Child's Play

[Notes and Disclaimers]

The scent of blood was heavy in the air, drawing in the crows that followed the mercenary band to feast upon their leavings. Gatts, looking up at the birds, admired their flight; for such ungainly things on the ground, they were beauty in the air, the glossy black of their wings gleaming in the sun as they mantled and descended upon their banquet. Their beauty was simple, the kind of beauty that Gatts could understand: the beauty of the cycle of life and death.

The heavy step of a booted foot interrupted his hazy thoughts, and he looked up as Griffith's steel-armored figure picked its way over the carnage. "So you're still alive," the soft voice murmured, the familiar hints of irreverence in it.

Gatts nodded, unable to stop the wry grin as he took Griffith's proffered hand and drew himself from the grisly earth on which he lay. His state of living was relative, but if Griffith said that he was alive, then it must be true; Griffith hadn't given him permission to die yet. He stood with the smaller man, the only man who had managed to best him, and surveyed what they had wrought.

Their opposition was scattered around them, lifeless dolls piled haphazardly as their empty eyes stared into the uncaring sky. It was always thus after the Hawks joined a battle; though many believed their reputation to be inflated, their strength and successes could not be denied. There were many who doubted their abilities, citing their youth, even the seeming delicacy of their leader, but such people were quick to learn that they were more than talk, and Griffith more than a pretty face.

Gatts took the opportunity to study the white-haired man as Griffith presented his profile and stared out over the wasteland that had been their battlefield. Not even Caska with her dusky beauty could boast features so fine, he mused to himself; when presented next to Griffith's radiance, she was cast into shadow - the peahen to Griffith's peacock.

With the stylized helmet removed, Griffith's silky white hair tumbled freely over his shoulders, pale even against the shining silver of his armor. It framed his heart-shaped face, drawing attention to his skin - as fair as any woman's - and his bangs tickled just over his eyes, as blue as the hottest flame. He was a good commander, with that essential blend of strength and charisma; he could draw blood from a rock if he tried hard enough.

Grudgingly, Gatts admitted it to himself: he resented the white-haired mercenary even as he was drawn to him. He resented his strength, the strength that he hadn't yet been able to overcome. He resented his poise, the sheer nerve that had made even Gatts feel like an unwieldy child. He even resented his zest for life, that mood that would overtake him and lend a gamin edge to his features. More often than not, Gatts was at the receiving ends of those moods and, although he wouldn't admit it under the worst torture, he found himself rather enjoying them.

There was something about Griffith in those moods, some other-worldly quality that made him look like a fey child, lost in this human Hell. When he turned one of those mischievous grins on him, Gatts had to forcefully remind himself that Griffith was his leader; there was some quality about them that made Gatts want to pin him down and make him beg for mercy amid gales of laughter.

Gatts shook himself as Griffith turned back to him, those blue eyes sweeping over him clinically to assess his wounds. They paused on a long scratch over the back of one of Gatts's hands, then rose to his face to appraise another scratch across his cheek.

"Come," Griffith murmured softly, offering a hand to Gatts again, "there is nothing left to be done here. I, for one, believes that a bath is in order. You will, of course, care to accompany me."

Gatts bridled slightly at Griffith's patronage, even as a sense of flattery swept over him; although Griffith was unfailingly diplomatic, there was no doubting where his favor lay.

Most of the tents were already up as they passed through, pausing only long enough to shed their armor. Gatts grasped the opportunity to sweep his eyes over Griffith's revealed form, relieved to find that none of the blood spattering him seemed to be his own; despite Griffith's assurances, it was not Gatts that they could not take chances with.

Stripped to sweat-stained tunics and pants, they continued on through the camp, Griffith occasionally pausing to congratulate a member who had distinguished himself, to glance over wounds or to hear the tales of the few lost compatriots. He listened solicitously to each, offering words of praise or encouragement, clasping shoulders with the men who'd lost their shieldmates. Gatts watched silently, unwilling to admit that he was a bit awed by Griffith's sheer charm.

By the time they'd made the small inlet that served for bathing, the sky was darkening with twilight and most of the others had already been and gone. One or two remained in the still water and waved greetings to the officers as Gatts and Griffith approached, but left quickly as their bathing was finished.

