Geniuses and Defects (3)
"I am nothing but a defect."
Akai's words hung in the air like an unshaken curse.
His dusted sandals left faint prints on the wooden floor as he walked away, slipping inside without so much as a glance back.
But little did he know— Someone had been listening. No, he knew, the boy just hadn't acknowledged them—not even a flicker of reaction. He simply let them listen.
Not just one.
Elder Takahiro stood just behind the wall separating the backyard from the wooden engawa, arms folded, posture relaxed—but his Byakugan had been watching everything.
And next to him, Elder Genzou stood in silence. His expression was unreadable, but if one looked closely, there was a glint of worry in his eyes. When Takahiro unconsciously smiled at his grandson's retreating back, Genzou raised an eyebrow at him before letting out a quiet huff.
Takahiro remained still, his gaze fixed on the empty spot where Akai had stood moments ago. His thoughts churned.
That boy.
Those words.
"I hate that word—genius."
"Don't try to escape reality with it."
"I am nothing but a defect."
Takahiro's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeve, knuckles whitening.
It wasn't Akai he was angry at.
It was the world that had made him believe that.
Because that was utter bullshit.
—The way Akai spoke, detached, as if his worth had already been decided.
—The way he dismissed himself so easily, as if he were nothing more than a mistake.
—The way he claimed that word—"defect"—like it was a truth carved into stone.
Takahiro had heard it before. The endless comparisons.
Neji—the prodigy burdened by fate, a genius shackled by the Branch Family's curse.
Akai—the failure, the unwanted outlier of the Hyuga, either its branch or main.
And yet—to him, that boy was anything but that.
"To erase oneself."
True brilliance is not defined by comparison.
Rivalry can fuel progress—a catalyst for growth, but it is not the essence of genius.
A genius does not seek validation. They do not waste their time chasing competition or measuring themselves against others.
They walk their own path, forging wings with their own hands. And when they took the leap and soar through the sky, they do not look down.
They do not chain themselves with common sense.
They do not chain themselves to the expectations of those who can only rise when driven by opposition.
That was Akai.
No matter how much he rejected the word, no matter how fiercely he denied it—Takahiro had long since branded him with it.
His lips curled, the ghost of a knowing smile.
Because despite everything Akai claimed, despite his disdain for the title—
He was the very embodiment of genius.
At least, to him.
Takahiro let out a quiet exhale, shaking his head slightly before turning his gaze back toward the backyard.
That was when he noticed Neji.
The boy had been staring at them, Byakugan deactivated, but his face was tense.
And the moment their eyes met—
Neji stiffened.
His entire body went rigid, his mind racing as he processed what he was seeing.
—Elder Takahiro was smiling.
—And standing right next to him was Elder Genzou.
That could only mean one thing.
They had heard everything.
Panic flashed across Neji's face for a brief second before he quickly straightened up, bowing respectfully.
"Elders," he greeted, voice composed but noticeably more formal than usual.
But before he could even attempt to explain himself—
Takahiro looked at Genzou first.
Genzou exhaled through his nose, expression still unreadable, before giving the barest huff.
Then Takahiro finally spoke.
"We heard nothing."
His voice was calm, but the weight behind it was deliberate.
Neji's eyes flickered with surprise before his body eased, just slightly. The tension from his earlier conversation with Akai still clung to him—too heavy, too raw.
He hadn't needed to say it outright.
And yet, they had understood.
The unspoken resentment.
The quiet defiance buried beneath duty.
The centuries-old bitterness the Branch Family carried like a curse.
But they did not scold him.
Did not reprimand him.
Did not demand he bite his tongue.
Instead, they let the truth settle between them, unchallenged, before Takahiro spoke again—his tone matter-of-fact, neither harsh nor soft:
"No one is blind to the resentment your side holds for the Main House."
Neji inhaled sharply.
The words struck, not like a blade, but like a mirror reflecting what he already knew—what he had always known.
There was no anger in them.
No accusation.
Only understanding.
For a long moment, nothing else was said.
The wind whispered through the Hyuga compound, stirring the wooden panels beneath their feet. Summer crickets droned in the distance, indifferent to the quiet storm lingering between them.
Then Takahiro exhaled, slow and measured.
"Just don't let it consume you, boy."
And with that—
He turned and walked away, Genzou following at a steady pace, leaving Neji alone with the silence he could no longer ignore.
.
.
.
Time lost meaning in the steady cycle of Akai's days.
Mornings were for training.
