Chapter Text
What I think a friend is…is one…who is my “equal.”
Those words play continuously in his mind, becoming a preoccupation, a cyclic rumination. What is he to him? Did Griffith ever consider him a friend at all? To live just because one had been born, wasn’t that all he ever did, just clinging to life, fighting for it, but for what purpose?
Griffith’s speech to a princess shattered him that ill-fated night, overheard standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to a fountain. With his psyche already in shambles, the knife twists in his chest.
In all the time leading up to that point, with the bond they had forged, Guts held an impression of friendship, mutual trust, and respect, and something else. Having all of it disintegrate, his heart betrayed by the very man he looked up to, the man he wanted to have look at him. It came as a crushing devastation after the treasonous act he had committed in his name, the one he asked of him, without question or hesitation. It was something Guts couldn’t reconcile.
There must have been trust, something deep, unspoken, for Griffith to call on him. To think it could mean nothing. He was no more than a dog barking at this man’s heels, at his greatness, only to be reduced back down to nothing more than a common soldier.
Did Griffith really look down at him because he lived by the whims of his sword? Did he secretly think he was lesser because he didn't have some magnificent vision, a dream to call his own, something to be swept up in? Was it all because he wasn't driven by grandeur, because he wanted for nothing, only the drifting day to day?
He needed to leave. He deliberated, sometimes sleeplessly, perseverating. Griffith became something else, out of reach, something not for him anymore. Griffith appeared gleaming, dazzling, unobtainable. Things always shine the brightest when they are just beyond your grasp, after all. A notion Griffith could well appreciate.
Guts can’t approach him directly, not about this. He can't stomach the idea. Maybe Griffith would obfuscate, brush it off, or not even acknowledge it as important. Griffith caged himself, always indirect; he'd dance around it.
Guts wouldn’t beg for something he thought he already had. He wouldn't vie for some sort of validation for his friendship, for his attention.
If he didn't have those things, he'd just have to earn them. If he has to set out on his own to go soul-searching for some dream, then that's exactly what he'll do.
For him, when the superfluity is stripped away, the truth laid bare, it's harder to face: his own inadequacy. To be his equal in all respects, a dream to match his, as if he'd judge the weight of it. With his seemingly effortless charm, leadership, like something out of a grand fairytale. It felt impossible.
It wasn't something he had considered—a dream. He'd just wandered battlefields looking for his next job, his next meal, and, if he was lucky, a warm place to sleep. Since then, he figured, he'd been fighting battles under the Hawks’ banner, to help Griffith realize his dream. He had a purpose, something to be proud of, comrades, a place he thought he'd call home. Having the rug pulled out from under him, he must have had it all wrong. This wasn't home; it was just a place to swing his sword for a bit, warm himself, and be on his way. Maybe that's how it was supposed to go for him, just stopping in, not overstaying his welcome, never really wanted, but useful. When he applied it to how Griffith felt about him, it burned in his chest.
It reminded him all too well of what Gambino once told him: never depend on another person, only ever rely on oneself. Anything else would be foolish.
He didn't look at Griffith with animosity, nor with contempt. Instead, he became even more luminous, shining in his eyes like the castle did for Griffith. Could he find his own dream? Could he find something for himself and no one else, for his own sake? Would he then stand shoulder to shoulder with him? Would Griffith see Guts from outside his own dream?
He felt far away now, only to be beheld at a distance. Guts wondered what he looked like through Griffith's eyes.
The more pessimistic side of him, a part of him he didn't want to entertain, figured maybe Griffith got his use out of him, his sword, and that was really all there was to it. But that didn't sit right with him when he really thought about it. Griffith put his trust in him with what he'd consider filthy schemes, things that he got Guts tangled up in, things that would bring him ruin. Griffith would be just as implicated, he knew that, but then it would be both their asses on the chopping block. He took a morbid solace in that.
It felt to him, at one point, Griffith looked at him, seeing him as something worthwhile, an investment in a friendship, something real, tangible. But now, as he soared higher, Griffith only kept his sights on one thing: the gleaming castle just out of his reach, the path becoming vivid, open, only a few more steps to prestige.
During his time brooding over Griffith, other feelings floated to the surface, ones he didn’t want to acknowledge, things that felt prohibited. Griffith was beautiful; that much was obvious. It was more than that; things Guts couldn’t explain, sudden intrusions, desires, some obscene part of himself that was growing, becoming louder. It was becoming impossible to deny, feelings of something depraved, dark. Those feelings only exacerbated when he was near Griffith, in his chambers, sharing close, quiet moments, imbibing. He’d be flooded with the sudden urge to know what his lips felt like. It terrified him, appalled him; this wasn’t who he was, this couldn’t be what he really desired. He knew full well that Griffith was a man, and yet his impulses threatened to manifest: a slip of the hand, his mouth pressed against his. Something grotesque, blasphemous.
With all these considerations, things to reconcile about himself, at the forefront of his mind, one thing was clear: he knew he had to leave.