Mild spoilers. Nothing is strictly referenced, but to know why, you should have at least read chapter 334 and 335.


rain-drop bullets


It wasn't the first time he woke up in a cold sweat, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Gray Fullbuster raised himself onto his elbows, running a hand across his forehead to remove the perspiration. He kicked his sheets aside, sliding out of his bed and standing in nothing but his pendant.

Every time he woke up from this nightmare, he was filled with the profound feeling that something inside of him was missing. That some part of him had died somehow.

As he stood, he felt his chest ache. First it would be the left side of his chest, then it would scatter, a dozen or so bullets falling like rain that ripped open in white-hot pain.

He could imagine someone screaming beside him, as if the wounds were open for all to see. A smug feeling overcame him, as if he just thrust his life in front of someone else's, allowing them to carry on in his stead.

And really, what was a better way to go, dying to save a friend?

Finally, the searing pain ripped through his skull. That was the worst, forcing him down to the floor, kissing the ground with his head in shaky hands, tears forcing their way out of his eyes between heaving breaths.

It was ironic, wasn't it? You shouldn't be able to feel much pain after being shot through the head. You're dead on impact.

Oh, but Gray felt everything. Every ounce of pain he'd ever felt ricocheted through his skull tenfold. He felt his stomach turn, then emptied its contents where he had just been laying moments ago.

He pressed his back against the cool metal of his bedframe, drinking it in.

Cold. That was his home, that was familiar. It would always be better than the searing pain that still invaded every thought, even as it slowly – but never wholly – melted away.

There would be times when he wished for death during these bouts. Because death was cold. Ice-cold. Freezing the bones. Familiar.

It would be hours until he felt cold again.

And quite truthfully, for him, cold didn't feel like the 'normal cold' that meant scarves across faces, layers of thick, restricting fabric-

Cold was…normal.

He refused to believe these dreams, these nightmares that gripped his soul with burning-hot-hot hands, would become normal for him. He didn't want to get so used to the feeling that it also became cold to him – he already had enough inner demons to destroy.

It would be hours until he felt cold again.