The Hyuga compound still regarded him with veiled unease, but no one dared to interfere anymore. He moved through the forms with a languid ease—each step precise, every strike carrying an unspoken confidence. What had once drained him to the bone now felt second nature. His control over the Gentle Fist was no longer something he had to think about; it simply was. His stamina, once a hindrance, had become an afterthought. He could push further without the weight of exhaustion dragging him down.
After training, he vanished into his research. Always silent. Always focused. Drowning in pages filled with arcane symbols and calculations that no one else could decipher. The world outside the ink-stained parchment barely existed.
Until the moment he left the compound.
Because Naruto was waiting.
Their so-called 'playtime' was anything but. At least, not to Akai.
To him, it was a study in unpredictability.
Naruto's energy was unlike anything he had encountered. It surged and flickered, wild and untamed—erratic in ways that defied conventional chakra control. That fascinated him.
So, between reckless chases through the trees and spars Naruto had no hope of winning, Akai observed.
He took note of the strange way Naruto's chakra pulsed.
The fluctuations.
The erratic surges whenever his emotions got the better of him.
And despite never intending to teach—
At some point, he did.
It began with passing comments, barely more than an afterthought:
"You'll fall if you keep leaning like that."
"Your catra's all over the place."
"Try shutting up for once when you concentrate."
He never explained. Never instructed. Yet, somehow, Naruto learned.
And before Akai even realized it—
He was watching, arms crossed, as Naruto defied expectation.
Feet planted firmly against the tree trunk.
Body parallel to the ground.
That obnoxious, toothy grin stretched wide across his face.
Defying gravity.
"HAH!" Naruto's laughter rang through the clearing as he jabbed a triumphant finger at Akai. "Look at me! I'm a freakin' GENIUS, ya know?!"
Perched lazily on a branch, Akai barely reacted. He had been chewing on a piece of a recently exorcised cursed spirit not five seconds ago and saw no reason to stop now.
He blinked.
"...Huh."
"Huh?!" Naruto sputtered, eyes blazing with sheer offense. "That's it?! That's ALL you gotta say?!"
Akai stared at him, long and unimpressed. Then, with all the enthusiasm of a dying candle:
"Wow. Naruto. That's amazing."
The sarcasm bounced off Naruto like it had an anti-reflection seal on it.
"HELL YEAH, IT IS!"
Emboldened, Naruto flung his arms up in victory—only for gravity to promptly reassert its dominance.
Akai exhaled, chewing thoughtfully as a loud thud echoed from below.
"...So, does that make you a genius or an idiot?"
A muffled groan rose from the dirt.
"Sh-shut up..."
They went fishing after training. A sudden decision, though the reason was simple.
Akai was broke.
He hadn't noticed at first—or rather, he hadn't cared. His expenses were practically nonexistent. The Hyuga provided food and clothing, and his research demanded little beyond ink and paper. But then Naruto happened.
Somehow, unintentionally, Akai had become the boy's personal ramen wallet.
And Naruto trained every single day.
Which meant Akai's money had been bleeding out at an alarming rate.
He only realized it today, when his hand instinctively slipped into his sleeve for coins, only to grasp nothing. He paused, staring at his empty palm with mild perplexity.
When had he gone bankrupt?
The answer, of course, was obvious.
Naruto.
That walking, talking financial sinkhole had unknowingly drained him dry. And so, here they were—standing by the riverbank, a makeshift fishing rod in one hand and cold, merciless determination in his eyes.
Since he couldn't buy food, he would simply have to catch it.
Naruto had, naturally, complained. "Fishing?! Are you serious?!" But as usual, Akai ignored him, stepping into the water without hesitation.
The river stretched wide, its crystalline waters reflecting the afternoon light in rippling streaks. Smooth stones lined the riverbed, shifting slightly beneath his weight. The water was cool against his skin, swirling gently around his legs—but it was no hindrance.
Akai moved like he belonged there.
His steps were silent, deliberate, his balance unwavering. The current curled around him, but he remained steady, gliding across the riverbed with an eerie, fluid grace. At times, his feet skimmed over the surface, barely disturbing the water.
With each flick of his wrist, the crude fishing rod snapped through the air, the thin line cutting clean into the current. His aim was precise, movements calculated—
And the fish?
They never stood a chance.
Some dangled helplessly from the crude hook, caught by their tails, their bodies twisting in futile resistance. Others were impaled through the chin, mouths frozen in wide, permanent surprise. A few had been skewered through the thinnest parts of their fins, trapped in ways that shouldn't have even been possible.
This wasn't fishing.
Not in any traditional sense.
