ic inbox ( the calling )

[digiorno]

buongiorno! sorry i missed you; i'll happily get back to you as soon as i'm done with whatever business i'm on. leave a message!

( text | voice | video | action )

Comments

[private| un: courtblanche]

[cosmetological]

So feel free to tell me to mind my business, of course, but I'm getting a certain... vibe from our mutual 'friend' on the network.

That vibe screams 'bag of dicks'.

Correct me if I'm wrong?

[private | un: attar]

[digiorno]

[. . . Wow. Uh. Well.]

Just one bag?

[cosmetological]

Aha.

I just tend to err on the side of 'single bag' when I'm going on vibes as opposed to proven behavior.

No question, since there's clearly history, but should anyone be worried?

[digiorno]

First I want your angle. And I want it on video, please, so I can see your face and hear your voice.

[video]

[cosmetological]

[ Within a minute or so, Giorno will see an exquisitely beautiful man wearing an exceptionally stylish white suit cut to show off every angle to the best effect. Or perhaps that's just the nature of this particular beast. His hair is dark as night in curls that somehow scream both 'thoroughly sexed' and 'perfectly coifed', his eyes are a pale blue that a person could certainly drown in rather easily, and every last detail of him only serves to make him more desirable. He's reclining on a white couch in a white living room that is stocked with furniture that costs more than some people's homes, and one might think him a statue with how effortless the whole thing looks.

He's not. And his lips curl just a little as he focuses on the camera.]

Better?

[ He leans in a little. ]

But I'm not going to say crap until you do the same. I saw you earlier, but I want to see your face for all this too.

[video]

[digiorno]

[Well, two statues can have a conversation in this day and age. Admittedly Giorno is a little more avenging angel than dark and brooding stranger, but he appears thoroughly unimpressed by the vision before him, his head cocked slightly to one side.]

[It's also worth pointing out that to someone with a keen eye for detail, there are similarities to be noted between the bag of dicks and this kid: the brows, the curve of his mouth, the texture and color of his hair. Everything is softer, and he projects an air of effortless gentleness, but if you know to look . . .]

I thought that was obvious. A conversation on equal footing, yes?

Go on.

[video]

[cosmetological]

[ To be fair, Thomas isn't actually trying. Well, he's trying with the decore and the outfit, because he's a literal 'prince' of the White Court and that's just how he has to roll for appearances, but the rest of it is literally something he can't turn off. He's tried. He tried when he wanted to get a normal job and literally every single boss and potential boss tried to jump him. There is a reason that he went into business for himself as opposed to working for anyone else and it's not just because he's a 'go getter'.

...but if you go to his personal rooms, you'll see that he's a big old slob who likes fandomy t-shirts with geeky slogans and that he lives on microwave meals and beer. Things Giorno will probably learn at one point if they keep up with one another and things go well... ]

First one thing:

[ He gestures at Giorno's... well, everything with an expansive finger twirl. ]

You related to Señor Bag of Dicks?

[ He raises both hands and spreads them. ]

Full disclosure: I'm not a stranger to that situation myself. But I want to know before I say anything. I'm not blind.

private | video | un: basileus

[malignans]

[Dio has hesitated to have this conversation with Giorno for a number of reasons. To begin with, while there are a number of things pertaining to Dio that he is reluctant to divulge even to his son, none are quite so sensitive as this. No, Dio is not mired in sentimentality, but whether he likes it or not, he was ultimately forced to place his trust in one person in all the world. And so he did. He placed his trust, but Dio kept him hidden from all those who would seek to destroy him before any steps in Dio's fail-safe plans could come to fruition because he needed more time to stand on his own without Dio at his side, protecting him. And surely, surely he was cunning enough to realize he needed to keep his head down until the time was right. That he needed to allow the memory of Dio to be nothing more than a distant nightmare of the Joestars before he acted so that he would be ready when they eventually rose to oppose him.]

[But if he is that clever to have survived, it does stand to reason that he may have been clever enough to find Giorno. After all, there was an undeniable gravity between them that Dio's blood very well could have called him near Giorno. And Giorno...]

[Giorno would be wise enough not to mention it explicitly to Dio if he had been old enough to make any sense of such a meeting. Not without Dio asking in some manner or another would he ever even dare test the waters if he understood the weight that Enrico Pucci carries on his shoulders with pride and without complaint.]

[But it nags at Dio because trust is easier to give when it becomes impossible for one to be cognizant of the consequences. So it's after reading the same line three or four times without being able to make sense of the words in his stolen home that Dio finally concedes to the impulse.]

Would you consider yourself pious, Giorno?

[digiorno]

[Well. He was actually just working — nothing particularly sensitive, so he has time to check for messages. But if he had been in a meeting and seen this, it wouldn't have stopped him from laughing out loud, bright and startled and incredulous. Nothing could stop him from that, in all honestly.]

I'm sorry, am I what?

[malignans]

[Dio, on the other hand, is less amused. His expression hardly shifts, but his displeasure at the laughter is plain to see in his eyes.]

Answer the question.

[digiorno]

Don't sulk, you're about a million years old, not four.

Obviously not. Why the hell are you asking me that?

