They were always there when Levi closed his eyes to sleep; there in the darkness was a dream that followed him since he could remember. Often it was a nightmare, an ongoing horror of crimson blood and heat, suffering and hopelessness. But he soon realised that he lived for those rare nights when the nightmare did not come, when instead he saw a boy with eyes like the open sea in midsummer. He woke, convinced that he would find the same boy next door, in the street, in town when he went with Mother; he searched desperately for the boy after the first dream, returned home disappointed. But Mother had to know who he was, or Father.

He was six years old when, pale-faced, Father ordered him to never speak of the boy in his dreams again.

Levi wished that he could forget. He wished that the nightmares would end. He wished that the boy in his head would fade like infantile memories, though never with enough conviction. He met this boy once somehow, Levi was sure, and amidst the battle scenes he saw every night, that boy was the only thing that kept him sane.

If he could not talk about the boy, Levi thought, he would write. But it was so much more difficult than he had anticipated. The words would not form on paper, and he couldn't read his own childish scribbles. Then he would draw, he decided, draw the boy so that if the dream should ever disappear, he would always have those eyes.

It was with great excitement that he began that first portrait, and with great fury and shame that he destroyed it. Levi tried again many times and never succeeded. He kept his failures then, used them to force him to improve. Others wondered at his art at he grew, admired his landscapes once he learned to paint, begged him for portraits of their children. In the village he became known as the artist, so it was no surprise to anyone that when he left home, it was with the intention of pursuing his craft. Levi barely heard Father's protests, nor Mother's encouragement. He had stopped living in their world a long time ago.

Levi travelled to the city, lived there by scraping together money selling paintings he hated. Perhaps it was his new freedom or the fact that he became surrounded by other artists, but he became obsessed with the boy. Daily attempts in the mornings became entire desperate days spent hunched over sketchbooks, desperately trying to find the boy of his dreams in charcoal, in colours and paint. He forgot to sleep, forgot to eat and bathe and write letters to a family that worried, to the girl back home who still waited for him even though he had no idea why. Yet he still failed and became consumed by bitter anger. If he had had any time he would have turned to drink, but the thought of forgetting the boy pushed him away. If he lost something so precious through idiotic drunkenness, he would never be able to live with himself.

One day, finally sick of his own defeated misery, he wandered outside. He almost cursed the dream for turning him into something so pathetic. The sun was too bright that day, so painful that it almost forced him back inside, and although he didn't know why, he forced himself to endure it, to shade his eyes from the light and gaze up-

For the first time in weeks he saw the sky, a cold, pale blue that he had seen before a long time ago. He had been by the sea then, he remembered, by the sea with someone whose face had never left his memory-

He clutched his chest then, cried out and startled a neighbour, gasped as his heart ached. For a moment he could only stare at a sky as the tears began, only claw at his chest and wish he could tear out the heart underneath.

That day, the boy bled from his fingers, poured out of his dreams and into his hands. He painted like he never had before, found himself crying, laughing, singing as he worked. When the sun set and he couldn't bear to tear himself away long enough to light the lamp, he continued in the full moon's light until daylight returned.

And at the end of the third day he was found, collapsed before his masterwork.

He never named it, or at least he never told anyone that he did. So the world called it The Boy.

He continued to paint, but never quite in the same way. The Boy made him famous, although he resented it a little. It was never meant to be seen by anyone, and now the whole world thought they knew him. While it meant that Levi would never shave an unsold painting and Mother and Father would live in peace for the rest of their lives, he couldn't help wishing he had been able to hide the boy, for just a little longer.

He kept one secret at least, one he held until he was dying. There was someone at his bedside, weeping, and another trying not to. He didn't bother trying to remember who they were. They didn't matter, at least not until one asked;

"Who was he? That boy?"

Levi smiled.

"He is someone I held dear," he said, "many lifetimes ago."

There're very few classes that Eren pays attention in, and art is sometimes one of them as long as there aren't any presentations. There's a presentation today on art history. Eren is doodling, and Jean keeps nudging him and trying to send him notes under the desk. The room is too hot because the a/c is always broken, and he almost wishes that he was outside.

"...Eren."

As much as the bugs piss him off in the summer, he could use the breeze.

"Eren."

He scratches his face and squints at the little man drawn in the margin of the answer sheet he's supposed to be filling in as the Ms. Fenderson talks-

"Eren!"

He sighs heavily, turns to Jean with the hope that the kid will shut up once he gets some attention, and finds that the entire class is staring right at him.

His first thought is that the Ms. Fenderson's been calling him for at least a minute now without him realising, but the stares are wrong. There's humour in some, confusion in others, a little fear somewhere else. He feels so uncomfortable that he immediately wants to hide under the table just to get away from it all, but Jean elbows him in the ribs and hisses something about the projector.

Later, he tries to recall every feeling the way he did when he saw it. He can only describe it as a sick, sinking feeling, like finding out that someone he trusted has been talking shit behind his back. Someone's playing some sort of terrible joke, he's sure, and he almost laughs . It's a photo, something someone took that he can't remember, something someone had slid into the Fenderson's files when she wasn't looking. It's Jean, Eren thinks, Jean's finally crossed the line with this one.

But it's a painting. A painting of a boy in some outdated green shirt, one fist crossed over his chest, the other hand hidden behind his back. His face is set, chin raised triumphantly. But it's the eyes that make it, so painstakingly, lovingly perfected, the blue-green of land and sea. There is sadness in those eyes but also pride so strong that it's terrifying.

And he also looks exactly like Eren.

is the first to look away from Eren's face, the first to try and call the class back although she stumbles on her words. She pauses once, stares at the painting projected on the whiteboard. She cracks a lame joke about Eren's resemblance to the painting and although Eren doesn't laugh, the rest of the class forces themselves to and never looks back at him again.

Which was just as well, he thinks, because when he touches his face, he finds that he's crying.