A/N: …I wrote a sequel to Broken, because people requested it, and I revised Broken today because I was kind of dissatisfied with it, and now it's at least a little bit better. And then I got the urge to write this, because I know people wanted to know Tezuka's side of it. So… here you go.


It's not your fault.

That was what the note had said.

Tezuka didn't believe it. Not when Fuji's body had been found the very afternoon he'd caught Tezuka with Echizen. Not when Fuji had slit his own wrists and bled to death in his bath tub.

Of course it was his fault.

He didn't deserve to be here, at Fuji's funeral. He didn't deserve this last chance to say goodbye. He'd been stupid--so, so stupid. He didn't even know how it had happened, really--one minute they'd been discussing some tennis move or other, and the next Echizen was kissing him, and it had been instinct to kiss back, and--

And then Fuji had come in.

Tezuka had frozen. He didn't come to himself until after Fuji left, and even then he'd been too shocked to go after him.

He had never regretted anything as much as he regretted not going after Fuji.

The day after Fuji's death, his parents found the suicide note Fuji had left in his bedroom, laying on the neatly made bed innocently, as if it belonged there. Fuji's mother had shown up at Tezuka's home, distraught, brandishing it at him, screaming that he'd killed her son.

It's not your fault.

Fuji seemed to be the only one who thought that.

Tezuka stood in front of the coffin, half open, Fuji's hands folded over his stomach, wrists covered by the sleeves of the dark blue suit he was dressed in. Blue eyes closed, a peaceful smile on his face--so much like his usual expression. Tezuka closed his eyes, turned away. How was he supposed to let go, accept Fuji's death, when Fuji looked so much like he had when he was alive?

Eyes closed. Smiling. Pale skin. Lifeless. Always, always lifeless.

Tezuka had asked him, once, because the question had been nagging him for months, what had changed about Fuji. It was something he couldn't put his finger on--something different, but subtle, too subtle for him to know precisely what it was. Fuji had smiled brightly and replied, "You made me feel alive again, Mitsu."

And Tezuka had taken that away from him.

He looked back at Fuji. Touched his ice-cold cheek.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I love you."

I'm sorry. I love you. It's not your fault. It's mine. Be happy with Echizen, and forget about me. I'm just too weak to be without you.

"You didn't have to be," Tezuka whispered, and it was morbidly ironic, almost laughable in a twisted sort of way, that Fuji had died because of a misunderstanding.

It's not your fault.

Tezuka didn't believe it. After all, Fuji was nothing if not a liar.


A/N: …/sigh/ God, it sucks.