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One night Guts develops an obsession with Griffith’s hair.
It’s nothing serious, really, just a compulsive desire to touch it. It started from the moment when he felt one strand brush against the back of his hand, after Guts stood up from the chair opposite of his commander and walked past him.
He wants to. But he can’t. Because it would mean something to both of them, but Guts is far from sure that it would mean the same thing.
So he touches other people’s hair.
He starts with himself. He sits beside the tent, deep in the night, and combs his spiky hair with all five fingers of his calloused hand. The strands are stiff, big, and tough. There’s nothing pleasant about touching it. Guts feels the sand in his hair and shakes his head like a dog to get it out, but to no avail. One last touch, and he is left to chew on his nails, trying to get rid of little pieces of sand from under them.
The next one he touches is Judeau’s. Just a quick movement above his head while the guy is carving - yet another - figurine. His hair feels far softer, but also sleek. It’s sleek to the point that Guts has no desire to bury his hand in the yellow strands. Judeau watches him suspiciously but says nothing.
After this, he goes to Caska. He goes after they all took a bath in the river, and he is one hundred percent sure everyone’s hair is dry. She reads a book under a tree, and he sits beside her, asks questions about what she is reading and then, as if lost in thought, puts his hand on her head and pulls on the thick strands with his fingers, making loops, all in a hurry, just to feel the texture. Caska, of course, is stunned for a moment and then starts a scene, but Guts is long gone before she decides to kick him for such frivolity. Her hair is surprisingly soft, softer even than Judeau’s, which means it’s way softer than Guts’ own, but not sleek or anything, just quite pleasant to touch. It’s strange. Judeau and she bath in the same river and use nothing special, so why is their hair so different? Guts decides it’s something undeniably feminine.
Then, after the battle, he ruffles the hair on the heads of the soldiers in a gesture of camaraderie and support. Their hair is almost like his own – stiff even when not spiky- and Guts almost decides that men’s hair always feels that bad.
The big secret of whether Griffith’s hair also feels bad or not is still out there.
Until the summer day when the heat hits them with all its horrible and mighty power, making everyone moan and hide in the shadows.
Guts hides too, in the tent, waiting for Griffith to finish his bath – his second today - to discuss new strategies.
Guts isn’t ready for what comes, when the heavy, linen pieces of the exit door are pulled aside.
Griffith made a low ponytail.
His pale face isn’t framed with strands now, but is rather fully exposed. And when he turns around to fix the curtain door and Guts gets a glimpse of his bare neck?
He is ashamed to admit it, but his breath hitches for a second.
And the desire to touch the ashen-white strands is almost unbearable now. It’s so strong that Guts is no longer afraid of Griffith's desires anymore.
So he comes closer, noting how Griffith’s eyes slightly widen in surprise, and slides his fingers through the ponytail.
It’s so gentle, so nice, like the best silk Guts has ever touched; his fingers comb through from the tied part of the hair to the tip of the tail, without stopping. Then he caresses the very top of Griffith’s head, taking pleasure in each stroke, feeling slight curls.
Griffith’s eyes gleam mischievously.
It appears that he takes pleasure in each stroke too.
Guts tugs on the black ribbon, and it falls to the ground.
The ashen mop of the hair falls on Griffiths’ shoulders, and Guts puts both his hands inside of it, massaging Griffith’s scalp, tugging at the strands a little. He is like a desert traveller that finally found a waterfall. A waterfall that is no mirage at all.
Guts’ hands stop, framing Griffith’s face, thin strands entangled with his fingers.
Guts finally reads the curve of Griffith’s lips and the warmth in his eyes; figuring out what he desires.
His fingers do not stop caressing Griffith’s temples.
He decides that their desires are one and the same after all.