Haruka Nanase was talented.

Everyone knew this and no one dared to deny it. It would be pointless to deny his skill when a person was face to face with the proof.

At only the age 17, he became well known around his community for his works of art. To Haruka, his pieces were only a mean of expression. To everyone else, they were the most awe striking thing they have ever seen a young man do.

He supposed it all started when he was only a pre-teen. He was left alone in his house and had nothing better else to do. Since his parents were letting him explore his potential, they had bought him a series of art supplies to see if that was where he was heading. Figuring he should probably begin using them, Haruka flipped open his brand new sketchbook and grabbed one of his mechanical pencils to begin drawing.

At first, he was stuck. He didn't know what to draw. He didn't even know if he could draw. Haruka looked around his room and tried to see if maybe he could start off with… what was it called… still life? But as soon as his eyes began to wander, they placed upon a kitten that was resting on his windowsill. How she got there? He didn't know. But he also didn't seem to mind as he turned his body to face her and his hand dropped down to the page.

The rest of the afternoon was spent working on sketching the scene before him. He switched between various pencils, inking pens, and paint markers to make sure what he saw would seem like a photograph on the paper.

Hours passed by and the sun soon began to set. By that time, Haruka was already touching up the finer details of things such as the fur and the eyes of the cat. He wanted the eyes, especially, to pop out and capture the attention of whoever was looking at it. From his place in his room, he could hear the door open downstairs and the sound of muffled talking. Haruka didn't dare to look away as he used a white paint marker for dotting and lined features.

"Haruka?" His mother called for him.

In return, he gave her no response.

"Haruka?"

The voice was closer now. A few seconds later and the sound of footsteps followed by the door opening was acknowledged by Haruka's ears. He hummed softly and placed his marker back in the set. He reached for a pen and signed the bottom. Because that's what artists do, right? They sign their work in any way they want to. He figured his name written in crooked script would be good enough.

When he looked up, the cat was gone and his mother was looking over his shoulder.

"Did you draw that?" She asked, her eyes slightly widened with impression.

Haruka hesitated, but nodded not long after.

That was the first step toward his future reputation.

He was the boy who made paintings come to life.

Growing up in Iwatobi was supposed to be simple for him, though. He was supposed to be normal throughout his life. But maybe his grandmother was right when she warned him about what was expected from young ages. He just never thought he would become one of those children that lived to fulfill said expectations.

The years went on and Haruka only improved. His art became more realistic with every new year and, after a while, people were convinced that his artwork was more realistic than life itself. He had to take a second to himself not to laugh the first time he heard someone say that.

But in the midst of his praise, his selling of his works, and people trying to hire him; he was bothered. He was bothered by a thought, an image, a person that would never leave his mind.

Every day, after long hours of just trying to get by, Haruka would return home to an empty house that was filled with blank canvases and new paints that he usually left scattered around. It was the same routine of stepping over small boxes and straying off to his bathroom to soak in the tub before eating and painting some more.

He thought that soaking in the tub would ease his thoughts, but that never seemed to do the trick. He also thought that painting a scene or a memory would get rid of the nagging feeling, but it only intensified. It was as though that little spark in his mind was trying to jump out. It was fighting its way through the labyrinth of thoughts, memories, and actions.

Maybe I shouldn't fight it? Maybe I should… embrace it.

Haruka's eyes snapped open and he pushed himself out of the tub. He grabbed his towel and dried himself off as he rushed upstairs to his room. Hastily, he pulled on his pajamas and plopped down in the seat placed in front of his favorite canvas stand. It was one his parents got him before they left for Tokyo.

The male searched around himself for his assortments of paints, brushes, and his pallet. Once everything was ready, he didn't hesitate to attack the white canvas.

He didn't have a specific picture in mind. He didn't have a single drop of inspiration in his veins. But his hands were working quicker than they ever had in his life. With every new stroke, the image - whatever it was - was slowly forming. He hesitated at some points to see what he was creating, but it still didn't make sense.

It was a room.

A shirt.

...A person.

Eyes widening with realization, Haruka leaned forward and focused more on creating careful strokes with his brush. Too much pressure and this beautiful portrait could look nothing more than test strokes for a new brush.

Minutes turned into hours and the base of the painting began its new layer of details. The only time Haruka got up was to open the curtains to allow the moonlight to illuminate his room. He wasted no time in sitting back down and continuing where he left off though.

Late evening rolled around and Haruka suddenly dropped his hand. He looked at the image before him but he still couldn't place what seemed wrong about it. Something was off and he felt his stomach turned as he looked carefully. Then it struck him. The eyes.

Haruka blinked a few extra times than needed before leaning over to reach for his small bag where he kept a couple of paint markers. As he fingered through the markers, he picked out the colors he needed and quickly began to work on the eyes. They needed a darker layer on top, white specks for a childlike glimmer, bright green for emphasis.

Not caring about what happened to the markers, he dropped them as soon as he covered them and leaned back to take a good look at the painting.

It was… Beautiful? Capturing?

Simply breath taking.

For once, Haruka was impressed by even his own work. It was probably one of the most realistic ones he created so far.

He yawned, squeezing his eyes shut. However, once the yawn ended he began to open them. What he saw earned a gasp from him and he froze.

The painting changed. The lighting, the position, even the details change to fit with the new pose. Instead of standing in the middle of the room, simply smiling, the person inside the picture was now closer with his hand extended out to Haruka.

Haruka had to pinch himself to make sure he was still awake. Hissing from pain, he shook his head and looked at the painting again. Once more, the contents of it changed. The person was now holding a pen as he smiled softly.

This was all so very strange to Haruka, but it didn't freak him out as much as he thought it would. Haruka tilted his head and looked around the floor for a pen. After finding one, he looked to the painting and the male was now pointing to the corner. ...Did he want him to sign it?

Furrowing his eyebrows in confusion as he tried to figure this out, he made a small shrugging motion and signed the bottom. After signing it, the image returned to its normal state.

"That was odd. I'm probably just tired." He mumbled to himself. Haruka placed the pen down in the small holder and stretched. The second he was about to stand up, the canvas began to glow. He tensed up and found that he couldn't look away from the soft light.

A black spot began to disrupt the light, though. This caused Haruka to scoot his chair back. The spot began to grow and soon the color began to change. It looked tan. A bulge began to form and what broke through was a hand. A hand soon became an arm, two arms, and everything else followed as though the canvas was giving birth to a new life.

"Thank you."

Haruka heard the words as soon as they were spoken and the voice it was laced in was as gentle as a summer breeze. He looked from the bottom of the canvas to the top and saw his painting was… coming to life! Never did he think his silly reputation would have become truth in his life.

Any normal person would have been terrified of what he was looking at. A being coming from mere paper, wood, and paints? But as Haruka was told throughout his many years, he was not normal.

The being wrapped its arms around Haruka as the rest of his body slipped from the canvas; it was a way of showing its appreciation, a way of greeting his creator.

This was what was trapped in his mind. For years, the thing that was nagging him to be released. It didn't want to be released onto paper. It wanted to be released to the world. This… person, if it could be considered one, wanted to loved the man who created him. And Haruka, being the man that loved what he created, accepted him.

"Makoto." He mumbled as he remembered his mother's words of wisdom.

'Always name your art. It makes them a little more special.'

"Your name is Makoto."

Inspired by: [remove spaces please] www. carryon-mywayward-daughter. tumblr post/91216047208/makoto-means-the-world-for-haruka-but-he-doesnt