always just friendship, always pure in the physical way. And now Guts has Caska.
It suddenly strikes him. Caska. Hugging him, pressing her face to his shoulder. Griffith must have seen it. Is it what it is all about? Seeing them together… jealous… wanting to step in between them… but…
But why him? Why like that? Could Griffith know...
The thought is so frightening and revolting that Guts' fist clenches against his will. Could Griffith know somehow about Donovan? But no one knew, it was Guts' secret, the most guarded one… And yet he needs an enormous effort to relax, to unclench the fist that hovers dangerously at Griffith's face. Guts calms down, sighs out – and sees a longing, almost hungry look in Griffith's eyes.
As if Griffith expects Guts to hit him.
"So that's it?" Guts asks tiredly. It seems just a few seconds have drained all of his strength; leaving only resignation. "Is it what you want?"
In that cold, damp cell, alone, for a year… could the despair have twisted Griffith's mind to the extent when violence became the main sign of intimacy for him? If every touch hurt – but still it was a touch – could he learn to crave for it?
Guts doesn't want to think about it. But he knows a lot about mind's cruel games. About the wounds that never heal.
"Griffith," he says. It is not a plea, rather the last attempt to call for Griffith's reason – and for his own reason. But Guts probably was never a perfectly sane one to begin with. "I don't want to hurt you."
Griffith smiles. It's a horrible smile, on the lips that are not fit to do it – and then he hits Guts' hand that floats hesitantly at his face.
So weak. So violent. Insane.
"Fine. As you wish."
He doesn't bother with kissing. With being gentle. With preliminaries. He just grabs Griffith's skeletal body, yanks it closer, rips the pants off. He hears a painful gasp Griffith can't suppress but he almost doesn't care – no, he's glad he's hurting him. If that is what Griffith wants.
It's strange that Griffith resists a little when Guts shoves his legs apart. Perhaps it is too much for him, too quickly. But Guts overpowers him easily. He thinks briefly of putting Griffith on his fours, it'd be easier like that – but something in his mind insists he needs to do it this way. Face to face. Looking in those crazed blue eyes of the man he'd used to call his friend.
There's no inch in Griffith's body the executioner had spared – Guts knows it after seeing him naked – but now he doesn't care. He pushes away the bandages that are in the way, and pushes in, two fingers at once. Griffith's head flops back; his mouth open, a very soft cry escapes his throat. The sound it so weak that it almost breaks Guts' heart.
But this is what Griffith wants; what he demanded Guts to do. So let be it. But Guts still stops for a moment, still finds strength to control himself. He looks down at Griffith, squeezing his face in a hard grip.
"I'm doing it. Are you sure?"
And a slow nod in reply… no hope, then.
Guts moves forward, raising Griffith's legs sharply, settling between them, releasing his own cock at once. And then he pushes in.
He feels Griffith scream feebly against the palm Guts covers his face with. Yes, scream. You wanted it. Pay for what you're making me do.
The strangest thing that he is hard as hell and has no problem with performing. He pushes in, deeper and deeper, into the tight, impossibly hot opening. It is barbaric, to do that to this body, already broken to the point of no return. But Guts doesn't stop.
And Griffith's hands clenched on his shoulders tell him Griffith doesn't want him to stop either.
Guts pulls out and slams back again, harshly, without finesse at all. Griffith is doubled under him, the pose must be hurting him, with his damaged body and the cruel intrusion that Guts continues.
His back, Guts thinks, the skin on his back is all flayed. The thought sickens him. But at the same time, paradoxically, it makes him harder. He doesn't want to stop. He can't stop.
But he does wrap his arm around Griffith, putting it between his back and the rough floor. And this act of unwilling tenderness changes something in him. Guts lowers his face and kisses Griffith's lips.
It is a brutal kiss, and Griffith's lips are so dry and cracked that the scabs reopen, and Guts feels hot, salty liquid on his tongue.
There is some blood between Griffith's buttocks, too, making Guts' entering easier and smoother.
He must be in a lot of pain... It is not a matter of arousal by far, Guts can sense how every one of his motions is hurting Griffith - all of them, the position, slamming, tearing of his anus. But Griffith answers Guts' kiss - in a strange way, it's probably awkward without his tongue, and Guts feels his heart constrict at this thought.
"You fool," he says breaking the kiss, licking Griffith's blood from his lips. "I just wanted... I wanted to protect you."
Yes, it is the truth, since the very moment Guts found him, on the floor in the lowest level cell, there was only one feeling expanding in his chest. To protect Griffith. Not to let anyone ever hurt him again. He couldn't erase what had been done to Griffith, in no way, but at least he could spare him from more pain... would kill anyone who'd try, would guard him with his sword from every human or monster who'd try to pursue him...
Perhaps... perhaps it is exactly what Griffith didn't want?
