This means Kento is speaking in English (as per requested by a reader, honestly why didn't I think of that)

. - .

Prologue

. - .

Uchiha's and Hyūgas do not mix well. Everyone knows that. Civilians know that.

Itachi's dearest little brother, apparently, didn't. Otherwise he wouldn't have approached the kid in the first place.

"Go suck a bag of wet dicks you pompous little arsehole!" Fury and hatred radiated in Itachi's little brother's form. Tiny fist waggling in the air. "If I ever see your beady little eyes again, I'll shove them so far down your throat you'll poop them out next morning!"

Itachi swoops into the Academy's playground faster than Gai could ever hope to achieve and appears behind his baby brother, hefting him under one arm.

"Yah! Who dares - "

"Excuse us," Itachi politely nods to the stunned Hyūga boy - mouth open in speechless shock - before vanishing just as quickly. Leaping to the trees that surrounded the Academy and taking flight home.

He knew picking his baby brother up early was a good idea.

"Yo, you're forgetting the trash."

Itachi turns tail back to the Academy. "Don't call your twin trash."

"Hmpf."

. - .

Fugakū Uchiha would be lying if he says he's never pondered the thought of sending his youngest child to therapy. Never wondered that he might have accidentally taken the wrong child home from the hospital.

It was only the undeniably facial similarities between himself and Kento that made him stop for a moment and rationalise.

Still, he's not delirious enough to not notice that there was something special about his son. And not in a good sense.

"He cursed a Hyūga child?" Fugakū asks, left eye twitching.

Itachi tries to admirably keep his face stoic-looking, but there's this crack of stumped disbelief peeking through that can only be contrived by his youngest, Kento.

"Were there any witnesses?" It was a stupid question and he knew it, but there's always hope...

"It was a very public occurrence."

Hope was for fools.

"Ah," is all he can say.

And Fugakū Uchiha saw the future.

He saw the Head of the Hyūga clan marching dramatically towards his house. White robes flowing behind him, long hair whipping in the wind at his speedy pace. A look of righteous anger in his eyes along with malicious intent. A demon hungry for blood.

His blood.

Because he cannot - for the life of him - control his child.

Fugakū absently wonders, not for the first time, whether Kento were the very manifestation of all his bad decisions in life. All shoved together into one feral verbose child.

Then suddenly there's a frantic rapping sound at his study's window behind him. Fugakū swivels around in his desk chair to glower at the offender.

"For Kami-sama's sake, use the front door!" He barks.

The rapping doesn't stop and he belatedly realises it was soundproof glass. He leans over and unhooks the latch, fully intended to give the person a good verbal lashing for knowing their place and the benefits of front door usage - when the window swoops up and a bedraggled woman clad in Uchiha armour attempts to hoof herself inside. It was so astonishingly inelegant for a shinobi, that Fugakū and Itachi can't help but stare.

"Sir - Fugakū-sama," she pants, straddling the windowsill. "Hyūga-sama is coming this way - I tried to stop him - I did sir, but he's a man on a mission, sir!" She lumbers inside with redoubled vigour, dropping to the ground in a desperate bow. "Forgive me, sir. I am a failure, sir!"

There's an ominous crash in the room next over along with Mikoto shouting.

Itachi and Fugakū share a look while the woman on the ground whimpers, bolting to his study's door. Intending no doubt to try and keep Hiashi out.

The door swings open theatrically.

"Fugakū-sama, I am here to speak to you about - " Hiashi is cut off as the door rebounds off the woman in a loud 'oof', punching her to the floor and slamming shut. The woman howls on the floor, dazed and defeated.

There's a short pause.

The door is opened slower, more mindful this time, and at last Hiashi steps in. Doing a doing a paranoid check behind the door before shutting it angrily behind him. "Fugakū-sama, I am here to speak to you about your son."

Fugakū covers his snort with a cough. "Of course," he says, keeping his face very still. Gesturing to the seat opposite his desk, he offers, "Have a seat."

Hiashi nods purposefully and strides over, glancing disdainfully at Itachi while he does so. "In private."

"If it makes you feel more comfortable," Fugakū appeases, nodding to Itachi. The boy looks to have an internal battle with himself, managing to simultaneously take a step closer to his father and exit while huffing. Like a bull.

"Itachi."

His boy grabs the fallen comrade and disappears in a swirl of leaves.

"You're here to speak to me about my son, you say." Fugakū shoves all worries to the far recesses of his mind. Instead focusing on the here and now. His face goes into a neutral expression, one used many times over the years. "Which one?"

"Don't play coy, Fugakū." Hiashi abandons the political word play, choosing to get straight to the point. "You know which one."

"Hmm, do I?"

"Your son both cursed and embarrassed my nephew at the Academy's playground - on the first day. In front of parents, children and important figures of Konoha."

Fugakū lets out a soulless laugh. "Ahh, children will be children."

"Your five-year old son told my nephew to, and I quote, 'suck a bag of wet dicks you pompous little arsehole'." Hiashi arches an immaculate eyebrow, appropriately not impressed.

Fugakū coughs into his hand.

Were Hyūga's even allowed to curse?

"Yes, that does sound bad. Doesn't it."

"Oh indeed."

"I will speak to Kento and have him give an," Fugakū grounds out his words. "Official apology."

Hiashi harrumphs, puffing himself up like a satisfied peacock.

Fugakū has a sudden inane impulse to follow in his son's footsteps and curse him to the gallows. "Is there anything else, Hiashi-sama?" You content asshat.

"Teach your son some manners," is all he says before swanning away. Once gone and certain he was alone, Fugakū rests his head in his hands and lets out a long-suffering groan.

. - .