Kousuke learned to listen before he learned to see.
Sound reached him more clearly than anything else. Footsteps moving across wooden floors. Sliding doors opening and closing. Voices that stayed low even when there was no reason to whisper. The Uchiha compound had a particular quiet to it, not peaceful, just controlled. People did not speak loudly here. They did not linger in places they did not need to be.
When his vision began to sharpen, he understood why.
Everyone watched each other.
It was subtle. No one stared. No one lingered too long. But eyes followed movement, tracked posture, measured tone. Even casual conversations carried an edge of awareness. Kousuke recognized it instantly, even through the haze of infancy. This was a place where people were always evaluating something.
He hated it.
His days followed a simple rhythm. Wake. Cry. Be fed. Be cleaned. Sleep. Repeat. His body demanded attention constantly, pulling his thoughts back into the present whenever they drifted too far. Hunger was not something he could ignore or rationalize. Discomfort did not wait for better timing.
Through it all, his father remained steady.
The man woke early and returned late. Sometimes he wore the uniform of the Konoha Police Force. Sometimes he wore plain clothes. Either way, he carried himself the same. Straight back. Controlled movements. No wasted energy.
When he held Kousuke, it was always the same way. Careful, but not hesitant. Protective, but not indulgent. He spoke to him sometimes, usually at night, when the house was quiet and there was no one else to hear.
He did not talk about feelings. He talked about the weather. About the state of the village. About small, ordinary things. Kousuke suspected the words were less important than the act of speaking itself.
Visitors came.
Clan members mostly. They looked into the crib and nodded, murmured polite condolences, commented on how strong the baby looked. Kousuke recognized the lie even then. He was small. Too small. His strength was an assumption tied to his name.
Some lingered longer than others. Their gazes were sharper, more calculating. They asked his father questions that sounded casual but were not.
How are you holding up. Are you taking time off. Will the boy train early.
His father answered each one evenly. Briefly. Never giving more than necessary.
Kousuke watched it all from behind half-lidded eyes, committing patterns to memory. He could not stop them. Could not change anything. All he could do was observe.
At night, when the compound settled and even the most vigilant seemed to rest, the weight of memory pressed in.
Kris remembered his old house. The creak of the stairs. The sound of his parents arguing quietly in the kitchen when they thought he could not hear. His brother's laughter drifting down the hallway. He remembered how small moments piled up unnoticed until they were gone.
Those memories hurt more now than they had when he was alive.
Kousuke's new body did not understand why his chest felt tight sometimes, or why his breathing hitched without cause. It reacted the only way it knew how. With small sounds. Restless movement. Tears that made no sense.
His father always came.
Not immediately, sometimes. He finished what he was doing first. Locked the door. Set things aside. Then he came, lifting Kousuke carefully, holding him close until the tension eased.
"I know," he would say quietly. "I know."
Kousuke did not know what he meant by that, but the words still helped.
Days turned into weeks.
Kousuke grew stronger. His movements became less erratic. His cries more controlled. He began to recognize faces, even if only vaguely. His father. A woman who came often to help. A few clan members who visited regularly.
One face stood out even through his blurred vision.
A boy.
Not much older than Kousuke himself. Dark hair. Serious eyes. He was brought along by an adult who spoke respectfully to Kousuke's father. The boy did not say much. He simply looked into the crib, expression unreadable.
Kousuke felt something strange then. Not recognition. Not familiarity. Awareness.
This one is important, he thought.
The boy met his gaze for a brief moment. His eyes were sharp even at that age. Observant. Thoughtful.
Then he looked away.
The visit did not last long. When they left, the house felt quieter than usual.
Kousuke did not know the boy's name yet.
But he would.
As the days passed, one truth became clear to him.
This life was not a miracle. It was not a gift meant to make things better. It was a continuation, bound by rules and expectations he did not choose.
He lay in his crib, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant sounds of the compound moving around him.
Born Uchiha.
Mother gone.
Father silent.
Eyes watching.
Kousuke closed his eyes and slept, already understanding something most children would not learn for years.
He would have to survive.