Hiroshi turned back to the line in his hands, eyes narrowing against the sun. The knot was finished, neat and sure, but he didn't cast right away. Instead, he let his gaze drift to Aki — still perched on the rock, hair glinting where the light caught it, the breeze toying with the ends.
I just hope, he thought, he won't be crushed by the shinobi life. That he'll keep being… like this. The thought was a small knot of its own, tight and stubborn.
There were days Hiroshi wasn't sure if "son" fit, or "daughter," or anything in between. It was simpler to call him child and leave it there — a word that didn't pin him down, didn't box him in.
Aki leaned over the water again, chasing the reflection of the dragonfly with one fingertip. Hiroshi breathed in the smell of mint and damp stone, and cast his line into the current.
Hiroshi glanced over just in time to see Aki's head droop, his chin slipping forward, toes loosening above the water. The boy swayed once, twice — then gravity started its quiet work.
Hiroshi caught him by the collar before the river could. Aki barely stirred, only making a small, muffled sound before settling again. Hiroshi shook his head, a soft exhale escaping him, and hoisted the boy over his shoulder like a sack of rice. At four years old, Aki weighed almost nothing — all loose limbs and damp hair — the kind of lightness you carried without effort but felt all the same.
They left the river behind. The streets of Konoha were already busy, the morning sun painting everything in a clear, bright wash. Overhead, the Hokage Rock stood against the blue sky — steady, immovable, watching the village the way it always had.
The air was full of movement: a stern-looking Uchiha in patrol gear closing a hand on a fleeing thief, the grip so precise and efficient it was almost gentle; children tearing down the lane with dango skewers clutched triumphantly, their mother in quick pursuit, calling their names. The smell of the sweet dumplings curled through the air, warm and tempting, and Hiroshi's stomach gave a quiet, pointed complaint.
He adjusted Aki higher on his shoulder. The boy's small frame fit easily against him, hair brushing his back, breathing slow and even. The cool morning wind touched Hiroshi's face, and for a moment the whole village seemed to hum — alive, ordinary, and exactly as it should be.
Hiroshi stopped at a dango stand near the market's edge. The sweet, warm scent was stronger here, clinging to the air like it didn't want to leave.
"I'll take three dozen skewers," he said.
The vendor — a wiry man with quick hands and a quicker tongue — froze mid-reach for a tray. His eyes flicked up, then up again, taking in the full size of the man before him. Hiroshi was easily six feet, broad-shouldered, with arms that could pass for tree trunks. The sight of those biceps — easily wider than most people's heads — paired with the request for half his stock made the vendor's mouth open and close once before words returned.
"Three… dozen?" he echoed.
"Mm," Hiroshi confirmed, as if ordering that much was perfectly ordinary.
The vendor glanced at the neatly stacked skewers behind him, then back at the towering figure across the counter, a faint crease forming between his brows. Whether it was confusion, fear, or the calculation of profit, Hiroshi couldn't tell. Still, the man moved quickly, stacking bamboo sticks into paper-wrapped bundles, occasionally darting another wary look at the mountain of a man holding a sleeping child over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing.
Aki stirred slightly at the smell, but didn't wake.
The vendor handed over the bundles, the weight of them warm against Hiroshi's forearm. He shifted Aki slightly higher on his shoulder, balancing the skewers in his free hand.
The market was in full voice now — the clatter of wooden crates sliding into place, the sing-song calls of merchants advertising morning harvests, the slap of sandals on packed dirt. Somewhere a dog barked, sharp but not angry, followed by a chorus of answering yips.
The smell of the dango followed him, sweet and toasty, mixing with the sharper scents of fresh herbs and sizzling yakitori from another stall. Aki's hair caught some of that warmth, and Hiroshi wondered if the boy would wake only to find his face buried in dumplings.
Above it all, the Hokage Rock loomed in the distance, its carved faces pale in the clear sunlight. A breeze funneled down the street, tugging at Hiroshi's shirt and cooling the sweat at his neck. His stomach reminded him, with a low grumble, that buying food and eating it were not the same thing.
Children darted between shoppers' legs, still clutching half-eaten skewers, their laughter bouncing off the shopfronts. A woman hurried after them, skirts gathered in one hand, waving the other in mock warning.
Aki shifted again, mumbling something incomprehensible before going still. Hiroshi looked at the small curve of his back, the way his long hair spilled over the rough fabric of his own shirt, and thought again how light he was — light enough to carry through the busiest street in Konoha without effort, though he took care to keep a steady grip.
He moved on, the mountain of skewers under one arm, the small sleeping weight over the other, the bustle of the village folding around them like a familiar, protective hum.
The crowd thinned as he turned down a quieter street, the market noise fading to a background murmur. The bundles of dango shifted under his arm, but the weight over his shoulder stayed the same — light, almost too light.
Hiroshi's eyes drifted to the spot just between Aki's shoulder blades. Invisible, weightless to the boy himself, the seal rested there, doing its quiet work. Not the standard gravity seals most shinobi used — those dragged the body down, made every step a burden. His was different. He'd spent years refining it, not to force weight onto muscle and bone, but to make the air itself denser, richer.
Five kilograms of heavy air pressed gently around the boy now, no more noticeable than a warm breeze. It was enough to keep his body working harder without strain, to feed him more oxygen with every breath, to teach his frame to grow strong without the punishment of overtraining. A method to protect, not to break.
The seal was hidden well — no marks, no glow, nothing for Aki to fuss over. He wanted the boy to forget it was there, to grow up never knowing he'd been training every day of his life in the simplest, safest way Hiroshi could devise.
Aki's breath warmed the side of his neck, steady and slow. Hiroshi adjusted his grip, the bundles rustling softly, and kept walking toward home.
Yumiko would never approve of the seal if she knew. She was set on Aki having a normal childhood — no endless drills, no hours in the training fields, no weight of clan expectations pressing down before he was ready.
Hiroshi understood. He knew why she was like that. He'd been there the day she learned her little sister's team hadn't returned from the Third Shinobi War. The way her voice had gone quiet, her hands clenching in her lap as the messenger gave the details… he'd never forgotten it. Loss had made her draw a line in the sand: their child would be safe.
But safe could also mean helpless. And Hiroshi had lived through what helplessness cost. He still remembered the roar of the Nine-Tails, the chaos in the streets, and the sight of his junior — Minato — standing against it. He remembered being too far away, too slow, unable to stop the moment that took Minato's life.
So he'd found another way. As a seal master, workarounds were his trade. The underwater atmospheric simulation seal had been the answer — denser air instead of crushing weight, the body working harder in every breath without knowing it. Aki's seal was light, only five kilos of pressure now. Barely a whisper compared to the three tons Hiroshi carried himself.
It was enough for a four-year-old. Enough to start shaping the body for strength without shaping the mind for fear. One day, if Aki chose, he'd have the foundation to protect — or destroy — as he saw fit.
Hiroshi adjusted the skewers in his arm, the boy still sleeping against his shoulder, and kept walking toward the Hokage Rock rising steady and unshakable above the village.