[ He can't really argue when he's known among his friends as such so puzzled agreement at the continued familiarity it is. Just as when he allowed Mumei to take his hands to place the sword within them, Yuta does nothing to dissuade any further touch or encroachment upon his personal space or even do so much as tense up as his eyes briefly track the trajectory of the hand being raised. Rather, there's the slightest incline of his head into the touch when warm fingers find their mark like something done out of the sheer force of habit of someone who is used to getting his hair ruffled. Because he somewhat is. It's gentler than Gojo's usual motions and it's... well, it's not entirely unwelcome given everything. (He misses his teacher, feels awful for not being there to help when it was needed most. Everything they're doing now plays a part in getting him back, too.)
All he can muster is an owlish blink at the affectionate gesture in his exhaustion before his expression shifts back to something still mildly concerned even after being told to stop fussing. The skepticism lingers a slight moment longer, but when the lack of knowing who and what Mumei are to him, he can't exactly refute whatever being his responsibility is about so he allows his attention to drift to the sword he's been gifted. ]
Okay...
[ As hesitant as his response sounds, his movements are much more sure as he lowers his arms and adjusts his grip to draw the sword with deliberate, mindful care. Being such a relatively new sword wielder, he's not nearly the same kind of expert Maki is, but he was taught by her and one glance at the steel is enough to tell him plenty of the incredible quality. Something about it seems familiar as he studies the hamon and holds the blade up to the afternoon light of the winter sun. He just can't place what it is right now. All the same... ]
It's beautiful.
[ Voice appropriately hushed in his awe, he can't resist stepping back, creating room for himself as Rika obligingly drifts to his unarmed side without need for verbal direction. It leaves his right free for him to roll the tsuka across his hand in a fluid, controlled spin, testing the blade's weight with practiced ease. It's more comfortable than any other sword he's ever held, like it was made for his very hand, and if the quality wasn't obvious from sight alone, then the handling would have made it so. The blade is pulled closer to his body once it returns to its starting position, his other hand lifting to run reverent fingers along the mune appreciatively as his gaze darts back to Mumei, a little disbelieving. ]
no subject
[ He can't really argue when he's known among his friends as such so puzzled agreement at the continued familiarity it is. Just as when he allowed Mumei to take his hands to place the sword within them, Yuta does nothing to dissuade any further touch or encroachment upon his personal space or even do so much as tense up as his eyes briefly track the trajectory of the hand being raised. Rather, there's the slightest incline of his head into the touch when warm fingers find their mark like something done out of the sheer force of habit of someone who is used to getting his hair ruffled. Because he somewhat is. It's gentler than Gojo's usual motions and it's... well, it's not entirely unwelcome given everything. (He misses his teacher, feels awful for not being there to help when it was needed most. Everything they're doing now plays a part in getting him back, too.)
All he can muster is an owlish blink at the affectionate gesture in his exhaustion before his expression shifts back to something still mildly concerned even after being told to stop fussing. The skepticism lingers a slight moment longer, but when the lack of knowing who and what Mumei are to him, he can't exactly refute whatever being his responsibility is about so he allows his attention to drift to the sword he's been gifted. ]
Okay...
[ As hesitant as his response sounds, his movements are much more sure as he lowers his arms and adjusts his grip to draw the sword with deliberate, mindful care. Being such a relatively new sword wielder, he's not nearly the same kind of expert Maki is, but he was taught by her and one glance at the steel is enough to tell him plenty of the incredible quality. Something about it seems familiar as he studies the hamon and holds the blade up to the afternoon light of the winter sun. He just can't place what it is right now. All the same... ]
It's beautiful.
[ Voice appropriately hushed in his awe, he can't resist stepping back, creating room for himself as Rika obligingly drifts to his unarmed side without need for verbal direction. It leaves his right free for him to roll the tsuka across his hand in a fluid, controlled spin, testing the blade's weight with practiced ease. It's more comfortable than any other sword he's ever held, like it was made for his very hand, and if the quality wasn't obvious from sight alone, then the handling would have made it so. The blade is pulled closer to his body once it returns to its starting position, his other hand lifting to run reverent fingers along the mune appreciatively as his gaze darts back to Mumei, a little disbelieving. ]
This is really for me?