As the night deepened, Izaku finally decided he couldn't lay in bed any longer. His mind was still racing with too many questions, too many lingering uncertainties from the evening. He shifted the blanket off, stood quietly, and padded toward the door. Outside his window, the moonlight spilled into the hallway, giving him just enough light to see as he moved silently through the house.
He could still feel the comforting hum of his mother and brother settling into their respective rooms, their presences flickering in his senses like gentle flames. But it was his father's steady presence that called to him, still outside in the garden, bathed in moonlight. Izaku knew his dad often found solace in the garden late at night, but tonight felt different—more purposeful.
There was something they both needed to confront, even if neither of them had said it aloud.
Slipping into his sandals, Izaku made his way to the back of the house, toward the garden. As he stepped outside, the cool night air greeted him, a soft breeze rustling the leaves. His father, Takahisa, stood in the garden, looking up at the moon, his posture calm but his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Izaku's steps were quiet, but even before he reached his father, Takahisa spoke, his voice steady and knowing.
"Was waiting for you. What took you so long?"
Izaku froze for a second, caught off guard. His father had known he was coming. More than that—he'd sensed him. A small smile tugged at the corners of Izaku's mouth as he walked closer. "Yeah, forgot you had it too," he mused, referring to their shared sensing ability. It had always been a quiet link between them, a part of their shinobi skills passed down through the family.
Takahisa turned to face his son, his expression softening into a gentle smile. The moonlight illuminated his features, making the lines of his face appear more pronounced. He looked older in moments like these—wiser, quieter. "Come on," he said, motioning for Izaku to sit beside him on the low stone bench that bordered the garden. "I owe you some answers."
Izaku took a seat, his mind buzzing with everything he wanted to ask, but he waited, letting the silence settle between them for a moment. His father didn't speak right away, taking his time to gather his thoughts as he gazed out at the moon. After a long pause, Takahisa finally broke the silence.
"Your brother's return... it wasn't something we could predict. We didn't keep it from you because we didn't trust you, Izaku. We kept it because... we didn't know if he was ever coming back. And it hurt. Every day." His voice was calm, but Izaku could hear the weight of the years in it.
Izaku listened quietly, absorbing the words. It made sense in a way. Growing up, he'd always felt there was something unspoken in their family, but he'd never known what it was. Now he understood why.
"Why now?" Izaku asked, his voice softer than he intended. "Why did he come back now?"
Takahisa sighed, running a hand through his hair, his face creased with thought. "That's the part I don't fully understand yet. Your brother, Izuku... there are things he's still not telling us. Things that happened while he was gone. I think he's still figuring it out himself."
The response didn't exactly satisfy Izaku's curiosity, but it was something. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story—more about why his brother had disappeared in the first place, and what had led to his sudden return. But for now, he knew that pushing too hard wouldn't help. His father had given him what he could.
"I always wanted a brother," Izaku admitted, his voice almost a whisper. "It's just... strange, having him here after so long. Like I missed out on something."
Takahisa smiled softly, his hand coming to rest on Izaku's shoulder. "You didn't miss out on anything, Izaku. You have your whole lives ahead of you to get to know each other. What matters is that he's here now. Family isn't always about how much time you've spent together—it's about what you make of the time you have."
Izaku lay still in the garden, watching the gentle sway of leaves above him. The cool night air wrapped around his skin, but his thoughts were a storm. His father's presence beside him, normally comforting, did little to settle the unease twisting inside his chest.
He glanced up at the moon, its glow serene and soft, but it did nothing to lighten the weight of his own question. The one that had been growing heavier and heavier since the evening's reunion. He had to ask it, even though part of him wasn't sure he wanted the answer.
"Why?" Izaku muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, though the single word was loaded with all the confusion, anger, and sadness he'd been trying to hold back. His father would understand what he meant—he always did.
Takahisa didn't speak right away. He lowered his head, sighing deeply before lifting his gaze again to the moon. It seemed to help him gather his thoughts, find the words that wouldn't cause more pain than necessary.
"You know," Takahisa began slowly, his voice low and somber, "not every shinobi... not every member of our clan... has the potential to be recruited into the intelligence division." His tone was measured, and Izaku could sense the gravity of what was coming.
Izaku nodded almost instinctively. He'd heard this before—vague whispers about the family's deep ties to covert operations, to a world few understood or even knew about. He had always known that certain members of the clan were scouted for their unique abilities, their skills in information gathering and espionage. But his father had never spoken of it in such personal terms. And nothing could have prepared him for what came next.
Takahisa's eyes darkened, a shadow passing over his face as he continued, "Your brother... Izuku... had potential like no other. More than anyone in our family had seen in a long time. The clan—and the CSA—they couldn't afford to let him lead a normal life. Six years ago, they came for him. They recruited him."
Izaku's breath caught in his throat. Six years ago? His mind quickly did the math, his chest tightening as the realization hit him like a punch to the gut. Izuku had been just a child—barely eight years old when they had taken him. His stomach churned as a cold wave of disbelief washed over him.
"But... he was a child!" Izaku blurted out, his voice louder than he intended. His heart hammered against his ribcage as he turned to face his father, his eyes wide and pleading for some kind of explanation. "He was only eight years old! How could they—how could you—let them take him?!" His voice cracked, the raw emotion pouring out before he could stop it. He searched his father's face desperately, needing an answer that could somehow make sense of the horror that had been forced upon his brother.
