It's not the (admittedly funny) image of Xehanort taking up knitting that makes him pause for a few seconds, looking away, his fist clinching as if he were tightening his grip on the Keyblade (which he almost wished he had a reason to summon right now). In fact, Xehanort's words basically go in one ear and out the other while Sora tries to find some words of his own. He was angry, and for once he had no idea how to explain why - he hadn't thought that he would ever get the chance to, so why would he have thought about it before? - and it made his frustration even worse. The feelings bounced off of each other, forming a knot at the pit of his stomach so tightly wound that he didn't know how to begin unraveling it, to figure out the source of his anger so that he could say whatever it was that he needed to say. It was like...

Well, it was like every other conversation he'd had with this guy, and he didn't like that one bit. At least back in the dream worlds he had been confused, disoriented, and his questions were outright ignored half the time anyway. Now he knows everything and should be able to say whatever he wants to say, but he can't. They were getting nowhere fast.

All he can think to do is keep asking questions.

"So what's the point? What can you even get out of bothering me all the time here?"