[Fugo picked this room out of all the others he found because it is at the end of the hall. It's the same as the rest: small, cramped, and dark. But he feels a little better (not safer) with one less direction to worry about and account for. Right now, he's not looking directly at the open end of the hallway; he won't turn his back to it, but he does keep it in his peripheral to better track movement and anyone who might approach him.
He sees Giorno out of the corner of his eye, his blonde curls a golden halo in his peripheral vision, and hears him, too; the click of his heels on the floor. It's all so familiar that he doesn't want to look, because he's already tired of seeing maybe-Mistas and maybe-Trishes and turning around to spot a stranger in the end. He needs to stop. He needs to come to terms with the idea that he's alone, again, until he can earn his way back home. He is determined not to look at this maybe-Giorno because he has-- better things to do than stew in his own unhappiness. Things like sweeping up this stupid, awful snow in front of the windowless room he's not going to do much sleeping in.]
[Except this isn't a maybe-Girono at all. It is Giorno, calling out to him, running up to him, catching his shoulders with both hands. It's all very surprising. Or startling? There's a clattering sound and-- oh, that's the broom. He dropped the broom. Then: pain, ten spots of it, from Giorno's fingertips digging into his shoulders. Fugo stares at him, plainly too surprised for his own thoughts to catch up to him.]
Giogio? [This isn't where he belongs, but Giorno. Giorno shouldn't be here. Giorno belongs in Napoli, not in a castle with never-melting snow cluttering up the hallways. That's just a fact.]
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He sees Giorno out of the corner of his eye, his blonde curls a golden halo in his peripheral vision, and hears him, too; the click of his heels on the floor. It's all so familiar that he doesn't want to look, because he's already tired of seeing maybe-Mistas and maybe-Trishes and turning around to spot a stranger in the end. He needs to stop. He needs to come to terms with the idea that he's alone, again, until he can earn his way back home. He is determined not to look at this maybe-Giorno because he has-- better things to do than stew in his own unhappiness. Things like sweeping up this stupid, awful snow in front of the windowless room he's not going to do much sleeping in.]
[Except this isn't a maybe-Girono at all. It is Giorno, calling out to him, running up to him, catching his shoulders with both hands. It's all very surprising. Or startling? There's a clattering sound and-- oh, that's the broom. He dropped the broom. Then: pain, ten spots of it, from Giorno's fingertips digging into his shoulders. Fugo stares at him, plainly too surprised for his own thoughts to catch up to him.]
Giogio? [This isn't where he belongs, but Giorno. Giorno shouldn't be here. Giorno belongs in Napoli, not in a castle with never-melting snow cluttering up the hallways. That's just a fact.]