Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note or anything else in this fic that I don't own. ^-^

A/N: Slash! This is from the point of view of C, who is male, as is BB. If this concept bothers you, then you will not enjoy this fanfic, although you're totally welcome to stay! : ) Come to the yaoi side... we have cookies... and strawberry jam...

If you're already on the yaoi side I solemnly high-five you.

P.S. I don't hate any of the characters in Death Note, no matter what this fanfic may suggest.

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I have always believed that everyone in the world has someone who was made for them specifically, and who they were made for. There's exactly one person out there who's your perfect match, and then there are usually a few other people who aren't your match, but who you could live perfectly happily with. You could spend your whole life with them and then die in their arms, never knowing the difference, and it would be just as valid, just as real. Love is love, and it doesn't matter if it was intended or invented.

But sometimes, rarely, the two people who were created for each other actually manage to find each other. When they do, they go down in history. At the risk of sounding cliché, it's Romeo and Juliet, who were truly created for each other despite all the love-at-first-sight nonsense. Even Hitler had Eva Brown (Brown, Braun, whatever you want to call her), who said, before he became what he became, that she would love him forever, and then did, to death. It's Xena and Gabrielle, who are completely opposite and nowhere near complete without each other. It's Tarzan and Jane, who found each other against impossible odds. It's that stupid, fucking L and his perfect Abercrombie & Fitch-mannequin of a boyfriend, who were the only ones who could have ever understood each other's crazy asshole bastard minds.

Everyone has someone. Everyone.

Romeo had Juliet.

Hitler had Eva.

Xena had Gabrielle.

Tarzan had Jane.

L had Light.

And BB had me.

C.

And if there was someone who could love BB, then I know there's someone out there for everyone. BB, who murdered more people than Mello ever recorded in his Notes. BB, master thief and expert liar. BB, who got so much pleasure out of other people's pain that he once kept a victim alive for three days just to torture her. BB, who would cut anyone up- alive or dead. BB, who criminal profilers shake their heads at, and who criminal psychologists believe must have had one really screwed up childhood.

But I was there, and I knew: he had already been strange, even when he first arrived at Wammy's. Too thin, too tall, too... stretched out looking. Too pale, and with too-big eyes of such a curious crimson color. He was always watching people with those eerie eyes. No one else would talk to him, but, from the first moment, I absolutely could not stay away. He was completely obsessed with L, and his strange fixation only increased my fixation on him, and his hatred for the one we were supposed to become immediately became my own opinion, as well. He dressed like L, he sat like L, he talked a bit like L. He tried to imitate him in every way he could, and a lot of the time he was incredibly successful. The paradox of this- of his hatred for L, but how he went out of his way to be like him- made B all the more interesting to me. And I've never, even to this day, figured out how I could hate L so much but love B, who was just an imitation, so fiercely.

Maybe I loved how he was just a pantomime, or the small glints of frantic, sobbing desperation behind his replication. Maybe I loved that I could read him from the first moment I met him, when everyone else in the world was a mystery to me, including the people I had known the longest. Maybe it was because of the unique madness behind it all. He was stark raving mad, and I understood that fact the moment I laid eyes on him. Actually, I understood that before anyone else at Wammy's did. I know, because if they'd understood him like I did, they would have smothered him in his sleep.

Of course, as his roommate, I would have happily killed whoever tried to hurt him.

I guess I'm a sicko too, then, because I loved him enough to do things like that. This, as well, was something I knew very early on. It changed nothing. I knew instinctively that I was there for him. I knew that my parents had died so that I would end up at the orphanage, by his side. That I had been born dangerously intelligent, but not quite as intelligent as him, so that I could be right behind him always without surpassing him.

I had- and have- my quirks too, of course, as everyone at Wammy's does. I was- and am- completely obsessed with anything that starts with the letter C. Most prominently, I'm always eating Cheerios, and I mean that literally. I eat slowly to keep control of the situation, but I always have the inner bag of one of those wumbo (Thank you, Spongebob)-sized boxes with me, and I pop those things constantly. I don't even like them all that much. I'm certainly sick of them after all these years. I also seem to write best in crayon- if I write in pen or pencil or something, I begin to compulsively use words that start with 'C' and the consequential alliteration gets really annoying really fast. The list goes on, but in the interest of restraining the madness, for that was always my job, I will cease.

We became lovers much too soon, but much later than I would have liked, when we were thirteen. Which is legal... in Spain... but since we were in England, where the age is sixteen, in an establishment created to teach children to be detectives of the law, it was kind of important that we kept our exact activities quiet.

