By the time Kousuke turned two, the world finally stopped feeling like it was rushing past him.
His body still felt small, but it no longer felt useless. His legs held him up. His hands worked the way he wanted them to. Words came out clearly, not perfectly, but well enough that people actually listened instead of smiling and guessing what he meant.
That alone changed everything.
"Kousuke, don't run inside."
He skidded to a stop anyway, wooden floor warm beneath his feet. He turned slowly, hands behind his back, eyes wide and innocent.
"I wasn't running," he said. "I was walking fast."
His dad stared at him from the low table, half-finished report spread out in front of him.
"…You're arguing semantics now."
Kousuke nodded seriously. "Words are important."
His dad closed his eyes and rubbed his temple. "You're two."
"So."
That earned him a quiet laugh, the kind his dad tried not to show too often. Kousuke counted that as a win.
Life at two years old came with privileges. He could wander the house without being watched every second. He could sit beside his dad instead of being placed somewhere out of the way. He could ask questions and actually get answers instead of vague reassurances.
He took full advantage of that.
The Uchiha compound looked different when you could walk through it yourself. Paths felt longer. Houses felt closer together. People felt closer too. Too close sometimes. Kousuke noticed how conversations shifted when he approached, how voices softened or stopped altogether.
Kids his age ran around shouting, tripping over each other, waving sticks like weapons. Older children trained in the distance, movements stiff and exaggerated under the eyes of adults who corrected them sharply.
Kousuke did not join them.
Not because he was afraid, but because he was thinking.
"Dad," he said one afternoon, sitting beside him on the porch while his dad cleaned his gloves, "why do people always look tired here."
His dad paused, cloth still in hand. "Because they work hard."
Kousuke tilted his head. "People work hard outside the compound too."
That earned him a look. A long one.
"You notice a lot," his dad said finally.
Kousuke smiled. "You're slow."
He got flicked on the forehead for that, light but precise.
"Ow," he said immediately, completely fine. "Abuse."
His dad snorted. "You're dramatic."
That was true. On purpose.
At home, things were quieter. Comfortable in a careful way. His dad cooked simple meals and complained about prices at the market. He complained about paperwork even more. Kousuke learned that the Konoha Police Force involved very little actual action and a lot of arguing with people who thought rules did not apply to them.
"Being strong doesn't mean people listen," his dad muttered one night.
Kousuke looked up from his bowl. "Then why get strong."
His dad considered that. "So you can choose what you do with it."
That answer stayed with him.
Humor came easily now. Kousuke learned which faces reacted best to polite speech and which ones got flustered when a toddler spoke too clearly.
"Good afternoon," he said once to a visiting clan member, bowing slightly.
The man froze like he had been attacked.
"Who taught him that," he asked.
"No one," his dad said calmly. "He's just like this."
Kousuke waved. "Bye."
When the man left, his dad looked down at him. "Don't mess with people."
"I didn't," Kousuke said. "He messed with himself."
That earned him another laugh.
At night, when the house settled, Kousuke lay awake thinking. Not about destiny or tragedy. Not yet. Mostly about small things. Patterns. Habits. Who walked where. Who spoke to whom. What people avoided talking about.
He also thought about his old life.
Not constantly. Not obsessively. Just enough that it stayed with him. His brother's voice, loud and annoying and worried. His parents trying and failing to understand him. The things he never said because it felt easier to stay quiet.
That regret sat deep, but it did not crush him.
Not anymore.
This time, he was paying attention.
Kousuke rolled onto his side, staring at the wall, listening to his dad's steady footsteps moving through the house.
Two years old.
Alive.
Watching.
The world was not kind. It never had been.
But this time, he was ready to learn how it worked.