A/N: I hate writing in first person, so that was a challenge, but I think this turned out well. It should be obvious who's talking after the first paragraph or so, but I'm still not going to tell you now just in case. Enjoy!

Through the Eyes of the Deceived

It started with those stupid, stupid handcuffs.

In theory it was a good idea, a simple way to keep an eye on Kira Suspect Number One, but it was absolutely beyond impractical.

Light had to go and stay in L's apartment (it would have been improper, of course, to have two men sharing with one young lady), and so I was left alone in our once shared bed. It was comforting to know that Light was only a floor away, sleeping almost directly above me on one of the newly installed twins in L's room, and I could occasionally hear muffled conversation if I lay still long enough. Lucky, that.

They were always fighting. I'd hear Light raise his voice, and L wouldn't say much in response until loud crashes and thumps on their floor – my ceiling – started, and I would run upstairs and tell them to stop so that one wouldn't strangle the other with that ridiculous chain stringing them together.

I liked being able to keep an eye – well, an ear – on them. After a while, the conflicts became interspersed with sullen murmurings, then almost pleasant conversation, but they'd always somehow end up back at each other's throats.

When I was making tea in relative silence one evening, I heard Light beginning to shout, again, and, as I'd come to expect, banging and thumping quickly followed. Kick, punch, fight, fall. It was almost boring now; I was starting to wish I couldn't hear them at all - if only. I was just getting ready to bolt out of the door to calm them down, again, when L moaned.

It was a soft, vulnerable noise that sent ice skipping through my veins, freezing me to the spot. Listen. Scuffling, the scrape of limbs against floorboards. Clink, clink, clink, chain against the wall. Creaking mattress springs, my heavy breathing. They can't be…

I couldn't look at Light the next day.

The handcuffs stayed on for another fortnight, and even by then I'd gotten used to the new, intrusive, malicious breed of noises coming from upstairs. Sometimes L's collar would slip and I'd catch sight of angry bite marks on his shoulders, or Light would reach out for something and I'd see where his wrist was rubbed raw from the steel cuff. I thought it would stop when Light came home, back to me.

And it did, for a time. At least, I thought it had.

I was heading to the roof to fetch Light – it was nine o'clock, I was hungry and dinner was getting cold – when I saw through the small glass window of the doors leading outside, beyond the metal staircase and iron girders, towards the far edge of the building, two figures kissing. It was quite obviously them: L's thin frame and stand-out hair make for a striking silhouette, and I'd recognise Light anywhere. I thought they'd been doing it before out of boredom, frustration, maybe lust, but this was planned; this was something more.

For a couple of minutes, I looked on. Light had his hands on either side of L's face – tender, gentle, completely unlike him – and L's arms were wrapped tightly around Light's neck. It hurt to watch them; to spy on such a warm, intimate moment and feel so cold myself. The most affection Light ever gave me was a kiss on the forehead before sex. We never hugged, hardly ever held hands. I'd just thought he was that kind of person – weird about contact – so I'd let it go, because I love him, and the few touches I got were enough, just, but it wasn't that at all.

My stomach flipped, my head span and I cried, feeling utterly ridiculous. Jealous, even. Choked sobs bounced off the bare corridor walls around me, cold and lonely noises attacking from every side that they couldn't hear. They just carried on, oblivious on their side of the roof.

Salty, self-pitying tears spilt over my cheeks, blurring my vision, but I still watched them through that tiny, dirty pane of glass – their happiness was hypnotising. Light shifted, hand slipping up L's shirt, and I snapped back, bitterness and envy rolling over me like waves upon a fragile, shingle shore, my shattered dignity debris ready to be washed away.

I pushed a hand over my eyes and, loudly, to give them plenty of warning, slammed open the double doors, singing out Light's name and demanding he come downstairs for some food. I saw them spring apart out of the corner of my eye, and when I skipped up to them, L looked embarrassed, Light tense.

"Ryuzaki!" I scolded, "You shouldn't keep Light-kun working so late!"

A smile flickered over his worried face in a silent sigh of relief, and Light visibly relaxed. They already thought I was dense and ditzy, why ruin the illusion now? I carried on with my dumb blonde routine, giggling and grabbing Light's arm, ignoring his filthy smirk and L's small grin, pulling him inside.

L still thinks I don't know. It's painfully obvious he hasn't the slightest clue about how to read people, how to interact on a human level. Poor guy. Every now and then I catch him looking at me, guilt shining in those wide, glassy eyes of his, but he always turns away quick enough for me to pretend I haven't noticed.

Light knows I know, I can tell. He knows, and he doesn't care, because both of us know it doesn't make any difference; both of us know I'll never do anything to stop it, so he carries on.

Once I noticed an insultingly obvious love bite on Light's collarbone and came so very close to finally standing up for myself, finally having the guts to do something, but he just looked at me as if to say, You're kidding, right? and the anger bubbling in my chest vanished, courage wilting. I lightly told him off for having his feet on the table instead, and that was that.

He disappears almost every night now, and every time I pretend to still be asleep. I hear the lock slide, and the door brush over carpet, clicking shut again while padding footsteps fade away down the corridor. Every time I tell myself to go to sleep, quickly, to save myself the embarrassment, but every time I stay awake and listen, helpless and alone in our empty king size bed.

I can always tell who's fucking who: with Light it's just slam, slam, slam into the headboard, violent and frantic, whereas L's pace is more erratic. Light gets more vocal when he's the one underneath too. Moans and groans and gasps and murmurs; Light, Ryuzaki. Every time tears sting my eyes, and I wipe them away angrily; furious at Light, outraged at L, livid with myself. How dare they?

And then he comes back, my boyfriend, slips into bed smelling of sex, the sweet, heady musk of sweat and cum offensive, painful in its intensity, and I just lie there. It's easier this way; at least he still has to pretend he loves me.

No one else has clue; I don't think it's even crossed their minds as a possibility. When L's loose jeans had slipped below his jutting pelvis, I noticed dark purple bruises blossoming on his pale skin, vibrantly screaming out his win, laughing in my face. My mind ran away with me – it was Light's fingertips that had caused them, Light's hands that had gripped those slender hips tight enough to leave his mark.

Matsuda spotted my deep blush and naively mistook it for a fever, asking if I was alright and suggesting I go to bed, get some rest, relax. Grateful of the excuse to run away and escape, I left the suffocating room, but not before glimpsing L's delicate fingers tugging his waistband back up to hide the violet blotches, Light's arm slipped discreetly around his waist from the side, hand pressed against the small of his back, invisible to the rest of the room. Ignorance is bliss.

Sometimes I wish I was as stupid as everyone seems to think I am.

Ta da! What do you think?