The thought slams into Guts, so astounding that he stops moving. His brows drown together, he tries to comprehend it. Then, in prison, and later, during their escape... Griffith, so fragile and defenseless, Guts fighting for him, holding him...
Griffith... Griffith didn't want to be someone in need of protection. He didn't want to be the weaker one, the object of Guts' charity. He didn't want to be... pitied?
The revelation is so shocking it sends a chill along Guts' back. He's frozen in place, his body joined with Griffith's, but he can't move. He just stares down, at the brightest blue eyes that seem to reflect only him, nothing but him.
"Is that... is that why you do it?" His voice comes small, like a child's, and for some reason he feels betrayed. He feels like Griffith has used him. Again.
Then he sees a broken, bony hand - barely scabbed wounds instead of fingernails and swollen, shattered knuckles - slowly reaching for his face. He doesn't move - and Griffith puts his hand on Guts' cheek, cupping it. Like then... like then when he made Guts join the Hawks? Only now it's one hand, the other one's probably too damaged and Griffith isn't sure he can control it.
But the touch is there - hot, and authoritative, and insistent, and Guts trembles suddenly in the emotion he can't pinpoint in words. He sees Griffith's cracked lips move and can read the articulation clearly.
Do. Not. Stop.
"Fool," he says again. In defeat. His hips start moving again, driving in, driving out, a steady, accelerating rhythm, plowing into Griffith's narrow body, into the bleeding, burning hot opening of his. Guts' eyes are also burning, as if something is sizzling them, but he refuses to admit it's tears. He won't be crying. Not now.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, his arms wrapped around Griffith's body, cradling him, holding him close. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
And not only for what he's doing at the moment.
He comes inside Griffith, pressing his burning forehead to the cold metal of the mask. Griffith's eyes are open and staring at him but so close Guts cannot read their expression. And it doesn't matter because his own vision is clouded, with pleasure and with wetness in his eyes.
After his release, Guts stays still just for a few seconds, fallen exhausted onto Griffith's body. Griffith is breathing under him, that shallow, shaky breath that comes from pain in aching ribs. Guts moves, untangling their limbs, letting Griffith change the position. He sees Griffith bite his lip involuntarily as he moves. He's probably sore all over.
Guts touches his cheek with the tips of his fingers, right next to the edge of the mask. He won't make a mistake of pitying Griffith again. It cost him dearly as it is. Cost him so much, in fact, that he just starts comprehending it now, when his body doesn't tingle with arousal anymore.
What now? What has he done? Caska, he... Griffith, he... Unable to contain a moan, Guts falls onto his back, covering his face with his palm. What is going to happen now, after the unnatural act he's performed? Caska, his love... Griffith, his friend...
He feels Griffith move - and opens his eyes abruptly, on the alert. Very awkwardly Griffith sits up and gropes on the floor, finds his pants there. By the time he starts getting into them, Guts sits up, too, and helps efficiently.
"Here you are. All decent again," he says with a chuckle.
Griffith makes a strange sound, and only a heartbeat later Guts realizes that it's laughter.
Something in him breaks apart. He reaches towards Griffith, wraps his arms around him, pulls him closer, holds him against his chest.
It's weird - they sat in a similar position a few hours ago, when Guts helped him don his armor. But now this pose has incredibly more meaning. The intimacy is almost poisoning.
And Griffith breaks it, struggling out of Guts' embrace. It is not like Guts wouldn't be able to stop him if he wanted - but he lets go almost immediately. Griffith sits away from him, leaning against the pole of the cart. He looks very, very tired. Even through the slits of the helmet his eyes look sunken and surrounded by dark shadows.
He says something; or rather, his lips move. But this time Guts can't read them.
"What?" he says. "I don't understand."
Griffith winces, as if annoyed with Guts' dumbness or with a necessity to repeat. And this time Guts figures it out.
Go to Caska.
Oh. So. Giving Guts the answer to the question he didn't ask. What now, what he should do, where would he stand, between two people he cares most, both of them turning from friends into intimate partners in a matter of days. What a mess...
Go to Caska, Griffith tells him and somehow Guts knows it doesn't mean 'go for now'. It means 'don't change anything'. It means 'what happened doesn't matter'.
A part of what Guts feels is relief; a part is regret. And a small shard of anger at Griffith. For deciding like that, for him, so easily.
A year ago he didn't want to let Guts go, was going to stop him even at the cost of one of their lives. And now he is pushing Guts away, discarding him like that?
Well, Guts chuckles. That's Griffith for you. You can't let go something that isn't yours. If you shove it away - on your own terms, at your own volition - it means it was yours.
Right, Griffith?
The scrawny figure slumping against the cart's wall is so thin and fragile it seems it can be broken one-handedly. But Griffith blue eyes stare at Guts, from under half-mast eyelids, insistent, measuring, cold and passionate at the same time. And Guts feels what he almost didn't hope to feel ever since they found Griffith so broken and crippled: that his friend is with him again.
And it means it's going to be all right.
THE END