By the time Naruto had managed to take control of his mental faculties, get used to his tiny, fragile, infant body, and overcome the novelty of having parents who actually catered to his every need twenty-four-seven, he had come to some startling realizations.
One, this was not the world he'd originally been born in. Two, his new parents had terrible taste in food. Three, there was something strange about his chakra, but he couldn't pinpoint what exactly because Kurama cautioned him against messing with it yet. So Naruto focused on the things he could safely ascertain. He'd long since outgrown the twelve-year-old reckless brat he'd once been, and had more self-preservation instincts than Sai, thank you very much.
His first clue had been the language. All that baby nonsense his parents kept crooning—papa wuves you, my widdle tuna fishie—and many, many nauseatingly playful arguments about what he got from whom—so strong and manly, just like papa, Tsu-kun—brought the long-forgotten memory of his meeting with the Sage of the Six Paths to the surface. Because it was kinda similar to his mother tongue, like another dialect that had evolved into something different in order to fit in with the times.
Except, Naruto was now the Old Man Rikudō, and trying to upgrade his vernacular was a bitch and a half. Sakura was the academically inclined in their team. Naruto just had lots and lots of crazy firepower and a you-aren't-taking-me-alive-bastards mentality. In retrospect, Sasuke was the more balanced out of the three of them when it came down to it. And the asshole never once let him forget it. Neither did Kurama.
Do not compare yourself or that detestable Uchiha to Father. You'll never measure up. Kurama grinned, all teeth and contempt and schadenfreude, and with one flick of his tails sent Naruto sprawling across the cold, hard floor of his mindscape. Father would have been fluent in mere seconds. Just like when he was kind enough to dumb himself down to speak with you back then. I wouldn't have bothered if I were him.
Don't I know it. Naruto tsk'ed under his breath, rubbing his abused scalp, but tellingly didn't get up or contradict the giant fuzzball. Now shut up. I'm trying to understand what kind of people my new parents are. And what the hell is this weird obsession with tuna? It'd better not be my new name.
Because ramen, he could understand, even if Ero-sennin had later explained that no, you hopeless moron, you were named after the hero in your father's favorite book, which I, the gallant Jiraiya wrote, for your information. Oh, and in honor of your mother's clan, too. Not that it did any good. What kind of Uzumaki are you, brat? I told you to make a simple grade one storage seal. Storage! Why did it explode in Gamariki-san's face? Wait, where did the orange paint come from? Naruto...you know I was kidding, right? Haha, no, wait! Don't thro—
But the point stood. Ramen was the food of the gods, and if his parents had chosen his name based on their love for heavenly noodles, well, Naruto would have been a-ok with it. If these people had named him after stupid seafood, on the other hand... Naruto would shove a bijūdama up the stupid blond's ass.
Fortunately, his mother wasn't as prone to fish-y endearments, and after two long, embarrassing months of too-much breast-milk, Kurama's mocking laughter, and perfecting the art of strategically aiming at his father's forehead when the man was on diaper-duty, Naruto had a name and then some.
Tsunayoshi. Tsuna for short, or his mother's preference, Tsu-kun. His parents were Iemitsu and Nana and there was also the rare mention of a grandfather named Timoteo and a many-times ancestor named Ieyasu. Iemitsu might have believed Naruto was oblivious like, you know, normal babies all those times he was being lulled to sleep in the man's arms, but the joke was on him. Even if Naruto tended to tune him out when Iemitsu went on one of his tuna fish deliriums, Kurama didn't.
Now, the image of his stupid father, with his stupid grin, calling him Tsuna in his stupid voice had triggered another memory. Of a brown-haired man, technically undead at the time, hugging a half-exasperated, half-wistful granny Tsunade, sobbing apologies in her hair and pleading for the village's survival and something about gambling debts, with an equally undead white-haired man whose default expression seemed to be scowling next to them.
Sawada Iemitsu might have only shared an obnoxious shade of blond hair with Namikaze Minato, but his personality was all Senju Hashirama. Coupled with his barely hidden anxiety and nightly ramblings about Naruto being the spitting image of Ieyasu and don't worry, my tuna fishie, papa will protect you and you'll have a nice, long, civilian life, I promise, it didn't bode well for Naruto's future aspirations of a paperwork-free nirvana.
Naruto could only pray there was a Senju Tobirama in this secret family business he'd undoubtedly get dragged into, kicking and screaming if he had anything to say about it, preferably in administration. The Nidaime might have been a humorless bastard without an ounce of compassion, and a stone-cold killer with zero tolerance for people who sometimes made the wrong choices, but he was efficient.
He wasn't that bad. There was a subtle conflict of emotions inside that statement, if Naruto strained his ears, before the fox's voice adopted his usual condescending drawl. Certainly better than the likes of Madara and Hashirama. For a human, he was almost tolerable.
Scoffing, Naruto stared at him with knowing eyes. And I suppose your glowing endorsement of his character has nothing to do with the fact you both wanted to dance over Madara's corpse.
As predicted, Kurama snapped, sullen and growling and with the countenance of someone who'd been terribly cheated. Bah! He was dead. Who cared if we stepped on his corpse just a little?
Instead of replying, Naruto lowered his gaze to Kurama's little feet. Right. The fox shuffled his feet, unrepentant and still looking petulant, and yeah, Naruto could more than empathize with Old Man Rikudō right now.