Akai's skill with the rod was something else entirely—less a fisherman's craft, more a predator's precision. He didn't just catch fish. He hunted them. Saw patterns where others saw chaos. Exploited openings that shouldn't exist.
It was almost unsettling.
Naruto, standing on the shore, had long since stopped complaining. His arms were crossed, lips pursed in something between fascination and mild horror.
"...You, uh. You sure this is fishing?"
Balancing effortlessly on a slick stone, Akai cast his line again. A second later, another fish was speared clean through the gills.
"Fish is fish," he replied, unbothered.
Naruto wrinkled his nose. "That's not an answer."
Akai didn't elaborate. And after a long moment of staring, Naruto simply gave up trying to understand.
For the next hour, one of them ruthlessly depleted the river's ecosystem, while the other stood awkwardly on the shore, occasionally making noises of protest that were completely ignored.
By the time the sun began to set—painting the sky in streaks of amber and crimson—they had more than enough.
They ate by the dying campfire, seated on the dirt without a care. The remnants of charred fish lay scattered around them, their acrid scent mixing with the crisp evening air. Embers pulsed dimly, flickering against the deepening twilight.
Naruto was still eating.
Even after devouring fish after fish, he hadn't slowed. His hands moved automatically, tearing into the meal with a mechanical efficiency. He ate like someone who had gone without for too long, even though Akai knew that wasn't the case.
Between bites, Naruto's gaze flickered toward him.
There was something off about it.
Not obvious. Not direct. But behind his eyes—beneath the easy bravado—there was something bitter. Skeptical. Contemplative in a way that didn't fit the usual Naruto.
He didn't say anything, though. Just kept eating, lost in some unspoken thought.
Eventually, he reached the point where he should have been full.
But he wasn't.
Not really.
The hunger that remained wasn't the kind that demanded more food—it was the kind that noticed what was missing.
No rice. No carbs.
Just fish.
Naruto exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his hand against his cheek. Then, after a beat, his eyes drifted back to Akai.
The other boy was quiet, as always.
His focus was elsewhere, pen gliding across the worn pages of a notebook, ink scratching softly against paper. The flickering firelight cast shifting shadows across his face—sharpening the downward curve of his lips, catching the calculating gleam in his eyes. Occasionally, his free hand would rise to his mouth, fingers closing around something that wasn't there before retreating again.
Naruto frowned.
Finally, he spoke.
"Oi."
Akai didn't look up immediately, but his pen stilled for half a second.
Naruto grinned at him—though it was less his usual cocky smirk and more of an attempt at something casual. "Hey, you can have the rest. I'm full."
Akai blinked.
His gaze flicked to the extra fish Naruto had nudged toward him.
A brief silence.
His mind turned.
Why?
Why that look earlier?
Akai had always pursued knowledge with obsessive focus—dissecting mysteries with the precision of a scientist.
And right now—
Naruto was a mystery.
And then—something clicked.
Ah.
Naruto must have felt guilty.
From his perspective, Akai had been feeding him nearly every day, covering his ramen tab without a second thought. It made sense that, at some point, he'd start feeling bad about it—wanting to return the favor in whatever way he could.
Akai considered this for a moment before shaking his head slightly.
"I'm already full," he said. "I still get dinner, so I don't need it."
Naruto's brows pulled together.
"Hah?" His voice rose, incredulous. "Then why the hell are you eating air?!"
—
Akai blinked.
Eating air?
A pause. Then—
Oh.
Realization settled in.
To an outsider, his habit must have looked strange. The way his free hand occasionally lifted to his mouth, fingers plucking at nothing. A casual, absentminded motion.
To everyone else, it must have seemed like he was snacking on air.
To him, however—
His lips were stained deep purple, slick with thick, inky blood that dripped lazily down his chin. In his grasp, a small, grotesque fox-like creature twitched weakly, its jagged wound still fresh where its head had been. Its tails—thin, rusted chains—rattled faintly in the evening air as its body continued to dissolve.
Naruto, watching from across the fire, saw nothing. Just a boy sitting there, absently grabbing at nothing.
Akai exhaled.
"...I see."
Naruto's stare did not waver. His expression was one of deep, profound confusion—like he was debating whether or not to be concerned.
Akai clicked his tongue, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his sleeve.
"I have a rare condition," he said flatly. "If I don't eat air every thirty minutes, I'll die."
Naruto gawked. "Seriously?!"
"No."
"..."
"..."
A beat of silence.
Akai had always been on good terms with awkwardness. An old companion, really.
Naruto groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're so damn weird, ya know?"
Akai hummed, unfazed.
"I know, ya know..."
.
.
.
To be continued.