#aitcm2025

"I thought I saw something poking out," Amami huffed, pulling away as Kokichi hastily yanked the fabric back up again. "What is that? When did you get hurt?"

"It's nothing, really." Kokichi fiddled with the hem of his scarf, worrying the already fraying edges. "It's old."

He hadn't been living here very long. Barely a week, and Kokichi had been so careful to not let Amami see him uncovered. Be it his scarf and hoodie, or his gakuran, or whatever, he made sure his arms, legs, and neck were properly hidden. He must have gotten careless, and the scarf had slouched just enough for him to catch a glimpse.

"Old?" Amami crossed his arms incredulously. "From what? Something old wouldn't need dressing that heavy, would it?"

The wound on the juncture between Kokichi's neck and his shoulder throbbed, as if to prove Amami's point.

The room was dark. It always was, save the light of the TV casting distorted shadows across the room. At least he'd had the decency to mute it this time. It was much easier for Kokichi to ignore that way.

Not that he'd ever admit that he was ignoring it. That would probably just upset him.

Kokichi couldn't deny the sick thrill he himself got when the knives came out. It wasn't exactly arousal, no. He couldn't quite place what it was. Some visceral feeling that tightened around his lungs and made him want to throw up, but somehow still managed to be satisfying in how real it was.

It wasn't as if he hadn't known going in what Saihara had wanted to try today. He said he wanted to hear Kokichi's noises, and that would be fine. He stretched out on the bed, all hooded gazes masking the twisting of disdain and dread in his gut in the face of the look of manic obsession that was mirrored back at him.

Kokichi had never felt anything so real in his life. He loved it. He hated it. He didn't really know what to feel about it.

He'd told Saihara that he wanted this, but truth be told he really wasn't sure if he did. He wanted to not want it. That was a big part of it. He didn't want it, but he did it anyway, and that was the price he paid.

The price to feel the whatever it was that made him fall apart into a mess of terrified tears and mangled cries as some creep had his way with him.

And then, when it was all over, Kokichi was still breathing, so that meant it was fine, right?

"We should have a doctor check it over if it still needs to be bandaged up like that even now." Amami's words and the phone already in his hand snapped Kokichi back to the present like a rubber band.

"N-no! No doctors!" He sprung to his feet in a panic. The bandages pulled at the cuts and the bites, but Kokichi had gotten good at moving like the scabs weren't ripping open under the wrappings. Doctors meant explaining himself, meant calling his parents, meant this waking dream of living with beautiful Amami in his beautiful apartment coming to an end and finally facing the consequences for all of his actions. "See, I'm fine! Really. If you only just noticed, that means it must not be that bad, right?"

Amami didn't look convinced.

"If it really hurt that much," Kokichi insisted, "or was infected or anything like that, I would have said something, wouldn't I?"

"How do I know you would, Ouma-kun?" Amami pressed. "You've hid them from me for this long. Why didn't you tell me from the start?"

"I..." Kokichi fiddled with his scarf again, his gaze turning shamefully to the floor. He stooped down to pick up the stuffed dog from where it'd fallen on the floor, then looked back up at Amami with the most pitiful expression he could manage. "I just didn't want to worry you... I was... I was scared that you..."

His stomach twisted in knots. Scared that he what? Would find the scars shameful? Would find Kokichi shameful if he explained what had happened? What would Amami think if he knew?

He didn't want Amami not to love him anymore.

"Please, Ranr—" He averted his gaze. "Ran-chan..."

Amami blinked in surprise, and then his expression softened. He sighed, slipping his phone back in his pocket. "Will you at least let me see them? I can help you take care of them if nothing else."

"It's okay. I don't want to trouble you more than I already have."

Amami didn't seem entirely pleased with the answer, but let it be after that, excusing himself to go start making dinner for the two of them. Kokichi slumped back onto the couch with a relieved sigh, pulling his scarf more securely around his neck. It was sweet that Amami seemed to care so much, it really was.

But this was his mistake. He could handle it. He was handling it. It would be fine. Sure, the wounds didn't seem to want to stay closed, and Kokichi had read horror stories about human bites online, but he was keeping them clean.

His neck throbbed again.

During the battle with the enemy, Jamie is shot in the abdomen. Ghost only saw her fall to the ground and thought she was taking cover. He resumes firing at the enemy. "Ghost, I—." "I don't want to hear it!" Ghost argues. "You're fine!" Jamie ignores her bleeding injury as she, Ghost, Gaz, Soap, and Price fight the enemy.

"Now, what minor injury are you whining about?" Ghost asks. The four men see Jamie on the ground. Ghost was too little, too late, deciding to look at Jamie's injury. "Shit," Ghost mutters as Gaz discovers Jamie's shirt is soaked in blood and a serious abdominal injury. "The hell?" Gaz says. "This is a serious bullet wound." He and Soap are doing what they can to help Jamie while Price radios for a medevac. Ghost stares at Jamie lying on the ground. Hating, he assumes she was complaining about a minor injury. As he watches Gaz and Soap, struggle to stop the bleeding, Ghost argues with himself about assuming Jamie would complain about a minor injury. He should have known that she'd ignore any injuries that weren't serious. "Damn it, this is bad," Gaz worries. "Where the fuck is that evac?!" Price yells. Everything becomes a blur for Ghost.

