A small jolt is the only response to the direct usage of her name, hesitation finding it's claim over her frame. She can feel it — the teal eyes boring into her, the disapproving expression written across his face ( one seen too many times before, no need to observe it again ) and, upon swallowing thickly, clenched hands slowly slip out from beneath the thick blanket... The color of something tan and worn within her palms, squeezed tight.
As Suigetsu's fist relaxes, eventually opening, the small felt doll she so desperately obscured from his view is finally exposed... a haunting simulacrum of a certain blade.
" I...It's... I was t...trying... a-and so.... "
Stuttered words stumble past soft lips, dark eyes gazing upon the beginner's creation with embarrassment. Rather out of character for the composed woman, a blush spreads across pale skin. Somehow, her head feels to heavy to lift, eyes feel too much shame to feel comfort in looking at the reaction of the other.
" It's... I'm not too sure how to... go about, such creations... It's a bit... "
Frozen. No. Utterly paralyzed ; That was Kasen's state. His eyes open wide, mouth slightly agape, his hand hovering mid-air without flinching. He tried to process it … and more importantly, process what reaction came even closer to appropriate to give. But right now he was nothing but profoundly, devastatingly, speechless. His mouth opened as if to say something at least twice, thrice. Nothing.
The … doll. I f it could be called that. A product of a butchered … what? drying rag…? ( Where did Suigetsu even get this from… ? ! ) Haphazardly sewn together, with crude, inelegant, shaky stitches in thick black string. It attempted to resemble a body that was more akin to a cross, the fabric was daring to crumble away at the seams. Then… the face. Or what tried to stand for it. Scribbled with botched, runny paint. Inexperienced strokes crafted something closer to a child's drawing than a doll-like faucet. The remaining part –- hair, seemed to be a mix and match of a discarded, bleached horsetail brush. And worst of all … was this meant to resemble … resemble … c-c-ch… — ? !
“… I… uh, I… ” His brain screamed at him a mandatory order, on red alarms — maximum alert ; ( Conceal your shock! Conceal your shock! This is utterly rude — look at her face! You're breaking a lady's heart – ! ) But it was in vain. The utter processing power the concealment took overwhelmed his head for a second, and all he could muster was a forced, strained smile. “… Ah… I… I see…” A drop of cold sweat through his forehead.













