For anon who requested: "Eren is an artist and Rivaille can't help but find his paintings kind of amazing."
When Eren first meets Rivaille, it is not a mutual interaction. Eren meets a man sitting on a bench with a cigarette drawn out on his lip like a tattoo. All Rivaille meets is a small kid aiming a camera up at him, biting his lip in concentration. Rivaille slants a look to the sign that clearly deigns the immediate surroundings a smoking area, looks back at the kid. Eren's holding the camera in his hands now, eyes wide as he appraises Rivaille.
"Where are your parents?" Rivaille asks, annoyance coloring his tone. He straightens, waves away all the smoke that has collected, stabs the cigarette in the nearby ash bin. Eren doesn't answer, lips pursed. The man doesn't particularly care, moving to leave when Eren speaks up.
"You're supposed to take pictures of things that are going away," Eren explains gently, "because that's what happens when you don't say no to drugs."
Rivaille pauses, contemplates if he should tell the idiot that he didn't actually take a picture (he was pointing the thing the wrong way), but dismisses the thought. He has more important things to do.
When Eren first meets Rivaille, it is not a mutual interaction. Rivaille meets another unimportant figure in his ledger, another insignificant shade (it's like he never saw him at all). Eren meets the first thing he's ever attempted to capture. Later, when the boy realizes he took a rather unattractive picture of his own nose, he pores over a piece of paper, tries to sketch the man from memory.
It's nothing like his memory promises, but Eren tucks the sketch into an old dusty book that no one reads and swears when he gets better he'll come back and bring the stranger back to life, color and all.
When Rivaille first meets Eren, his hands have nothing to do. That familiar indent where he tucks the cigarette is empty, and the man exhales carefully. Sitting in the bench across from him is a teenaged boy who keeps peeking over at Rivaille before returning his attention to the canvas placed in front of him. He's been doing it for exactly three hours and fifty four minutes. Rivaille knows, he's been keeping track since he noticed.
Every time Rivaille leaves for something, the boy is still sitting there, hands streaking across the board. It's getting late now though, sun dimming and drawing shadows everywhere.
Rivaille stands up and ambles across to stand beside the canvas. The boy barely notices, simply grunts for him to move aside, please, you're messing up the light.
"Excuse me," Rivaille coughs loudly, not polite at all, and the boy starts. The boy leans back and Rivaille seats himself beside him, arm draping over the back of the bench. The boy mutters his apologies, sets his pastels down.
"No," Rivaille says. The brush of colors on the canvas actually resembles something (that's only putting it lightly). And he can see himself, though he can't help but think the boy is romanticizing him with his choice of colors; the way he draws Rivaille looking to the side at the ground, face creased in a slight glower. There was a crushed cigarette butt on the ground, Rivaille remembers, and he was annoyed because the fucking ash bin was right there, there was no need to sully the ground with it.
"How much?" Rivaille continues, extracting his wallet from his pocket.
When Rivaille first meets Eren, he can't help but find his paintings kind of amazing.
"It's not for sale," the boy says, and Rivaille pauses, fingers still on his wallet. He's never been particularly interested in paintings, art, or any variation of the kind, so he can't say with certainty that it's not normal to paint a person without permission and not even offer it for sale.
"What's your name?" Rivaille asks, doesn't put away his wallet.
"Eren," the boy says, stretching out his fingers. "It's not finished, but when it is, I'll give it to you for free. If you want it."
Rivaille eyes the painting, pockets his wallet. "Rivaille."
Eren nods thoughtfully, observes, "You've stopped smoking." Rivaille stares at him with narrowed eyes and the boy wiggles his fingers.
"Your nails," Eren elaborates. Rivaille doesn't look down at his nails, he knows what they look like. They've lost their unhealthy yellow sheen that accompanies smokers but he checks them regularly anyways.
"I come here a lot, since I was a kid," Eren says, "I see you a lot."
"Really," Rivaille drawls, because he's never noticed the boy. Eren nods, straightens to start packing up. Rivaille stares at him for a while before silently offering his help. Eren allows it, shooting him a small grateful look.
It is not so hard to notice the boy after that, and the time after that, and the time after that.
Unfortunately, the same goes for everyone else. Except they've always noticed him, the boy who's too stubborn and self-righteous, more than his strength calls for. It's late at night, and there's no reason for Eren to be out but there he is, face grim as he recognizes the small group huddling in the alley. There's only two of them, perusing a wallet that's definitely not theirs.
Eren spots the wounded person on the ground, and where he might have turned around now, he steps in. But two's company and three's a crowd, and the pair of delinquents tell him to get lost. Eren throws the first punch.
He doesn't throw the last. He doesn't care about winning, not really. The victim has already run off. Eren lies on his stomach, one arm cradling his abdomen.