Six hours later, Ghost sits beside Jamie in a room in the medbay. Looking at Jamie on a ventilator and fighting for her life post-surgery. He continues to blame himself while knowing Jamie was seriously injured and could have declined even if he had discovered the injury sooner. Price sees Ghost sitting by the bed. "The medics believe she won't wake up for several days. You need to take care of yourself." "This is my fault. I should have looked at Jamie's injury when she said something." "Unfortunately, she still would have ended up in this position. She was seriously injured." "She would have been helped sooner and wouldn't have lost a lot of blood." "There's no use in thinking about what you should have done. We can only wait for Jamie to wake up and support her through her recovery." "I know you're right…," Ghost trails off. Price puts a hand on Ghost's shoulder to reassure him. He, Gaz, and Soap also worry about Jamie pulling through, but Price knows how difficult this will be for Ghost.

Gaz, Soap, and Price do all they can to help Ghost not neglect himself while being worried about Jamie. Ghost struggles to get much sleep, and as the days go by, so does his appetite. A week passes before Ghost watches Jamie wake up. "You'll be ok," Ghost assures her as he takes her hand.

Their client, one Francis Galloway, inherited a large private collection of archeological finds from some cousin who recently passed. In an act that instantly gained the respect of Team Shadowgear's resident history buffs, the man wished to make the collection accessible for public viewing and research. But days before the museum's opening, some hired staff backed out, so Galloway called upon Fairy Tail's assistance while he scrambled to find more people to take the positions for the long term.

The exhibit with all the ancient tools and metalwork had been pretty cool. Gajeel had been posted to that room, tasked to guard and ensure no one got too handsy with the displays. Understandable, sure, but still a shame. Part of him wished he could be allowed to touch at least one piece. If only just to feel and smell the age in the metal. It wasn't everyday you encountered something about ten times older than Zeref, older than the first mages even. But he could already imagine the barrage of "Don't eat it!" commands coming from the rest of the team.

Which… okay fair.

A set of paintings decorated the walls of the man's office. Reaching under the desk, Mr. Galloway pulled up a locked briefcase. After a few clicks on the combination, the case opened to reveal several thick stacks of paper bills. "It should all be here. One hundred fifty thousand jewels. If you'd like to count to double check, help yourself."

Ever the responsible one, Droy skimmed through the stacks of money while Jet and Levy asked about the paintings. Apparently they were made by the man's husband, Dimitri, who the team had met briefly their first day on the job.

A sound began to approach from down the hallway. Gajeel's ears perked up, turning their head towards the doorway to listen. A set of padded footfalls, too many to be coming from a bipedal creature. A soft rhythmic rap of blunt claws against hardwood. Their nose caught the scent of fur and dirt. And soon a large brown dog nudged open the door.

"Oh, who's th-?"

The words turned to ash on Gajeel's tongue. Crumbling to dust like a parched plant in a desert. Clinging to the roof of his mouth and the walls of his throat until it felt like he'd just swallowed sandpaper.

"Oh this darling here is Rosie," Mr. Galloway replied, petting the canine's head as it sat down beside him. "Please excuse the muzzle, she often gets a bit nippy with new people. But that's mostly out of excitement, I promise she's a sweetheart."

Most of those words did not reach Gajeel. When Levy began to speak, nothing she said registered either. All eaten by the static growing louder in the back of his mind. Static bursting its way to the front until it overtook each one of his senses.

The world continued without him.

Where were they? The room was too small. Vision tunneling, eyes refusing to remove their gaze from the dog sitting a few feet away. Miles away. Too far. Right in front of them. Straps of leather around its face. Their face. Not a dog, a boy. A boy bound on his knees, familiar red eyes vacant. Empty. Devoid of any semblance of hope. Did they look that that too? Was the ice gripping their blood real? The ice digging into their ribcage clawing at their lungs? Was the pounding ache in their chest their organs being crushed or just their racing heart? It was too hot. Beads of sweat dripped down their back. It was too cold. A tremor crawling up their spine. They couldn't breathe. Dust and sand filled their throat. Burned cotton. Leather straps and chains constricting. Burrowing into skin. Melding into the flesh of their neck. Their face.

The dog, the boy, did not stop staring. Into them. Into nothing. They did not stop staring. Into themself. Frozen in place, in time.

You'll never escape.

The dog spoke. The dark static spoke. Words picked themselves out of the maelstrom of the hysteria. They sounded too much like Jose.

That thing wrapped around his face. His throat. Too tight. Echoes of several memories taking shape. A vice on his jaws. Voice stolen. Breath stolen. A scent of lavender in his nose.

…Huh? Lavender?

"Gajeel!"

The sound of his name jolted him from the cacophony. Broke through the static and the rest of the world flooded back in. Colors popped then blurred together as his vision swam. A short gasp too shallow for how long he'd been holding his breath without realizing.

"Easy now, just breath. You alright?"

Twin purple flowers sat under Gajeel's nose, accompanied by several other colorful blossoms entwined around Droy's outstretched arm. A calloused but warm hand stopping just short of contact, waiting for permission. The sweet aroma pungent, cutting through the haze to guide them back to reality. Taking the plant mage's hand, they buried themself into the fragrance. Filling lungs with flora. The mixing scents were strong, a welcomed obtrusion. A steadying root.

The room stood empty save for the two of them. They unclenched their jaw. The dog was gone. The others' voices filtered in from a different room. They pried their claws from where they'd dug into their biceps.

Wait. Droy asked them a question.

They should answer. Tell him they're fine. They are fine. None of that was real. Their lips formed the movement of words but the sound remained stuck deep in their throat. They tried again. Their body refused to listen.

Why couldn't he talk? He was fine now. The muzzle wasn't on him. The feeling had been a phantom. A memory. Not real. There was nothing wrapping a suffocating grip around his neck or mouth. Nothing that would prevent the passage of air. So why couldn't he fucking speak? Why did this always happen when this shit came up?

The frustration must've shown on his face for Droy cut in. "Levy's trying to barter for special access to the museum for the future, no surprise. I was planning on waiting outside to get some fresh air. Wanna join me?"