Takahisa didn't flinch at the outburst, though his features softened, a deep sorrow settling into the lines of his face. He had expected this reaction. Perhaps he had even prepared for it. Yet it didn't make the moment any easier for him, and the guilt that had lived in his heart for years now showed clearly in his eyes.
"I know," Takahisa said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder would break something fragile between them. "He was just a boy. It didn't sit right with me then, and it still doesn't now." He shook his head, his expression grim, as if he were reliving the moment when he had lost his son to forces beyond his control. "But when they come for you... when the Council, the CSA... decide you are needed—there is nothing you can do to stop them. They saw something in Izuku that none of us could protect him from."
Izaku could barely breathe. The thought of his brother, a child, ripped away from their family for a purpose none of them had chosen—it was cruel. It was beyond cruel. He clenched his fists, the anger simmering, threatening to boil over. "Why didn't you fight harder?" His voice was quieter now, the fury giving way to something deeper, something more painful. "You're the head of this clan... you could've stopped them. You should have stopped them." It wasn't quite an accusation, more a desperate plea for some reason that would make the betrayal less sharp.
Takahisa's eyes flickered with something Izaku couldn't quite place—regret? Guilt? Or maybe just the weary acceptance of a world too harsh to fight against? He closed his eyes for a long moment, the moonlight casting deep shadows across his face, emphasizing the years of burden he had carried. When he opened them again, the weariness in his gaze was something Izaku had never seen before.
"I tried," Takahisa admitted, his voice barely steady, each word dragged from a deep well of pain. "I tried everything to keep him here." His breath trembled, the memories still fresh and raw, even after all this time. "But they made it clear, Izaku... there was no choice. Izuku had something they couldn't ignore—something we couldn't protect him from." He hesitated, his voice cracking under the weight of the truth. "They wanted retribution for the losses we suffered after that failed operation—the one that took too many lives. The clan was drowning in grief, and they saw Izuku's recruitment as the price we had to pay for those mistakes."
His words hit Izaku like a blow to the chest. His brother—taken to pay some twisted debt, to restore some notion of balance that Izaku couldn't even comprehend. His heart pounded as his throat tightened, the sheer unfairness of it suffocating. "So he was just... sacrificed? To them?" Izaku's voice trembled with disbelief, struggling to grasp the enormity of what his father was saying.
Takahisa exhaled heavily, the weight of his own guilt apparent in every word. "You know, sometimes as a leader... you have to make decisions that go against everything you believe in. Decisions to appease your people, your clan... even when it costs you your own son." His voice was barely audible, the pain evident in the way the words seemed to escape him unwillingly.
The raw admission left Izaku speechless, his mind reeling. How could a father, the head of their clan, justify such a choice? But before he could find the words to respond, Takahisa continued, the sorrow in his voice deepening.
"Even Izuku... he was eager." Takahisa's eyes clouded over, as if recalling a memory too painful to relive. "He wanted to become a spy. He was determined, even as a boy. So, I did what I could... I sent him to Konoha, one that would accept refugees—where orphans can still find a place. It wasn't ideal, but it was safer than the alternative."
Izaku's heart wrenched at the thought of his brother, just a child, sent to such a place. But his father's next words cut even deeper.
"And that's why I didn't train you, Izaku," Takahisa said, his eyes locking onto his son's, the regret clear in his gaze. "I couldn't risk losing you, too. I didn't want you to get involved, to become a target like he did. But I see now that I couldn't stop you from becoming what you're meant to be."
Izaku stood still, absorbing the weight of his father's confession. His father had kept him weak, sheltered him from the harsh reality of their world, all out of fear of losing him too. It was all starting to make sense—why he had never been pushed to train, why his potential had always been downplayed.
Izaku's hands unclenched, his anger fading into a cold acceptance. "I understand now." His voice was quieter, the raw edge of emotion dulled by exhaustion. "I'll keep my training secret for now... I think I should sleep. It's past my usual time."
"Thank you, Father. This conversation cleared a lot of things for me. Goodnight." He stood up, walking toward the house with measured steps. But just as he reached the door, his father's voice called out softly.
"No problem, luv'... and I think I can arrange for you to train with your brother." There was a heaviness to his tone, but also a subtle warmth. "Next week, you'll start some light exercises to help your body develop and contain chakra better in the future."
Izaku turned back, surprised but pleased to hear his father speaking about his training. Yet there was a lingering confusion in his mind. Why now? Why had his father suddenly changed his stance on training him?
"Father," Izaku started cautiously, "I'm still only two years old. Won't training too early limit my potential rather than help me grow? I mean... why start now?"
Takahisa paused for a moment, clearly weighing his response. But his answer came quicker than Izaku expected. "Well, for one, it'll give you a chance to connect with your brother. And his training methods are... unique. He started at the same age as you, nearly three years old, and it didn't hurt him."
Takahisa's expression grew more serious as he added, "But more than that... it'll prepare you for certain... situations we expect in the future." He hesitated, his voice growing softer. "Get some rest, Izaku. you'll start next week."
Izaku stood there for a moment longer, absorbing his father's words. There was more to the story, more to his father's decision, but now wasn't the time to push for answers. He gave a final nod before heading inside, his mind already racing ahead to the future, to the training, and to whatever awaited him and his brother.