Griffith watched them go and chuckled softly, peeling the dampened material of his clothing from his skin. "They have no appreciation for bathing, do they?" A quick wink was delivered to Gatts as Griffith let the last article fall and waded into the water, the first peeping stars casting their silvery light over his skin. "Unlike you..?"

Gatts looked up just in time to catch the splash of water that Griffith had kicked at him and, growling a playful curse, hastily divested himself of his clothing. Kicking aside the last strap, he dove into the water before Griffith could wet him again and grabbed hold of one of the slender legs kicking beneath the surface, dragging its owner down with him. A sharp kick caught him across the shoulders and he popped up again, sucking in a breath as Griffith surfaced some distance from him, sputtering as white hair straggled over his face. Their eyes met, and war was silently declared in a burst of flying water droplets.

It was full dark by the time they collapsed on the bank, attempting to pull in breaths between grunts of laughter. Gatts lay sprawled on his back, one leg raised comfortably as he rested his arm over his eyes to block out the brightness of the moon. Gradually, their laughter died, leaving them in comfortable silence.

"Here," the breathless tenor next to him said as a callused hand closed around his wrist, "let me see these now." Griffith met with no resistance as he drew the arm away from Gatts's eyes, inspecting the slash that ran diagonally over the back of his hand. "This isn't bad - it doesn't need tending - but perhaps we can help it a bit."

Gatts's eyes flew open at the first light touch of Griffith's tongue against the thin wound, although he made no move to withdraw his hand. Even in the moonlight, Griffith's tongue was remarkably pink, he mused, and the feelings it stirred as it slowly traced the length of the cut were hardly those he usually found himself dealing with when he had his wounds tended. He was silently grateful for the shadows cast by his raised leg and for Griffith's odd angle as he felt the first faint stabbings of desire.

Despite himself, he couldn't hold back the sigh when Griffith sat back, releasing Gatts's hand. The white-haired captain traced a finger along the cut, a wry smile touching his mobile mouth. "There is an old-wives tale that says that saliva helps trifles like that heal faster. I suppose that we shall see." He paused, his fingers moving to touch the shorter cut on Gatts's cheek, the result of a scuffle that had lost him his helmet. "Oh, but there is another..."

Gatts felt his breath escape in an involuntarily shuddery rush as Griffith bent over him, his tongue soft and wet against his cheek. The playfulness and easy company of the water fight had melted away, reforming as something more, something that stirred far darker desires than simple teasing.

As Griffith's tongue traced the scratch, Gatts found himself remembering his first experience with desire - that of someone else. While he might not fear death, the intrusion of his body - the cold-blooded rape at Gambino's word - still sent chills through him. He could remember the feel of Donovan's meaty hand twisting his arm back, driving his face into the ground as he'd been burned into again and again... He could remember seeing salvation - his sword - so close, almost in reach, and yet unattainable.

He could remember the pleasure he'd felt when he'd loosed the crossbow shaft into the bastard's chest in the next battle, leaving his body in the woods for the wolves.

Lust - the desire of one human being for another - was not well-acquainted with Gatts; his devotion to the fight, his single-mindedness toward battle had left him with little time - or inclination - to discover the bodies of others. And yet, the sweep of Griffith's tongue was piquing his interest in decidedly unfamiliar ways.

Abruptly, Gatts tangled a hand in Griffith's hair and jerked his head back. He had only a second to register Griffith's surprised look before their mouths were locked together, his tongue thrusting forcefully against Griffith's, the feel of which still tingled over his skin. Through the press of Griffith's body, he could feel the other man's surprise, then indignation, then finally his surrender as he melted into the mating of their mouths. Even there it was a battlefield, with lips, teeth, and tongues meeting and parting as swiftly as their blades ever had, fighting for dominance.

Griffith's sudden surrender startled Gatts into releasing him, and although Griffith withdrew enough to part their lips, he went no further. Gatts could vaguely feel the weight of the Behelit against his chest as Griffith hovered over him, his pupils wide in the dim light and a soft groan escaped Gatts as he pulled Griffith back again, his teeth capturing the kiss-swollen lower lip and worrying it.

"Damn you," he growled around the caught bit of flesh, "damn everything about you." His hands plunged into Griffith's hair at both sides of his head, holding him still as he captured his mouth with another rough kiss.

