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“A personal favour?” Griffith’s eyebrows shot skyward, his gaze politely incredulous over the rim of his untouched brandy glass. “You want this business rival of yours eliminated as a personal favour. ”
Gennon had thought this would be easy.
Imagine his surprise when he learned the feared Hawk of the Underworld was the same Griffith he’d helped get his start all those years ago. He remembered the boy soft and pliant in his arms, seemingly able to anticipate his every desire before he could speak it aloud, and felt sure Griffith would be keen to renew their acquaintance – in business and perhaps (he permitted himself a little hope) elsewhere.
Granted, the boy looked different now. He wore his bespoke tailoring like armour and he’d brought along his own muscle – a hulking, scar-faced brute of a man who loomed behind him, glowering as though Gennon’s very existence was an insult.
Gennon swallowed. “For old time’s sake, dear boy.”
Griffith smiled at him. The glint of amusement in his eyes was not entirely friendly. “My people don’t get out of bed for less than a million. Unless they’re bored. Then, I’m afraid, I can’t vouch for their actions.” He glanced up, quite casually, at the big guy. “Are you bored, my love?”
Gennon had assumed the big guy was a hired goon, but the sly look that passed between them said otherwise. The big guy grinned back at Griffith, shrugged, and scuffed at the carpet with the toe of his shoe. “Ain’t had a whole lot to do this trip.”
“So you see.” Griffith returned his gaze to Gennon. It was steely and inescapable as a cobra’s. “I can’t possibly make exceptions.”
Gennon knew very well he should have left it there, but the boy – who owed him everything! – was mocking him. His pride could not take it. “Your taste in clothing may have improved,” he sneered, “but in men – ”
The big guy actually snarled at him, taking an aborted half-step forward before Griffith raised a hand. Undisciplined, Gennon thought, like a wild animal, but it was Griffith who lunged at him across the table, Griffith’s hand holding the shard of glass that lodged itself in his carotid.
In the moment before shock turned to spluttering panic, Gennon thought that perhaps he’d never known the boy at all.
###
Griffith didn’t say much on the ride back to the airfield. He’d taken the mark’s gold signet ring and he held it on the tip of his forefinger, tilting it one way and the other to catch the light. He was normally too cautious to take trophies, which meant this was personal.
“You wanna tell me what that was about?” Guts tried.
“Not particularly.” Griffith stopped fidgeting with the ring and slipped it into his pocket, but stayed quiet, eyes distant.
Guts knew better than to push it. Griffith volunteering personal information was rare, and only ever happened when you weren’t expecting it: mid-stakeout in a hotel room in Belarus, in the aisle of a convenience store in Hong Kong, and, one memorable time, in the middle of a shootout. You didn’t get shit out of him by asking.
Anyway, everybody in their line of work had things they'd rather not revisit. Guts didn't need to know Griffith’s, any more than Griffith needed to know that Guts had killed his first man at eight years old, or why. Even if that way that creepy old guy spoke to Griffith had made Guts wanna rip his lungs out.
He changed the subject. “We gotta head back already? I hate flying.”
Griffith laughed gently at him. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll hold your hand,” and he chuckled again when Guts told him to fuck off.
But he looked halfway to being himself again, and that was worth being laughed at.
Judeau was waiting for them on the plane, tapping at his phone nineteen-to-the-dozen. Griffith snapped back into professional mode right away. “How are the others doing?”
“Casca’s en route from Singapore. Pippin’s still in London – looks like his guy’s gone to ground for now. That’s about it.”
“Back to base, then.”
They slumped into their seats – Griffith even did that gracefully – and Guts finally gave in and started tugging at the stupid necktie Griffith had made him wear. He’d never gotten used to the expensive suits, always felt like a kid playing dress-up, but Griffith insisted he didn’t want his people walking around looking like a bunch of low-rent thugs, so Guts went along with it.
And okay, the fact that half the time Griffith couldn’t wait to get him out of those fancy clothes the moment they were alone… maybe he didn’t hate that.
Now, Griffith rolled his eyes and batted Guts’ hands away. “Let me,” he said, and reached across to loosen the tie slowly, careful not to wrinkle the silky fabric. His hands were almost perfectly steady, and delicate in a way Guts could never quite wrap his head around. If you didn’t know him, it would be difficult to believe those hands had killed a man less than an hour ago.
Judeau eyed them both, muttered something about talking to the pilot, and disappeared into the cockpit.
Alone again, Griffith let out a tiny sigh. He seemed to deflate a little, and the sight did unpleasant things to Guts’ insides.
He caught Griffith’s hands, folded them both in his own. “I ain’t gonna pry,” he said. “However you knew that asshole, ’s your business. Just – you good?”
Griffith blinked at him a couple times. He got that way sometimes, when Guts was the one to touch him first, or to ask him if he was okay – like he wasn’t totally sure it was real. Guts couldn’t exactly blame him. It was a flavour of mistrust he knew all too well.
It never lasted more than a couple seconds. Griffith’s expression sharpened, the way it always did. “Better than good,” he said. “That man was just a rung on the ladder I climbed to get here. A rotten one that needed to be removed. I left him behind long ago. I have everything I want now.” His voice turned low and velvet-soft and his hand curled round the back of Guts’ neck, fingers dipping beneath the collar of his shirt. “I have you.”
