[He almost lurches forward to offer Fugo a hand — to ask if he needs anything. Some tea, anything — but he doesn't. Instead, he hides his hands behind his back before clenching them into fists.]

[Don't interrupt him. Let him get it out. No matter how painfully formal it sounds, or how much he wants to cross the space between them to put his hands on Fugo's face. His nails, sharper than ever, dig into his palms.]

. . . Personal in what way? [A beat, before he clarifies.] I don't mean to be deliberately obtuse. I just don't want to assume that your reasons are the same as mine. [Even though, really, he's already assuming that, no matter what he says.]