[malignans]

[His mouth twists itself into a thin line, biting back whatever acidic remark was just on the tip of his tongue. Were there no purpose or point to him talking to Giorno right now, he'd let it fly most likely, but not now. He has to suppress it. Dio draws a slow breath before exhaling sharply through his nostrils, jaw clenched for a couple of seconds until he forces it to relax.]

I knew a man once who had an unrivaled and unshakable faith in his God. When he could feel His presence, I don't believe there was anyone more content or filled with purpose. But that's not what I found particularly impressive about him or his faith. This man felt that such contentment could persist even in the absence of his God's presence as his purpose would sustain him and his faith would remain adaptable.

An assertion like that seems impossible — perhaps even more so when I'm the one making it on his behalf — but it has stayed with me since last I saw him. I've often wondered whether or not he was right in the end.

But whether or not he is right is not why I asked you. In thinking of him, it occurred to me that you believed in something once. But unlike this man who held fast to his belief, you abandoned yours quickly and it was never once rewarded.

[Dio waves a dismissive hand as he picks his book back up.]

It was a passing curiosity.

[digiorno]

[As he listens, some of the sarcastic dismissiveness leaves Giorno's expression. Not all of it, certainly not all of the suspicion, but . . . well, the curious thing about this is that it's the only time Dio's talked about someone other than himself with any kind of respect or high regard. That's got to be significant.]

[Of course, there's also the sneaking suspicion that this all comes around to Dio in the end. I knew a man once . . . and then Dio mentions Giorno's own loss of faith, and his eyes narrow. Is that what it is?]

Are you referring to my faith in you? Because if you are, you ought to be aware it was not quickly or easily abandoned.

[private | un: mr president]

[fivenareff]

[There's a lot of things he could say. He could be dramatic, or he could be secretive. He could be far more specific. But in the end, all he sends are three words, because he doesn't know how secure this connection is.]

Giorno.

It's Polnareff.

[private | un: attar]

[digiorno]

[His heart leaps into his throat immediately, bright and hopeful and excited. And then it sinks, hits his stomach hard and heavy as lead. His mind races, and then he types out a quick return message, because one way or another, whether this person is lying or not, they know about Polnareff — and so he will have to meet them. Immediately.]

Meet me at Nicholson Park in one hour. This is your only opportunity.

[fivenareff]

[That's good. That's clever and wary without being so cautious he misses opportunities. Polnareff smiles thinly down at the message and then sets off. The little device has a map, and he's not so far from the park.

It's a pretty thing, the park. There are dogs wandering around and people picnicking; in the distance, a few men are throwing a frisbee around. It's all very calm and pleasant, but that doesn't stop him from glancing around, keeping an eye on his surroundings, on all the people that come and go.

Even without binoculars, he'll see Giorno the moment he arrives. That golden hair sticks out, and Giorno generates a presence that's impossible to ignore.]

[digiorno]

[The thing is, Giorno had been having a calm day before this. He'd been in meetings. With people. Don't worry about which people. Just some people. Not as many as back home, but two vertices of control are better than one, which means meetings must be had.]

[Those meetings also mean that Giorno is in full regalia, which in his case means a nice, dark blue suit, open-collared, no tie, his hair curled and loosely tied at the base of his neck. He's alert, fingering the back of the stud in his ear in a deliberate attempt to distract from how much his hand itches to slip into his pocket and pull out his knife. There is only one ring on his finger, a gold band with a red stone inset.]

[None of this matters when he sees Polnareff. Real and alive and in the flesh, not in the turtle, in this place like nothing ever happened to him in Rome — like he's only met Diavolo once.]

[Giorno's breath catches. He reaches out, not with his hands but with Gold Experience's senses, to feel the beat of his heart and the pulse of his blood. He'll be able to tell if he's pulling information out of his ass, if it's not credible, if he's experiencing any stress. He'll know.]

Tell me your name. And tell me mine. My real name.

[fivenareff]

[He's not hurt by the wariness. God, no; he's pleased by it, because it means Giorno is thinking, even here. Polnareff tips his head, staring up steadily at his don.]

Jean-Pierre Polnareff, born in 1965 in France. And your name-- your real name-- is Haruno Shiobana, but you prefer Giorno Giovanna. Most people think you've been don of Passione for years, but you and I and a few select others know differently.

Do you want more?

[digiorno]

No.

[No, that's more than enough. His heartbeat didn't waver, his pulse didn't jump. His expression didn't change, either, except maybe to grow warmer. No one's this good at faking someone so complicated.]

[He closes the distance between them in a brand new heartbeat, leans down and wraps his arms around his shoulders in a tight hug, shaking with delight.]

It's good to see you here.

text | un: smallvillguy

[american_alien]

HEY! My CALL device turned back on! I hope yours is still working...

un: attar

[digiorno]

Clark? You're back? I haven't gone anywhere. What happened?

[american_alien]

Seemed like everyone went somewhere to me. Though apparently, it was just me.

My thing turned off for like three years.

[digiorno]

Three years?

[Here comes the fuss--]

Are you all right? Where are you?

[american_alien]

I was in a plane crash. Well, a water landing. Where the plane didn't survive. But the pilot and I are okay.

And now I'm on a cruise ship where everyone thinks I'm this missing billionaire. It's a little weird.

[digiorno]

[. . .]

WHAT THE HELL, CLARK

A PLANE CRASH

WHAT THE HELL