All My White Lies | bnha

seven | the comet

KIOSHI ONLY GOT WORSE. It was like his body was withering away. I swore that if I stared for too long I could see the outline of the reaper, its scythe reserved to its side as it lingered. Death doesn't hurry; it's patient, cunning. A thief of lives and of unused time, like the ultimate robbery.

Because you can't steal those things back.

Kioshi was simply another victim of that. He knew he was getting worse, his skin paler, eyes sunken, head pushed more against his pillow than raised to see the TV. He didn't draw as much anymore, it hurt too much to even peer at the layers of paper. Now, he just mindlessly dragged his crayon against the surface.

He tried drawing things from memory: turtle-ducks from Avatar, a warpy star meant to be Patrick, a bird that he saw out the hospital window that day. Everything that he saw in hopes that I would create it. Instead of shredding reality, he seemed deadset on creating his own.

The paper was harder to scrawl on now and he seemed rather content on drawing on my arm instead. I didn't question what he created, especially when it still looked better than what I typically drew. "They haven't found anyone yet," I heard my mother croak, her voice buried within the wrinkles of my father's shirt.

"Should we. . . "

I didn't bother to hear the rest of his question, raising my arms to plug Kioshi's ears. He smiled at the warmth against his head, looking at me and teasingly sticking his tongue out in response. "We can't. I don't want to," Mom broke, her words cracking like cliffs with ravines of sobs in between.

I knew Dad was threatening to do the same, but he kept it together. For me, for her, for Kioshi. For us. Maybe if he had let it out then he wouldn't be as much of a robot as he was now. "The doctor said it would be easier. If it's not this, it'll be something else. His immune system is already weak. Soon enough, we won't be able to visit him."

I knew that was true; it was the hard part of all of this. I feared that if I didn't stay close enough, the reaper would take him away and we'd never be there to say goodbye. That maybe the heart monitor would officially flatline, spikes unmoving just like the muscles in his body.

For a moment, he fell limp against my touch and my first thought was that he was dead. The brain has a weird phenomena of jumping to your worst fear the second your heart drops. You fear the most of what you think about the most. And I was always scared this day would come.

Kioshi looked over at me, gray eyes hollow against my own e/c ones. He raised his hand, squeezing it against my own that were pressed to his ears. I didn't want him to hear anything; I didn't want him to create to escape reality nor did I want him to destroy it.

It was better to ignore it.

It was always better to ignore it.

He peered at me and then at my arm, eyes aligned with a spot that he hadn't covered yet. There were curls of ink everywhere, all up the length of my right arm as if someone had taken a stencil and refused to lift it up. "Go ahead, my skin is your canvas," I joked, only to realize he probably didn't know what the latter was.

Kioshi seemed to get my message anyway. He squinted at the space between my shoulder and my bicep, recognizing cracks and crevices that weren't there previously. He poked at it and then at me, scrunching his nose judgmentally. Although his world was silent to him right now, I don't know why he kept his lips pursed.

Maybe it was one of those kid games; that if you didn't hear anything you were supposed to be quiet. I suppose in this silence I could finally break, my face pushing past the wires that hung in front of his, my lips pressing against the warmth of his forehead. I could feel him shift, his eyes looking up to me with pure confusion.

However, I didn't move. I didn't want to. My shoulders shuddered momentarily and I felt him tap my arm, scolding me for not staying still. That was the reality he lived in; the one where all that mattered was the space for art that was marked on my arm. The reality where he didn't hear his parents crying behind the curtain or feel me sob against his skin.

And I'd do anything to keep that reality. I'd create for him, as much as he wanted. "I'm done," Kioshi mumbled, words squished just as much as his face from the way my hands held him in place. I peeled my hands away from his ears, drifting back like a ghost. "You told me to show you. When I drew something,"

His gray eyes flitted over to me, eyeing my expression and my lips. "Are you crying?"

I smiled, poking his forehead. "Yeah, what you drew looks so beautiful."

I didn't know if he could tell if I was teasing, but he broke into a gummy grin anyway. He reached his chubby hands across my face, his pen flicking against my cheek as he wiped away my tears. And for a second, I found it selfish, that maybe if he could wipe away my love for him I wouldn't be mourning so much.

In that moment, I wasn't lying. It was stupid, wonky, kid-looking, but it was his art. It was his masterpiece and I'd admire it as such. A stickman with a tiny little cape attached that looked more like an extra rectangular-limb than a cape. He had a bright smile on his face, arms resting on his hips in a heroic pose.

I didn't have to ask him to know that it was inspired by All Might. However, what was different was the hair. The locks of hair that resembled my hair texture, swishing in front of my forehead and framing my face in order to hug against the ears that he had shaped with two simple curves.

"This isn't All Might," I breathed.

"You," He smiled gummily again. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah, buddy, I love it," I couldn't stop the tears now. And he seemed to understand that, lifting his hands to slap against my damp cheeks in an attempt to get rid of my tears. "No time for sad news," Kioshi countered, tapping my forehead next. It was more of a smack considering he was using his whole hand.

"Why me?"

"You're my hero," Kioshi spoke shyly. "After the bone mare-no,"

"Marrow,"

"That's what I said!"

"Yeah, that's what you said," I ruffled his hair.

I fought the urge to say "buddy" again, that somehow it would unbrutalize the idea of death. "You'll do it?" He questioned. I don't know why he asked that, especially after I had promised to trace over anything he draws. "Always, anything you draw I'll trace," I swore, grabbing one of his hands and encasing it in my own.

I gently squeezed it. "No, be it," My brows furrowed in confusion and I looked at him, eyes flitting to his slowly closing gray ones. For a second, I wanted to tell my parents, maybe scream and say that their youngest son is dying in here. But the way he held onto me told me he wanted it to be us.

In this room, all he wanted was the creator, the destroyer, and the reaper.

This was his reality.

And I'd do anything to make it happen.

So I held on. I kept my fingers around his hand just as I wished to hold his soul. "Be what?"

"Hero,"

His breathing grew fainter and fainter. I kept my fingers with his, feeling that if I let go for a second he'd float away without me. He hummed, squeezing my hand once to catch my attention. My sight was blurred with tears but I kept it together, choking on my own breath. "Promise?"

His words were soft, fragile. Yet it took all of me not to break them. To reject his offer and beg him to stay, to make him promise to live just a little longer. But I knew it was selfish; as his older brother, it was too much of me to ask him to stay. "Yeah, always. I always promise, buddy."

The word slipped out again and he didn't correct me this time, my shaking turning into hiccups as my shoulders flowed forward with each cry. And when the line went flat, the curtains drifted to the side, my parents peering into the sight of me clinging onto a corpse in a hospital bed.

The reaper had finally taken his soul away.

And I could only hope it was the gentlest robbery of them all.