All My White Lies | bnha

five | fallen soldiers

"THERE," I grinned at Kioshi. I raised his drawing in the air, hanging it over his head so he could see the small bird he drew. Even though he was eight, he was a much more talented artist than I was. He at least managed to make something out of broken crayons, dirtied erasers, and cracked fingerpaint.

He wasn't similar to the rowdy kids his age that paraded around the neighborhood with their quirks. Kioshi was a creator, chubby little hands full of motor skills waiting to be discovered as his childish brain simmered with all kinds of imaginative bits. Sometimes I wanted to have my brother's brain.

The boy giggled at me, "Make it fly, make it fly!"

Of course, as his big brother, I couldn't deny his request. I brought out my own piece of paper, weakly tracing over his bird and making a makeshift of my own. Just like any artist's rendition, mine looked like crap compared to his, but he seemed equally enthralled nonetheless.

The inky liquid left my palm, curving, and curling into a bird. It flapped its wings and chirped as it made its way toward Kioshi who only smiled in excitement. "Don't pet it too hard, remember last time," I arched a brow in amusement to which the kid only grinned cheekily in my direction.

I knew my warning would mean nothing from his perspective. As creative as he may be, he was still a kid, and with that came the entertainment of destruction. He patted it nicely at first but soon enough he tapped hard enough to make it pop. "Well, there goes the birdy," I chided, eyeing him with a playfully disappointing expression.

Kioshi simply beamed at me and I knew if he asked for more animals, I wouldn't hesitate to draw him more. Kioshi created just to create, to spell out letters and paint out creatures that could never exist in our lives. I created for him. "How're you feeling today?" I brushed his black locks back, smiling when he leaned into my touch.

He was doodling away again, finger-paint stained hands dragging shattered crayons across the paper. I knew he'd ask me to trace it again, but I didn't mind. It kept him together and made him smile in the darker moments. "Good," Kioshi popped, sticking his tongue out childishly and turning back to the paper in front of him.

He etched words that didn't make sense, kanji that was half-completed, and mushrooms that looked more like rocks. "Nothing hurts," The boy stumbled over his words the same way the crayons rolled out of his hands and onto the table. I grinned at him, ruffling his hair. "Good. Let it always be like that, yeah?"

It was easier to act like we could control it. To discuss it like we created things; so easy and so simple to destroy. The boy didn't understand, not fully, but he nodded alongside me anyway. I tugged him onto my lap, pulling my arms around him as he rambled about things that didn't make sense, stories his friends at daycare told him.

How there was a girl who hadn't seen his favorite episode of Spongebob, the day he helped a boy discover Legos for the first time, and the moments when he fabricated stories about being the best kid in class. I knew he was lying about the latter, but he liked creating. And as long as he was with me, I'd let him create as much as he wanted.

I was young, but I understood. Life was fragile; Kioshi was fragile. And sometimes I feared that if he wasn't in my arms, he'd fall apart before I knew it. It seemed my mom thought the same; I'd see her sneak out of his bedroom, eyes puffy or a light red. I don't know if she cried over him or the relief to see him breathing.

Things were always effervescent when it came to Kioshi. It was eternally touch-and-go. Create and destroy. Some days he'd create, his body would harness enough white blood cells to keep fighting, but then it'd falter. As if the frontline had fallen on its knees for one second and become overwhelmed.

The disease didn't have him; he had it. It was harder to tell the difference as the days passed by since leukemia did the same thing he did. Create and destroy. And one day the soldiers had given up. Their shields fallen, guns withdrawn, bodies thrown to the floor of his veins.

At the hospital, Kioshi was more wires than human. His body was limp underneath the cover and I could see my mom hold onto his arm, as if feeling the pulse in his wrist would convince her that he was capable of reviving. "He's in need of another bone marrow transplant," The curtains were pulled back, revealing the doctor.

Clipboard glued to his hands, he raised it every now and then, reading numbers and words that wouldn't make sense to my father, but he tried to peer over anyway. "Surely we can figure out something then, can't we?" Dad's voice faltered, shaking with the rhythm of the systematic beep of Kioshi's machine.

It kept him more alive than his heart did.

"We'll try our best,"

My parents shared a look. "Previously he had a transplant from your oldest son, correct? L/n Y/n?" The doctor questioned, eyes falling down to my stiff frame. I tried to seem strong for my brother as if the thought of needles and incisions didn't scare me. I meekly nodded under his gaze.

I don't remember much of that day, or that week really. My parents always told me that I was too young to remember. I was only four years old then, just shy of activating my quirk. Kioshi didn't remember either, but if you squinted, you could make out the little scars on the bottom of his back.

The doctor took my word for it, but my parents rushed to confirm too. My fingers wound around my arms, soldiers of my own veins that intended to keep my figure intact for my brother. "That'll work again, won't it? I remember last time the doctor said neither of us were a match," A nervous tone laced my mother's voice.

Her voice threatened to fall apart like a Jenga tower and I could tell from the way she shook that she wanted to hold my dad for comfort. But he looked about ready to fall apart too. "No, it won't," His lips thinned in disapproval, eyes sloping ever so slightly in disappointment.

"You see, your son's quirk," He paused, thinking over his words carefully. The doctor eyed my parents separately before continuing again. "Remember, quirks can cause genetic mutations whether that's physically, mentally, biologically. They'll do anything to survive and transform their host."

"Your son's bone marrow is no longer a match; the ink that's his blood. . . well, normal organs can't exactly pump ink, can they?"

The question hung in the air like the lamp that flickered above us. Too suspended to fall but fragile enough to shatter. "Because of his quirk. . . his bone marrow is no longer a match?" Mom stuttered. The doctor looked at me and then back at my parents, a sympathetic look in his eyes.

I'm not sure if he felt worse for me or them.

"Unfortunately, ma'am."

"Then. . . how long do we have to wait till we do get a donor?"

I swallowed hard, avoiding the gaze of my parents and turning my attention to the doctor. How much longer do I have to watch my brother die? The doctor managed to regain a sense of professionalism. "We are trying our best to find a match right now and I'll keep you updated, I assure you."

I reached for my brother's other hand, the one that my mother wasn't occupying as I entangled my fingers in his chubby ones. "We expect him to wake up soon, however," The doctor cleared his throat, briefly fighting to say something else only to turn around and head towards the door again.

My parents didn't say anything as he left. "He'll be fine," Dad's bold, knuckly hand wrapped around my shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. I couldn't bring myself to say anything, lips pursed at the thought of Kioshi's heart faltering. So, I focused more on the systematic beeps of the heartrate machine, watching the lines rise and fall.

After all, it was easier to shred reality than to face it.