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He had been running out of ways to tell her, tactfully, he didn't want her to come into the workroom today. At first, simply telling her that he was working had been enough. When that had invited her to ask if she could watch, he'd had to specify that the project in question was something delicate. When asked HOW delicate, exactly, and if there was anything she could help with, he'd assured her it was very very delicate. So delicate it needed to be worked on between heartbeats. So fragile that a stray vibration or breath could send it collapsing into ruin.

And that, at least, had seemed to dissuade her.

....oddly enough, there was truth in such claims. Except it was not perfume Hitsuga was referring to. THAT part, indeed, had been finished as of last night, and now sat on the table's edge, the sun from the window catching the dusky pink contents of the bottle like some sort of hazy jewel.

The project in question, today, was the perfumer himself and the current fragile bravery he clung to as he set about the task of transforming his appearance from that of a well-groomed bachelor to one of a courting maiden.

Everything of significance in his life, it seemed, had been haphazard, or half-done, or otherwise compromised. But this....he was determined would go just as he'd planned it. And he was not allowing himself room for error or otherwise settling for less than how he wished it to unfold on his part.

His hair had been carefully brushed, braided, and gathered in a clutch at the base of his head, held in place by a pair of polished wood chopsticks that were not ornate, but had a lovely sheen to them. To make up for what they had lacked in decoration, several plum blossoms had been woven into the bun, standing out like fragrant stars against a night sky of purple-black silk.

His outfit, while far from the delicate and beautiful dress of the maidens who attended Cherry Fall, was clean, devoid of wrinkles, and arranged as perfectly as he could get it.

Which left the delicate task of painting his face, which he had not begun to do until he'd heard Baikou, at last, venture into the washroom for her afternoon bath. With that assurance that she would not suddenly bluster into the room after all, he felt at ease enough to go about applying the foundation of powder and rouge.

Following that, there had been nothing to do but wait until he had heard her rise from the water, and, after a short time, retreat from the bathroom to pad back down the hallway. As the door across the way whispered shut, he slowly counted backwards from ten in his mind, giving what he felt was enough time for Baikou to have begun getting dressed, before he had taken the small bottle of perfume in hand, slipped into the hallway and stepped into the now-unoccupied bathroom.

There were some things well-practiced enough to him that he had needed only his reflection in the window glass as a guide for. There were others, more delicate, that still required a proper mirror to do correctly.

And so, while Baikou dressed, Hitsuga fussed with mascara and liner, painting his lashes into dark lush lines that tapered out to decorative fine tips, and used the fine red pencil to retrace the traditional red makeup beneath either eye.

....and with that done, he could not think of anything else to do, scooping up the small bottle from the edge of the sink. This was, he supposed, as ready as he could make himself.

....except for....

He leaned in a bit further to examine a bit of hair that seemed out of place, trying to fuss it into a more agreeable position.

Unaware completely was he of the two eyes that peered out from beneath the sink, where someone had been watching and biding her time. Kan had accompanied her mistress in for her bath and, after several gentle admonishments not to climb on the tub, she had deigned to curl up beside it instead, awaiting Baikou to be done with whatever it was she was doing in there.

The resulting nap had caused her to sleep through Baikou's departure, only to be awakened by the lighter footfall of The Pale One as he drew into the room. And what was he doing here, the kitten wondered. Barging in so boldly to territory that was clearly marked by herself and The Mistress. Such transgressions would not go unpunished! scream

She waited. She tensed. And at the precise moment Hitsuga's balance was not squarely on both feet, she sprung, tackling his ankles with a barrage of nips and needling claws.

A startled yelp escaped him as he flailed for balance, stumbling blindly to the side as Kan, having not been prepared for The Pale One to make such NOISE, skittered out from underfoot.

One groping hand caught, and momentarily clung to the towel ring, and then his grip failed him, sending Hitsuga sprawling over the lip of the tub into the still-draining water inside of it with a great flurry of bewildered projections and a SPLASH!

A spray of the tepid bathwater saturated Kan who jolted backward, tumbled over herself, and gave a snorting hiss as if to say Well! I NEVER! as she scampered out of the bathroom entirely for parts unknown.

Hitsuga is fine...!

....he's fine....