Not that that stopped him, though, and it didn't bother me a bit. We would shock the other kids at the House by doing whatever we damn well pleased wherever we damn well pleased to do it. If he asked for a blowjob in the cafeteria (and it was always asking, never ordering), I would get on my knees. (He did, once, when we were seventeen. To the horror of Roger's corneas, I immediately complied.) I would have had full-on anal sex with him on live television if he had asked me to.

My point is that nothing mattered to me but him. Nothing was sacred but him. Nothing went too far. Nothing was too much. There was nothing I wouldn't do, no line I wouldn't cross. Sodomy was nothing compared to how far I was willing to go.

And he loved me too, that was the weird thing. Normally masters don't love their slaves. But I could read him, and I watched him completely objectively when he said the words, and he wasn't lying. It was my delight, the happiest fact of my life. It was so incredible that this twisted, misshapen, beautiful individual could love me. That this warped creature with crazed, crimson eyes and a hysterical laugh that sometimes gave me shivers could tear his attention away from hate for long enough to feel love, and that it was for me.

B's psychiatrists were funny. He would flat-out refuse to go if they didn't allow me to come in with him, and I was amused to no end watching him run them in circles. We were always together. There was literally never a moment when we were apart: we followed each other around, ate together, shared a room. We even went to the bathroom together. The teachers gave us the same classes and sat us right next to each other because they knew we would boycott if they didn't and this was just easier. For almost a decade, I was never alone for even a moment. When we got in trouble, we got in trouble together. It didn't even matter if only one of us had actually committed the transgression: we would both get in trouble. We became one person. Like Lord of the Flies' Sam and Erik eventually became Samnerik, we went from B and C to Bnc. Even when a girl claimed to like us, she claimed to like 'them,' not one of us.

Needless to say, we transcended verbal communication. We were always talking, yes, always trying to get deeper into each other, always searching for something new in the mind that was as familiar as our own, but that's not to say that we needed to. During a scheme or even just during lunch, if we didn't want to say something aloud, all we had to do was look at each other. I could all but read his mind and visa versa. We were interchangeable: I could flush the toilet for him or he could, he could brush my hair while I brushed his teeth, it didn't make a difference. We were incredibly efficient. There were no boundaries: I could say or do anything, touch anywhere at any time in any way, and he could do the same. No topic was off-limits, and there was no privacy. We were just extensions of each other.

Despite that, although we grew to be very, very similar, we both kept most of our basic personality traits. I was more laid-back, slightly calmer. He was more violent. He was also extremely cruel.

Wammy hoped that B would grow out of that cruelty. I knew he never would.

We were horrors, but we always stayed on just good enough terms to avoid getting kicked out of the orphanage. We were always teetering on the edge of being thrown out on our asses, but he seemed to find that exciting so I came to enjoy it as well. We weren't wanted at- or, eventually, even invited to- House social events, such as Christmas, but we didn't care at all. We had our own parties in our room. One Christmas he gave me a clock, a cerulean-blue stuffed cat (which I promptly named Cat-Cat), and a cap from a pen. I was delighted, as he knew I would be, because they all started with C. I gave him a jar of organic strawberry jam and a new long-sleeved white shirt. We had bought these things for each other online, making the other turn around so they couldn't see what we ordered.

Yes, B ended up as a lunatic. He had always been walking the line, and I always knew what it would come to. But, yes, I helped him plan the Los Angeles murders. In fact, I am the only reason he is still alive. I made sure that the chick helping him, Naomi Misora, was close enough to get to him to extinguish the fire before he burned to death. I made sure the numbers worked out the way they did to indicate those two apartments, hiding it from him all the time. Which, by the way, was hard.

Now he's in jail, and he's badly burned, but he's alive. I worry because Kira has started killing criminals who are already in jail, but what matters right now is that he's alive.

We're much too far apart, though.

I visit him as often as the prison will allow me, but it's not nearly enough. Going from constant contact for years to an hour visitation a week? Not sufficient.

I have, of course, tried to figure out a way to break him out, but he's in maximum security. I haven't given up, but I understand that it's not going to happen. I've also tried to figure out what crime I could commit to guarantee I would be put in a cell with him or at least near him, but that's impossible as well.

I can't leave him. And... honestly... there's never been a time when I wanted to leave him. That would be like wanting to leave half of your body and mind on the other side of a busy street while you crossed: even if you figured out how to do it, you'd probably get hit by a car when you tried.

No, I can't leave him.

I won't stop trying to be with him until one of us is dead.

If he dies first, or if Kira kills him, I'll kill myself.

Then we'll be together forever in Hell.