I remember the first time Eren found me, battered and bloody in the corner of the courtyard. He was still wearing his festival clothes from the day before, the royal purple draped across his body, even his little golden crown still tangled in the unruly tresses of his light brown hair. I think I stammered his name, tried to get to my feet so I could bow, but he just forced me back onto the ground again, his hand warm against my bare chest.

"Those boys won't bother you anymore," he said, kneeling down in the dust and dirt to rip strips of cloth from his sleeves. "And if they do, come find me, I'll take care of it."

At the time, I wasn't sure what was more shocking: the fact that the prince of Jaeger Keep was talking to me, the fact that he had torn his ridiculously expensive clothing in the hopes of bandaging my cuts, or the fact that he had told off the bullies that had been harassing me for the last five months. Worse, I had no idea how to even begin expressing my gratitude, how to do more than just stare into his brilliant green eyes and watch his long, careful fingers as they brushed against my skin to clean up the blood welling beneath his hands.

So I did what perhaps any thankful person would do; I leaned forward and kissed him.

It was both of our firsts, and it was clumsy, but Eren was kind and willing against my lips, his smile so bright I could see it with my eyes closed. I don't know how it started, but suddenly we were both laughing, the two sounds mixing together with the ease of old friends, our hands finding each other's like we were never meant to keep them apart. "Come back to the castle with me," Eren whispered, keeping our foreheads pressed together after we finally broke apart. "Show me how to sing, and read and write and dance, like you can. Show me how to be happy."

I must have agreed, I must have, because the next thing I knew Eren was helping me to my feet, holding my hand and walking me back to his room. I slept for the first time in years in a warm bed, with soft sheets and a fluffy pillow, the rhythmic breathing of someone beside me creating a level of comfort I had never known.

Dare I believe it, even for a moment, but for the first in my life I felt like I was home.

/

I remember the second time Eren found me, battered and bloody in the corner of the courtyard, but unlike the first time, which had been sweet and compassionate and hopeful, this time it was to tell me that he was dying. The problem was, I already knew that, and the reason my hands were full of blood was because I had been trying to claw through his door to see him, the bruises on my ribs from heartless doctors kicking me out of their way. I was only nine years old-I refused to lose my best friend without at least saying goodbye.

"How did you get out?" I asked him, reaching up to steady him as he swayed precariously in place. "And you really shouldn't have, you look like-"

"I don't care what I look like," he replied, nudging my hands aside. "They wouldn't let me see you, even though they know you can't catch what I have. So what does it matter if I sneak out?"

There was still mischief in his eyes, despite everything, even the pain I saw in the grimace he tried to suppress and the headache he was failing poorly to hide. He wasn't afraid, the Eren I knew would never be afraid, but he was hurting, and that broke my heart.

"Tell me what I can do," I whispered to him, curling my thin arms around his chest, feeling his bones through his jacket because of all the weight he'd lost. I held him closer, feeling the beat of his heart against mine, the thrum of his lungs as he inhaled and exhaled in time with me. "I want to help you. I'll do anything, just ask."

Before he could answer, he started coughing. The effort made his body tremble, but he didn't push me away, even when he moved the back of his hand from his mouth and saw it was covered in red splotches.

"I think I'm dying," he said to me, sounding sad.

"You're too young to die," I said back to him, even though I knew hundreds of people younger than him had already died from this illness, hundreds older, hundreds more. "And you're too strong. You'll be okay."

But we were only children, and we knew nothing of the world and the power of death. All we knew was fear, and as I held Eren's hand, felt the cool touch of his skin, shared the shiver that slipped up his spine and made his face run pale, I knew something else. I knew, no matter what, that I was going to save him.

/

I remember the third time Eren found me, battered and bloody in the corner of the courtyard, but this time there was no explanation for either, just anger and sadness and frustration and bitterness. "Where have you been?" He wanted to know, the fire back in his eyes, the strength back in his step. "I almost died and you've been gone for three weeks?"

"Eren," I said, careful and gentle, like his fingers had once been when we were children and he was bandaging my cuts with his shirt. "You just don't remember. I've been with you every day of every week of every month of every year for four years. I've sat by your bed, held your hand, stroked your hair, I even sang. Why don't you remember?"

I should be exhausted-this is not the first time we've had this argument-but already I see the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the rage in his body bleeding out of him through his feet; the sickness has taken a toll on all of us, but him most of all. With a sigh he dropped down beside him, shoving his head between his knees. From the flush of red creeping up his neck, he felt humiliated.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I'm trying. But it's like everything in my head is coated with mist. Sometimes I look at Mikasa and don't even know her name."

"She's only been your sister for six months," I reminded him, patting his knee while trying to keep my voice light. "Even I haven't gotten used to her yet."

Eren looked up and smiled, still sheepish, but beyond that youthful charm I can see how much this was killing him, maybe even more so than the sickness ever had. The fact that his father was so sure he was going to die, the fact that his father had adopted another heir, it stung a very deep part of him that he never imagined could ever be reached; now, with it out in the open, he discovered it raw and vulnerable, aching with a pain he could do nothing about.

Finally, even though the haze was starting to build up again behind his eyes, he had just enough sense left to ask me why I was bleeding, why I was nursing a broken wrist and a cut lip. I gave him an answer that wasn't even near half true, but he accepted it because he trusted me and because soon he was going to forget he saw me today, or yesterday, or the day before, and in the morning I'll be clean and bandaged and he'll be none the wiser.

I tell him the lie because it's easier, because I'm thirteen and the sacrifice that I made to save his life was stupid and dangerous and absolutely insane. Still, knowing that I can still hold his hand, still press my lips to his and breathe in the smell of him, the taste of him, that I can still read him stories that make him laugh, tell him jokes that make his sides hurt, and see him smile even when he doesn't mean it, that makes what I did completely worth it. To get even one more day of him and me and us and this, that was worth more than anything.

Wasn't it?