[It's a sharp enough edge that the flowers at the edge closest to Dio's feet begin to wilt. The buds that were closed begin to shrivel as the stalks bend and fold under the weight. Vibrant leaves turn crisp and brittle, a few even falling off with even the slightest movement of wind.]

[And yet, if one were relying solely upon Dio as a metric of his mood, it would appear to remain relatively unchanged. The only tell that something in his mood's shifted is the way his eyes narrow. If Giorno had stopped, left it at pointing out the hypocrisy in concerns what anyone else might thing, he might have remained entirely even and calm. But it's the dismissal of Dio's opinion that pricks at Dio's pride and sparks the irritability that almost always serves as a gateway to his temper.]

Every boy cares what his father thinks of him, whether he wants to or not.

[Dio certainly never did, and yet . . . Anyway, Dio won't allow Giorno to mark him as irrelevant or unimportant, and simply discard what Dio may or may not have to say without another thought. He can't rely on his usual tricks because his son adopted so many of them himself, but Dio's confident that he'll figure it out what it takes sooner rather than later. There's never been a single person he couldn't charm at any rate.]

In any case, you value the truth, don't you? I'd think you'd be delighted that I see no reason to lie to you.