I don't own this, of course, but I might try to steal it.

…

He should not have been surprised to see him there: after all this time, what could he not expect, but the sight was unfamiliar and unease was heavy on him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, and smoothed his shirtfront with sweating hands, pretending that his easy confidence was still whole and unshattered.

Fuji tilted his head and looked at him and there was pity in his eyes and on his lips: something cruel lay in him and the docility of his hands, and Ryoma wondered when the man he had known had left, quietly, like a stranger slipping through the doors of a well-beloved place. He looked forward and past him, just for a heartbeat, and understood; but-he had promised-, and his determination faltered.

Fuji smiled, and hatred and hope mingled in his face, as pale and fine as a statue, and it was not quite a smile anymore-just lips drawn against a slash of teeth, and he put his hands in his pockets and sauntered in, and there was nothing for Ryoma to do but follow.

Rather a fool, he thought, but he could not stop the world from turning anymore than he could have stopped Fuji, who was already broken and mended clumsily, and he mistrusted what lay before them. The guard was dead, Ryoma knew drearily, as surely as cherry blossoms in summer, and their clothes rustled abruptly, like paper, and there was an odd, questioning silence in the hallway, and Ryoma asked, almost helplessly," Why?"

They came at last to the door, unremarkable and solidly cast as a whole block of metal, a hole cut in the corridor. The lights flickered blue shadows in the hollows of Fuji's face, and the lines underneath his eyes: he stopped and turned to Ryoma, without eagerness or inflection. The key was small-a waxen shape of ivory smoothness and ambiguous, doubtful shape. He grasped it awkwardly and put out his hand and the door swung open soundlessly, feather light, seemingly to leap away from his hand, and Fuji's hands were clutched. The dark edges of his suit looked like raven feathers and his eyes were blank as he stepped over the threshold.

The floor looked like it had been carved out of sky but they were only looking at the man sitting on the floor, stick-thin and infinitely tall. He wore black, and might have been made out of telephone wires and whittled bones, but he was, nevertheless the same person. He did not look at Ryoma, but was still.

"Go home." He said gently, but he was only pleading softly.

"No," said Fuji, "because you left, and that's not home, and you never said why."

Tezuka jerked his shoulder at the turning, wide, strange room and the world and said, " I have responsibilities, and you aren't a part of them anymore. This is not your place."

"It's only the edge of the world," said Fuji sharply and with exquisite nastiness, and in the tone of somebody making reasonable sense with madmen, "and not too far. I don't mind, because you think it matters and it doesn't," and he stepped past the gun that Ryoma held to him with what he claimed were unshaking fingers, past the white computers and silver weapons, and placed cold fingers on the curve of Tezuka's cheek.

"Go," said Tezuka, but without conviction, and Fuji laughed at him, quick and golden, and brushed fingertips against his cold wrist.

"I hated you for years yet, so don't expect to pass me off with platitudes."

"You'll frighten the men," said Tezuka, thoughtfully, and pressed his lips together quickly. "Shan't," said Fuji amicably, and he was more dangerously alive then he had ever been.

…

Why would Fuji be always the villain?

Though, he is terribly good at it. I'm not channeling him as I ought, but all's not horrible. The evilness is undermined, but that's called keeping it in the family.