@jootato said: ❛ nothing that happens now is any of your business. ❜
code geass: lelouch of the rebellion.
this hotel is becoming familiar to him. were it not for the circumstances, buccellati might find comfort in that; he makes silent note of the quality of the bedding and the scratchless condition of the coffee cup he brings to his lips, expression remaining impassive in spite of the taste of burnt beans (american coffee is still shit, no matter how many kinds he tries) and the damning certainty leveled at him across the table. for every blunt condemnation of buccellati’s involvement jotaro brings down on him, buccellati matches him with an obdurate blink. the narrow line of his lips is supremely unimpressed, both by the coffee and by what he hears.
"and you mean to tell me it’s yours?“ he asks, tone clipped. "you’re wrong either way.”
buccellati places the cup down with care, leaning back to cross his legs. this feels familiar. feels like business, he thinks, letting his hands come to rest in his lap; business being something he hasn’t done since he was sold out by the families in new york. this meeting of opposing forces drawing out the boundaries of their territory as they go is a world he has spent five years in, and the dancing steps are as worn into him as the scars on his hands.
he cants his head, gesturing. his knuckles are still reddened from the encounter the night before. he hasn’t slept since then— his nerves are still set alight, still recalling how quickly the passione assassin came down on him, how the edges of his vision faded smogy gray as he choked him, and most of all how jotaro was suddenly there, no footsteps or tearing of the air or anything to announce his arrival. there was crushing pressure on buccellati’s throat, and then the sheer force of jotaro’s stand sending the assassin into the nearby dumpster.
the metal crumpled like paper.
"passione is my business. I was their property,“ something twists in his stomach, acidic and scorned. he pushes it down. "and if passione is in bed with the men you’re hunting, then that makes them my business as well.”
in room 26 he is gazing into a mirror, a past chapter of himself from cairo and yonder. seventeen and bullheaded, weathered by the weight of the world, bruno buccellati only differs in an added veneer of professionalism because the tussle of mobsters thinks itself quite civilized. jotaro is just as unimpressed. essentially he is staring at a child filling oversized shoes.
a child soldier, at that. he is some stray beast unleashed out of passione’s sick forge—one it wants dead, for it has lost control of him. jotaro does not even dream of succeeding that failure—buccellati, he is a wild one; untouchable and tyrannical, bright underneath it all, still meant for better things and kinder days. what jotaro does plan is a swift, brutal takedown of those headhunters haunting him. he cannot do that with bruno persisting, though, not in any good conscience. his eyes mean to bore a hole in jotaro now. theirs is a showdown between oceans, and neither may give yet. he has ten years on this punk, jotaro thinks dryly, remembering an old friend, it's ten years too early to out-stare him.
“they aren’t.” or they do not have to be. there is another difference between him and this boy, in fact, one jotaro feels is greatest of all: bruno buccellati has a choice; if not inherently, then jotaro will pave one out of steel. he will do it with all the brute force in him, all the ferocity of star platinum he has already lain bare. there is no more youth lost between him and his fate. all that remains is for bruno to choose better. jotaro doubles down in both stance and expression, sparing not a budge, “i’m telling you that you need to learn when to leave something alone.”
seventeen. all too willing. jotaro leaves his own mug of complimentary instant untouched, steam still curling from the ceramic brim. light seeps through the hotel curtain and cuts a soft ray between them, a comfortable boundary to leave undisturbed.
“i can secure you and your mother’s safety with the speedwagon foundation,” he goes on, fingers interlacing over the sleek tabletop, “but you need to live a normal life from now on. last night was just lucky. i can’t kick a bunch of guys’ asses and watch yours at the same time.”
he aches still from the world’s consequences, and years of misuse. nothing to be done about it. for him there is no going back, not anymore—and he will use that vile power again if forced, no matter the toll.
“whatever happened in the past, you aren’t property anymore. you won’t have to run from passione anymore. if you understand that, don’t go looking for trouble.” and kujo jotaro, he is nothing but trouble.
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