[Fugo observes, from a disconnected point located between his chilly body and the simmering, poisonous muck that is his heart, that Abbacchio has done just about everything he can to make himself non-threatening. He slouches to appear smaller than he is-- so they can discuss this eye-to-eye, as if they're equals. He doesn't waste time with pleasantries, but he doesn't go out of his way to be cruel either.]

You didn't need to bother with the door.

[Fugo unfolds briefly; one hand reaches up to his hairline and, in a single sharp, precise gesture, combs his bangs out of his eyes to see Abbacchio better. His gaze is both intent and somehow distant. When he is finished, he folds his arms across his chest again. The wall between them hasn't budged.]

Purple Haze isn't here. It isn't a necessary precaution anymore.

[Nevermind that Fugo still leaves doors open behind him. He is uncomfortable living in this underground house, as beautiful as it is bizarre. He's been here for months, but has done so little to personalize this room that it might as well belong to someone else. The habit is for his own comfort, even though the discomfort he feels in closed up rooms is, at this point, stupid, irrational, and pointless.

This likely seems a non-sequitur. What he means is this: Abbacchio is under no obligation to comfort him. About this, or anything else.]

I've been avoiding you because I don't know where things stand between us. And it would be inappropriate of me to ask, given the circumstances of how I left and what happened after. As it would be impractical and dangerous to change my living arrangements, this seemed like the fairest course of action.

[He says all of this in a detached, almost clinical tone. Each word was chosen carefully. He lets no hint of his own feelings through. It wouldn't be fair. Abbacchio had enough garbage to deal with; Fugo's baggage about what happened in April should not be his problem.]

You don't need to do anything.