[ Oh. His stool! There's a good old boy, having that nonsense sorted — why, the more Dino thinks about it, between deploying careful feelers to the back of his mouth to see if teeth've gone dislodged, the more he reckons Xanxus and I are coming to something close to an understanding. It's like dealing with a monkey: screaming, a cheerful disposition, and inevitably showing your ass will work social wonders.

( Update: they will not be sharing bananas in the immediate future. ) ]

Hold on, hold on. I mean an... actual... conversation.

[ Possibly spiced by Reborn's understandable urge to bash Xanxus' face in, but without making that commitment. Even Reborn boasts days when the sky's grey, the milk man is too depressed over his extinct profession to call out his greetings, and someone else fills in half the daily crossword puzzle. Sometimes, a (hit)man can't be counted on for mayhem.

The aforementioned stool earns a fond pat before Dino takes it over again, firmly planting his feet on the floor and leaning towards Xanxus with the chipper posture of an octogenarian. The cup, then, alcohol chasing that hint of a scratch in his mouth since he'd shamefully bitten the inside of his cheek during his fall. Now, let's all be good friends here. ]

Just talking. Between the two of you. Work out some terms. Reborn is — [ Hell-borne. ] — not unreasonable. There's nothing to say the Varia can't work out a good arrangement, while the new Vongola brigade earns its stripes. It would be... [ Taking advantage, blatantly and brazenly. ] ...understandable if you decided to raise your tariffs for services rendered at this time. I'm not saying charge obscenely, but...

[ The airy wave of his free hand, because, really, Charge obscenely. Reborn would be sensitive enough to the political climate to concede a compensatory rate for the Varia and balm Xanxus' feelings. Not to say that Dino approves of putting a fellow Don through the financial wringer, but peace is worth a healthy stream of euros. ]