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[ Much like the way Mumei keeps eyeing the Kogane like the shikigami is an opponent until it disappears, the obvious skepticism really does not bode well. Not even the return of warm fondness in Mumei's expression does much to stop the sinking feeling from turning into a full stomach drop when his suspicions more or less get confirmed. If anything, it makes him feel even more bad. Whatever other reason Mumei might have for coming here, the primary one still seems to be Yuta and now he's been made part of the Culling Game, oblivious to its rules and dangers. That won't do. Yuta immediately feels responsible.
In a subconscious gesture that's a continuation of the old self-comforting habit, his grip tightens on the gifted sword, drawing it even closer to his chest as he regards Mumei with obvious concern painted all over his face, tone apologetic. ]
I'm sorry you got dragged into all this just to seek me out. My friends and I are working on getting people out of the game, so, please, if you'll stick with me for a little while, I can do the same for you.
[ That, and Yuta would very much like to get more answers out of Mumei whenever the maybe-not-stranger deems it safe enough to provide them. ]
[ Even without those scars, even without that extra layer of suffering, Yuta is still Yuta. Burdened with the responsibilities he takes on and devoted to his friends and their kindness. His hand shifts, pulling back out of where it is safely tucked away in his sleeve to follow the instinctual way he shows his affection; a gentle ruffle of his hair, reaching up to close the distance between their heights without worry for the fact that Yuta is armed and he is not.
It's probably too early to try anything else, and he doesn't want to rush things, not when Yuta looks so tired, and so in need of rests. He hasn't forgotten the nervous crowd of non-sorcerers sheltering inside the nest-like building either. There will be time for deeper affection or more honesty, for answering questions and learning more about Yuta's world once the bond is forged properly. He can worry about everything else after. ]
I already told you, you're my responsibility, so quit fussin' about it. This ritual's a piece of shit, and I want you to get a good look at the work before she's bloodied, so draw already, will you? Gently. You're not going to find a sharper blade than this one.
[ 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. ]
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no subject
In a subconscious gesture that's a continuation of the old self-comforting habit, his grip tightens on the gifted sword, drawing it even closer to his chest as he regards Mumei with obvious concern painted all over his face, tone apologetic. ]
I'm sorry you got dragged into all this just to seek me out. My friends and I are working on getting people out of the game, so, please, if you'll stick with me for a little while, I can do the same for you.
[ That, and Yuta would very much like to get more answers out of Mumei whenever the maybe-not-stranger deems it safe enough to provide them. ]
no subject
[ Even without those scars, even without that extra layer of suffering, Yuta is still Yuta. Burdened with the responsibilities he takes on and devoted to his friends and their kindness. His hand shifts, pulling back out of where it is safely tucked away in his sleeve to follow the instinctual way he shows his affection; a gentle ruffle of his hair, reaching up to close the distance between their heights without worry for the fact that Yuta is armed and he is not.
It's probably too early to try anything else, and he doesn't want to rush things, not when Yuta looks so tired, and so in need of rests. He hasn't forgotten the nervous crowd of non-sorcerers sheltering inside the nest-like building either. There will be time for deeper affection or more honesty, for answering questions and learning more about Yuta's world once the bond is forged properly. He can worry about everything else after. ]
I already told you, you're my responsibility, so quit fussin' about it. This ritual's a piece of shit, and I want you to get a good look at the work before she's bloodied, so draw already, will you? Gently. You're not going to find a sharper blade than this one.
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?