It seemed too soon when Griffith jerked back, parting their lips with an audible 'pop'. His chest rose and fell quickly, the water droplets on his skin flashing in the bright light of the moon. "Gatts," he started, only to fall silent, words failing him as the taller swordsman shifted, leaning predatorily over him. "Gatts," he said again, before Gatts's teeth were at his throat, nibbling the exposed windpipe as his head fell back.

It would be so easy to kill him like this, Gatts thought distractedly, and the realization sent a heady rush through him: Griffith trusted him. Not only trusted him, but did so without question. The strength of his response startled him, and he pressed his face against Griffith's throat for a moment to gather himself, then moved lower still until his teeth caught one rosy nipple.

Griffith's cry rose into the night air, husky and breathless as he arched under Gatts's mouth. His hands lifted, hovering over Gatts's back only to lower again without touching. Against the grass, his fingers curled into fists, his nails leaving white half-moons in the heels of his hands. "Gatts..."

Gatts bit down, Griffith's shout filling his ears. Even as the salty tang of Griffith's blood flooded his tongue. Sucking hard, he savored the heavy flavor for a moment before soothing the puncture with his tongue and leaving a trail of light kisses down Griffith's abdomen even as his hand ran up for Griffith's thigh.

Griffith froze as Gatts's hand cupped between his legs, containing his swelling erection. "Gatts," he murmured again, angling his hips so that his cock brushed against the calluses of Gatts's hand, only to cry out once more at the torment. His hair formed a halo about him as he tossed his head, hips lifting again as Gatts's fingers curled around him.

Gatts's lips found Griffith's again as his hand began to stroke, tongue sliding over Griffith's until the white-haired man began to respond. Although enthusiastic, his responses were jerky and uncertain, even as groans rose from his throat with increasing regularity and his hips rocked to match Gatts's rhythm.

"Gatts." Griffith's utterance of his name was nearly a growl, murmured in a husky whisper as it was. He was frozen, only his mouth seeming to work as Gatts's fingers, roughened by a lifetime of using the sword, trailed down the length of his shaft. Even then, the only word that would pass his lips with the name of the other man, mouthed when his voice failed him.

Abruptly, Gatts's hand was gone, moving to brace against the ground next to Griffith's head as the taller swordsman levered himself up to study the prone figure. The blue eyes were slightly too wide, the breathing was slightly too fast, the muscles were slightly too tense. Even as the erection nestled between Griffith's powerful thighs reddened and throbbed, his body seemed ready for attack. Sighing with a sense of recognition, Gatts sat up, draping his wrists over his bent knees as he looked out over the water.

The minutes stretched on, the silence broken only by the sound of their breathing, until Griffith moved onto his knees as short distance from Gatts. With his chin lowered, his profile was mostly obscured by the fall of his damp hair, but it was enough for Gatts to see his lightly-bitten lip as he glanced from the corners of his eyes.

"Sorry," Gatts said abruptly, running a hand over his hair. "I got out of line." When Griffith didn't answer, his hand traveled to scratch the back of his neck instead, the action as sheepish as his expression. "They'll be celebrating now. I'll see you back there."

Griffith remained on his knees as Gatts dressed, his chest moving only slightly with his rapid breathing. His arms had lifted to cross over his chest, and his chin had lowered until it was nearly touching them; he appeared folded in upon himself, as insubstantial as a wraith in the moonlight.

Casting one final glance over his shoulder, Gatts strode from the clearing, unease warring with desire in the pit of his belly; even as his body throbbed with the remembered aches of Donovan's treatment, his breathing quickened at the memory of the taste of Griffith's mouth, the texture of Griffith's skin. Unconsciously, he rubbed his thumb over to scratch marring the back of his hand, imagining that he could still feel the warm dampness of Griffith's tongue there. Perhaps, he thought as he paced toward the bonfires, the celebration would have to go on without him after all.

- tsuzuku...? -

Notes and Disclaimers

Berserk is © Miura Kentarou, Hakusensha, VAP, and NTV.

Child's Play is based on the manga, rather than the anime, and is largely unfinished. Berserk is
one of my great loves, and I do hope that I have been successful in keeping the tone of the original,
with Griffith and Gatts's respective obsessions and histories. It was intended to be a fairly dark fic, but never quite made it there. Still, I like the series enough to want to leave this hear, unfinished or otherwise.