It was the next morning that Light woke up and the ... thing was in his room.
Not the thing thing. Not the seven-foot-tall winged apple addict that had materialised over his shoulder the previous day. Not the thing he'd stood before to face every worst fear and night terror he'd had for five days - only to find they weren't true at all. That there was no price to pay. That the little black book, and all its power, were his very own, to wield without let or hindrance. Well, there'd been that mention of "the terror and torment that only humans who've used it will experience", but that sounded a vague enough threat to Light.
No, the thing in question was a scythe, propped in the corner of his bedroom, against the wardrobe door. Its wooden handle was taller than Light, fretted into a twisted design. Its blade was sharper than sunlight, half the length of the handle, curving to a vicious point. Stretching into his pillow, he'd wiggled his fingers - the amount of writing he'd done of late stung in the backs of his hands - then, scrambling up to shut off the alarm, he'd asked, with typical disinterest, "What's that thing doing in my room?"
"You don't know about shinigami and scythes?" clucked Ryuk, as if Light had exhibited some appalling, uncharacteristic ignorance.
Light huffed. "Of course I know, Ryuk. But you don't seem like any of those old stereotypes." It's true; warped as Ryuk's face is, Light can't help but be glad he's not staring into a more literal skull, or a vacant cowl. "Plus, you didn't have it with you last night."
"Do me a favour, Light," retorted Ryuk, bored. "I couldn't bring it with me then. There are weight restrictions, you know."
"Weight restrictions," Light repeated. That was a nothing excuse, if he'd ever heard one.
"Sure! The shinigami realm has its stupid rules too, you know. More than you'd think."
Light had let it go; there were other things to think about. Such as explaining that, no, Ryuk really didn't get to follow Light into the shower. No, not even once. No, he especially didn't get to follow Sayu in. That would be very unfunny.
When he came out, the stupid scythe was still in the way of his door.
Light had never apologised for being neat. He didn't need to put things away to know where they were; everything he owned was indexed in his head. But when they were out of place, his possessions, they itched somewhere he couldn't scratch, annoying as chickenpox. He'd never make a fuss about it - most people couldn't keep track of their belongings, after all - but things in his room belonged in set places. Ordered.
Unfortunately, the place for his clothes happened to be in his wardrobe. And until the scythe was out of the way, Light was going to be standing around in his underwear. Over his shoulder came the shinigami's drawling croak. "Just move it if it's in your way, Light. It won't bite."
Move it. Move a deadly, edged weapon that had no business in his room to begin with. Taking it gingerly in one hand, Light held it out of the way, slid the door open to reveal the mirror inside, and his clothes - blessed, blessed things. Which was when the pole slipped (it was a scythe; who had scythes in the twenty-first century, for heaven's sake?), and the blade glided neatly down towards his head. Light was quick, though; he grabbed the pole and held it out of his way, stepped clear of it. His heart raced. That was close.
It didn't help that Ryuk burst out laughing, cascades of cruel cackles as if he might have enjoyed seeing Light decapitate himself. "I said move it, not dance with it."
It was just as he was about to curl his lip in fury that the idea hit. "Dance with it?" He could, he really could. Who was there to stop him, after all? What was Ryuk going to do? As well find out now as later, and over some triviality and not something important, right? "Would that entertain you, Ryuk?"
Plus, turning his eyes back to the mirror - the gleam of the blade, the heft of the pole in his hand, resting against his thigh - he looked spectacular waving the thing around. Godlike. Hot, even.
Holding his reflection's gaze, he shifted his other hand to the pole, and wrapped cramping fingers neatly around the thing to steady it. One perfectly shaped ankle crooked, wrapping itself around, bringing the shaft of the six-foot scythe between his legs. Still watching his reflection, Light guessed this was what his literature teacher would have described, insistently, one hand on her breast, as "phallic imagery". He swallowed.
With one hand tightly grasping the handle, he slid the other slowly, eloquently up its length, sliding it around as he went. Back and forth, around and around. Were his pants this tight before? No matter ... ah, ah yes... A questioning tilt of his hips, then another, wood against flesh, and his knees bending to rub himself against the pole, gentle, brushing pressure he was sure shouldn't feel so good to the straight young man he definitely was. Bump-bump-bump over the texture of the thing's carvings. Arching his neck and his back, breath coming in starts, he let his eyes close, still holding nothing but the scythe in his hands.
He shouldn't enjoy this so much, he was certain. He shouldn't enjoy having an audience this much...
Which was when the shinigami chimed in. "Uh. You humans are weird, did I mention that?"
Light sighed a little, under his breath, riding the pole, twisting himself around it, leaning back against the wall. The blade tapped against the plaster with a chink. Pulling his lips back from his teeth, peering at the shinigami through half-closed, utterly unashamed eyes, he baited him. "You wanted something -" a moan in his throat, as he pushed just a little harder, tiny rotations in just the right place, cheating caresses from his fingertips here and there - "to relieve your boredom, Ryuk. Is this not what you had in mind?"
Ryuk shifted on the bed, looking bored. "Maybe I don't need a scythe after all."
Closing his eyes, Light smiled, and span around on the pole again, pulling it closer. So these are the games gods play. I do believe I could get to like them.