[As they move into the room, Fugo catches a glimpse of Giorno's smile out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't get it, but that's nothing new. Even on his better days, he just can't understand why Giorno smiles so much around him. Dour, argumentative, unpleasant him. What's there to smile about? With a shake of his head, Fugo tries to shake the thought out of the forefront of his mind.
Fugo's bedroom hasn't changed much since he moved into it. There are the heavy curtains, but those were for Giorno's comfort during the day. There's hardly anything personal about it, save for the framed photograph on his nightstand-- and even that lies face down. There are his books, his notes, various materials for spells; if not for the bed, it would seem like a workroom. There's not a wrinkle on his bed or a speck of dust to be found. Fugo lingers near the door, fiddling with the handle; even without Purple Haze to think of, Fugo finds himself leaving doors open behind him in the house.]
[In the end, he closes it. There's nothing to be worried about. Not for the first time, he thinks to himself: I need to stop. It's a stupid, pointless habit.
In the end, he himself sits on the edge of the bed. Elbows close, feet flat on the floor, fighting the urge to pick at his fingernails.]
I don't... know where to begin. [He bites his cheek, then sighs. Without thinking, he reaches to scratch at his wrist.] With all of this. Other than, I-- ... it's not like I haven't managed something similar on my own in the past. I know my own limits.
[Or, at least-- he thought he did. He doesn't miss Purple Haze, but at least he knew how to handle it. At least he could take care of it on his own.]
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Fugo's bedroom hasn't changed much since he moved into it. There are the heavy curtains, but those were for Giorno's comfort during the day. There's hardly anything personal about it, save for the framed photograph on his nightstand-- and even that lies face down. There are his books, his notes, various materials for spells; if not for the bed, it would seem like a workroom. There's not a wrinkle on his bed or a speck of dust to be found. Fugo lingers near the door, fiddling with the handle; even without Purple Haze to think of, Fugo finds himself leaving doors open behind him in the house.]
[In the end, he closes it. There's nothing to be worried about. Not for the first time, he thinks to himself: I need to stop. It's a stupid, pointless habit.
In the end, he himself sits on the edge of the bed. Elbows close, feet flat on the floor, fighting the urge to pick at his fingernails.]
I don't... know where to begin. [He bites his cheek, then sighs. Without thinking, he reaches to scratch at his wrist.] With all of this. Other than, I-- ... it's not like I haven't managed something similar on my own in the past. I know my own limits.
[Or, at least-- he thought he did. He doesn't miss Purple Haze, but at least he knew how to handle it. At least he could take care of it on his own.]