It wasn’t a question, but, “Yeah,” Guts said anyway, before their lips met, “yeah, you do.”
The plane rumbled to life as they kissed, taxiing toward the runway. Guts’ stomach did a nervous little flip, because he hadn’t been bullshitting earlier. He goddamn hated flying. Being stabbed, shot at, taking a beating, whatever – he could deal with that kinda stuff. Being launched through the sky in a tin can with nothing he could do about it but hope? That was a whole other thing.
Griffith hummed into his mouth. “Relax, love. Do you really think I would allow this plane to crash with us on it?”
And the thing was, with Griffith, you could almost believe he held gravity, the earth, the whole of the sky in his hands.
Griffith slid a hand down Guts’ chest, then lower, to stroke at the outline of his dick through his suit pants. Despite everything, a shiver of want went through him. Griffith’s eyes narrowed, their focus heavy as a gathering storm, and he leaned in for another kiss, harder this time. Guts reached for Griffith’s waist – so narrow he could almost wrap his hands right around it – to pull him into his lap.
Of course, that was when the plane decided to leave the ground. Guts’ stomach dropped, and even Griffith gave a startled huff of laughter as they lurched skyward and he grabbed at the back of his seat to steady himself.
But as soon as the plane levelled out, Griffith was on him, straddling his thighs and cradling his face in both hands to kiss him with devouring hunger. Guts fumbled with their buttons, getting them open as fast as he could without breaking the kiss. His dick had fully decided to wake up and join the party now, and he could feel Griffith hard through his pants, could feel his rapid breathing and see the pink that dusted his cheekbones.
Beneath the stuffy suit jacket and the white shirt he’d be flushed all over, throat and shoulders stained with want, rosy as a picture-postcard sunset.
“You gotta stop making us wear so many damn clothes,” he said, and Griffith laughed and wrapped a hand around his cock.
That simple touch was enough to startle a growl from him. Griffith silenced it with a kiss, and Guts remembered there was only the one door between them and Judeau and the pilot. Hopefully Judeau knew better than to walk in on them at a time like this.
This was getting to be a habit, Griffith starting something when there was a non-zero chance of them being caught with their pants down. Almost like he was staking his claim, a thought which filled Guts with a squirmy mix of discomfort and pride, and did absolutely nothing to dampen his arousal.
Griffith was stroking his cock in earnest now. He shoved Griffith’s shirt out the way to return the favour, giving Griffith his fist to fuck as they moved against each other, quick and desperate. Shit, even Griffith’s dick was pretty, rosebud-pink and fitting perfectly in the palm of his hand. Not being able to see all of him was a fucking crime.
“Don’t worry,” Griffith whispered, as if he’d read Guts’ mind. “This is just a taste. When we get back to base I won’t let you leave my bed for days.”
Only thing to do when Griffith got like this was ride it out. His hips moved faster and with his free hand, he clung to Guts' shoulder hard enough it hurt. His hair had started to escape its ponytail in soft, damp wisps, haloing his face – as if he was an angel kicked outta heaven for giving the clouds dirty thoughts.
"I'll keep you right where I want you," he whispered, "and ride you until I – oh – until you forget your own name. Forget you're anything but mine."
His breath hitched as he spoke, even as something dark curled through his voice, hungry and irresistible as a riptide. He nipped at Guts' lower lip, and his movements turned ragged and then he was coming, all over Guts' hand and his dick and the pristine white shirts Griffith had made them both wear.
And that, somehow, was enough to set Guts off too, the sight of Griffith with all his steely calm gone, animal with want, the warm rush of his come and his hand hot and slick with it. A ragged sound tore itself from Guts' chest as he followed, and this time Griffith wasn't quick enough to smother it.
They clung to each other, panting. Griffith’s face was pressed into his neck, and after a moment Guts realised he was gripping Griffith’s hips hard enough he was gonna leave a mark. Their breathing slowed. Griffith placed a tiny kiss against the bolt of his jaw, followed it up with a teasing little press of teeth.
By the time they broke apart, Griffith had his composure back, blue gaze alert and steady and glinting with mischief. He smirked and wiped his hands clean on the front of Guts' shirt.
Guts made a face. “Ain’t you supposed to be the prissy one?”
Not that it mattered; Griffith never let them go anywhere without a fresh set of clothes. Even if it was usually blood they got splattered with.
“Don’t complain,” Griffith told him. “Have you even thought about the fact we’re 15,000 feet up since we took off?”
“I am now,” Guts retorted, but the nervous pit in his belly didn't return. Truth be told, being with Griffith felt like hurtling through the sky at a thousand miles an hour 24/7. Maybe he was starting to get used to it.
Hell of a thought.
They changed in silence. Griffith’s satisfied little smile only faltered the once, when he put his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the ring he’d swiped earlier. He kept it with him, and much later, after they’d landed and left the airfield behind, he made them pull over on one of the bridges outside the city.
Guts followed him out of the car, glad of the fresh air, but something in Griffith’s posture told him not to get too close right now.
Griffith held the ring between thumb and forefinger, glinting in the early-morning sun. Then he tossed it over the side. It winked brightly, once, as it fell, and vanished beneath the iron-grey water.
When Griffith turned around, his expression looked the way it had the day Guts first met him: sharp and clear and certain, and like nothing in the whole damn world could touch him.
“Let’s go,” he said, and they did.