Except for the fact, of course, that he is not....and such becomes only more apparent as he sits up out of the haphazard sprawl he's fallen into. His clothes cling to him like a clumping second skin, and his hair, now sodden, hangs in limp disarray, looking not like it had been carefully braided but like some sort of jellyfish with flowers stuck to it.

He does not even want to think of what his face must look like, but knows that the wet he feels running down it can't possibly be only water. He is sure that the makeup is now haphazard smears and ugly blobs.

....and everything. ALL OF IT. Hours of planning, hoping, and inflating his own courage with empty reassurances, is all gone.

No. No. He just....

No.

He does not accept the offered hand, pulling himself to his feet on his own, in complete disarray as he steps out of the tub to look to Baikou and...

....

He realizes he has nothing to say for himself. Nothing that can possibly excuse the way he's ruined what this was meant to be. Ruined, that is, except for one thing. Something that is still clutched in one hand, unbroken and safe.

....for all the good it may do him now.

Swallowing, letting out a faintly-shuddering breath, he squeezes his eyes shut, face burning in shame.

"This....Thisisforyou. M'sorry." he mutters under his breath, pressing something small and heavy into her hands from his own, and, without waiting to see her reaction, without daring to even look at her, brushes past her to retreat quickly from the bathroom, and into the hallway, mindless for the moment of the fact he is dripping on the floor.

It seems there is, indeed, only one part of his planning that Kan had managed not to befoul...

The few moments that the perfume has given her pause are enough for him to have vanished into his workroom, and, when she catches up to him, to be in the process of disassembling the shambles of his appearance. The chopsticks in his hair have been plucked free and tossed to the tabletop, leaving it to fall free and unravel from its braid on its own, and he is in the process of mopping the smear of makeup away from his face with the dishrag ordinarily used to clean his hands of oils while he works.

He will tend to it in a minute, he tells her, the words barely coherent against the hornets' nest of upset that his projections currently are.

And at this, he winces, and tries to turn from her, though such is his current state of mind that it doesn't allow the usual serpent of panic and unease to rear itself.

Baikou doesn't need to do that. He....did this to himself, he will put it back in order himself. He insists, unfolding the towel to bury his face in it for a moment to catch any stray droplets of water or cosmetics, and to a lesser extent to hide himself from her.

Its his mess. He'll clean it up. She shouldn't trouble herself with him.

Eyes at last, lift from the towel, looking utterly miserable as he drops it to the tabletop to next grab the hairbrush and begin to rake it through the mess of his black tresses to put them back in order.

....ever, for that matter. This one isn't worth her time.

He freezes, moreso from the screech of her projections in his head than from the effort her hands make to restrain him and goggles up at her like a child who's just been unexpectedly scolded by an elder.

The look of surprise dims as he watches the flower plucked free, venting an upset sigh, agitation at himself flaring anew as his breathing quickens in his chest a bit. It was not supposed to have happened this way.

Nonetheless, he feels his fingers surrender the brush to her.

When she had first begun to brush his hair, he nearly succumbed to the humiliated tears that strained at his seams, wanting to burst free. It was as if everything he'd convinced himself of in the last span of days had been tipped on its ear. That she and he had fallen right back into their rightful places with Baikou being the protector and he being the silly boy in need of protecting.

As the brush had done its work, however, working beyond the initial pulls and snarls to the black mane beneath, the angry and saddened roil of his thoughts had begun to detangle as well, as if skillfully parted by unseen fingers.

What he was doing... he begins .....was making a fool of himself. Apparently he is incapable of doing properly what boys much younger than him and men his own age are able to do with little trouble and far less goading.

As she jumps, its as if someone has kicked the snarling beast in his head awake again from the slumber its temporarily been lulled into.

What does he mean?

What does he mean....?

Grabbing up the rag once more and again rubbing at his face with it on a portion that has not yet been gummed up with smears of black, pink, and white, his mind momentarily walls itself from her, though the straining against it is not of a pleasant sort.

He is an IDIOT, is what he means, he releases finally, the projection seething.

Years he has put Baikou through misery. Years he's hidden from her. She has crossed worlds if only to see him again, and to present him with a chance to make this long-standing wrong RIGHT between them.

And she's been so PATIENT with him as he's flapped around in his own mind trying to sort out his own feelings.

And in return he--he only--

The rag is clutched tighter and tighter in his hand before being thrown to the tabletop in angry disgust.