"Y'know, you've got some dainty hands, kid," one of them jeers, "could barely feel anything at all. Like a little fly swatting at me, get it." Stomps on Eren's right hand harshly, enough to crack. Eren chokes, eyes wide. The other guy is displeased, murmurs something about just wanting Eren's money and teaching him a lesson.
The world dulls; the pain dulls, the sounds dulls, everything is like nothing at all. My hand.
I can't paint like this. The world sharpens painfully again; the sounds are too loud, the sights stinging his eyes, and all the terror and fear and feelings course through his veins, shakes him. I can't paint anymore- and where it was a shocked resignation, it is now a statement full of hate and anger and things that burn Eren. When they turn him around after he's been too silent, he doesn't register himself kicking their faces in, straightening with a crackling indignant fury and he just wants that familiar weight of a pastel in his hand, but he'll settle for their throats because it's not that much of a difference when you reflect on it and he's sure they won't mind and really it'll be the most beautiful thing because, I can't paint anymore.
Rivaille comes across the boy when he's heading home from work, frowns at his wrecked state. He looks drunk.
"Eren," Rivaille says, and the boy looks up from where he had his head bowed, one eyes closed from the blood streaking down his face. It's starting to dry, and the man scowls, kneels. "The hell happened."
Eren's one eye takes a while to register that Rivaille's right in front of him, but he only chuckles, holds up his broken hand. "I don't think I'll ever finish the picture now. I'm sorry." Rivaille mutters something about him being delirious as he quickly rips off a piece of Eren's shirt to wrap around the hand. The man notices all the other injuries, curses and calls for an ambulance.
"Sorry," Eren repeats, and Rivaille snaps at him to be quiet. "Sorry," Eren chants, but he's not talking to Rivaille.
The first coherent clear thought Eren has is days later, when he wakes up in his bedroom. It's too clean and organized. And empty. Eren doesn't know what he was expecting, twitches as he recognizes the feel of something tight wrapped around his right hand. He brings it up to stare at the thick bandages.
"Here's some soup," Rivaille says, walking into the bedroom with a bowl in hand. Eren takes the bowl gingerly. His right hand is awkward in holding the spoon, but Eren refuses to ask for help and Rivaille doesn't offer any. It tastes like shit, but he doesn't have the guts to tell the man that, only sips.
"It'll heal," Rivaille comments, sits down on the bed. "Your hand. But you can't strain it." Eren says nothing, making a show of slurping up the awful soup. "Stop being obnoxious." Eren stops, sets the bowl down carefully.
"It won't be the same," Eren says. Rivaille doesn't pretend, only shrugs, "Then do it differently." An awful silence.
"I saw the room with all the paintings," Rivaille speaks up, "you can make a living off of those."
Eren scoffs and lies, "I don't care about those." Hesitates. "There's a book under the bed." Rivaille blinks, mulls over the statement, before reaching in the drawer beside Eren where all the trash has been harmoniously dumped. Hands Eren the book.
"Thanks," Eren says drily, plucks out the wrinkled paper inside and gives it to Rivaille. The paper has been through years of erasing and mistakes but no more. Rivaille stares at the man with a dead cigarette drawn out on his lip like a tattoo, says nothing.
"I can't finish it now," Eren frowns up at the ceiling, "but it's all I've ever wanted to do."
"I'll do it," Rivaille says grimly, like a death sentence, "all it needs is color." Eren, despite the good intentions, is immensely disturbed by the idea. Because it needs just more than color, it needs life, that's the whole point (also, Rivaille doesn't have the hands). Rivaille sees his disgruntled look and tells Eren not to make it sound like he's dying next time. Eren chuckles, making sure not to laugh too hard or his ribs hurt, and stops abruptly, eyes wide.
He stares at Rivaille with his dark eyes and sullen expression. The man notices as soon as Eren sits up painfully, grabs his shoulder for balance. Rivaille turns to Eren to help when the boy leans forward and presses his lips against his clumsily. And there is all sorts of wrongs to this (too young, too inexperienced, doesn't know what he's doing, just searching for some sort of wrong comfort, doesn't realize what he's doing, what is he trying to do with his tongue, really) but the man returns the attention, hand snaking up to Eren's hair. And touches the sensitive bump there, causing Eren to bite down as a knee jerk reaction.
"You little shit," Rivaille mutters, lip now bleeding, forces Eren's face away.
When Eren first met Rivaille, he met the first thing he ever attempted to capture. The boy leans back, groaning in pain, and the man sighs, forcing him back down on the bed to rest. Rivaile's fingers brush against his sides too long, and there's a new intimate feeling to his palm on his forehead.
"Get some rest, idiot," Rivaille says, almost affectionately, drops his hand. Eren thinks there must be a smile on his face as he closes his eyes, and realizes, I already have.
The picture is left unfinished, but upon further reflection, it's never been more complete.