L was never one to show excessive interest in anything, especially not a murder suspect. He started, worked, solved, and finished a case, and then moved on to the next without hesitation or break. So why was he suddenly intrigued by the teenage boy on his monitor, whom he suspected of being Kira?
The cameras had been installed only a few hours ago, but L was already stationed before the monitors robotically, watching Raito Yagami's every move. He had been home less that twenty minutes, and L had seen several interesting behaviors already. Raito-kun had gone straight up to his room upon arrival home, and deposited his messenger bag at the foot of his bed. His room was curiously neat, unlike most teenage boys' rooms. The Japanese boy had pulled headphones on and had gone downstairs, L guessing to get something to eat, but only to sit on the kitchen counter and stare out the window. He had remained in this position for the remainder of the twenty minutes that he'd been home so far.
He is sitting on the kitchen counter, looking out the window, completely alone in the house. L noted silently, watching the boy's face.
Unlike the picture he'd seen of Raito Yagami, he was not tan and smiling. In fact, he looked depressed. His auburn hair had grown some, his skin had paled considerably, and there were noticeable shadows beneath the seventeen year-old's eyes, which were much darker than they'd first appeared. L glanced at Soichiro Yagami, the suspect's father. The man seemed uncomfortably still, but he didn't seem to notice the state of his son at all.
"Yagami-san." L murmured, and the man's eyes darted to him. It wasn't difficult to see the fear in the elder's eyes—the fear of L saying his son was Kira.
L subtly pointed out the growth of the hair that made Raito-kun seem slightly frazzled, the paleness of his skin, and the shadows beneath his eyes. Soichiro Yagami, however, had an excuse for each of the observations. His son was paler because the picture had been taken earlier in the school year, after Raito had spent the summer outdoors. His hair hadn't been cut for a while, and he stayed up long hours studying for exams.
On the screen, the suspect was starting to get down from the counter slowly. L turned his attention back to the boy, not bothering to give his father a reason for his questioning moments ago. Raito-kun went to the bathroom upstairs, when there had been a bathroom just down the hall from where he'd been sitting in the kitchen. Why go all the way upstairs just to use a restroom when another had been more convenient? Another curious action that Lawliet took note of.
Raito Yagami sat on the floor, his back pressed against the wall facing the drawers underneath the sink. He brought his knees up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and then just sat there. He hadn't shut the door—it was wide open. He hadn't turned on the light, either.
L glanced at Soichiro Yagami again, and noticed that now he was noticing his son's odd behavior. The man was tense, eyes flicking from screen to screen, unsure of what to make of Raito's actions, or how to pass them off as usual. Lawliet redirected his eyes to the other task force members. Matsuda was bearing his normal confused, wide eyed look. The others were mixed between Soichiro's wariness and Matsuda's confusion.
The pale teen on the screen suddenly let out a long, loud sigh—the first sound he'd made since coming home. The detective swiftly leaned toward the monitor, alert. Raito-kun buried his forehead in his hands, starting to rock slightly.
"…Shit…" The teen muttered, and L didn't bother to acknowledge Soichiro's muffled gasp of surprise at the foul language. His eyes were trained on the wary face of the Kira suspect.
Raito lifted his head slowly, letting go of one leg to let it stretch out. His eyes were closed, but a tear was still sliding down his face. Soichiro noticed and became even more rigid than before. L studied the tear drop as it slid down and then dripped from Yagami-kun's chin. It was not joined by any other tears—only one had been shed.
"I-Is he crying..?" Matsuda asked moronically. L resisted the want to roll his eyes.
"Yes, Matsuda. He is crying."
"Why?"
Is he really asking that in the same way a little child would? "I do not know, Matsuda."
Raito lifted his music player and switched it to a different song.
Lawliet had a sneaking suspicion that Soichiro had noticed all the odd behavior before the cameras had been installed in his home, and had not mentioned them because of his fear of fathering a criminal. Perhaps it was the tenseness of the man, or the way Soichiro Yagami couldn't face the monitors directly that gave him the idea. Either way, L would exclude Yagami from parts of the investigation if it was deemed necessary.
It was quiet. So calm, peaceful, even... Raito knew that he shouldn't think of the house as quiet, seeing as how he had music blaring him deaf at the moment, but at least he was home alone. No motherly fretting, sisterly pestering, or even fatherly overseeing. He could finally be left alone.
His back was starting to ache from being pressed against the wall of the bathroom for so long, so he stood, stretched, and returned to the kitchen. The fridge was stocked with healthy foods; there was no hope for junk food in the cupboards, either. But he knew where something was. He trekked to the living room and flipped the couch over. Taped to the bottom was a very large variety of junk foods; Sayu stashed up as much sugar as she could—she had stashes all over the house in case their mother found one and mutilated it.
He picked out a small, thin chocolate bar and then set the couch back up the way it had been before. The chocolate was gone in the next few minutes and the wrapper was stuffed into Raito's shoe. It really wasn't worth getting Sayu caught if he just threw it in the trash, where their mother could easily see it. Sayu was annoying, but she wasn't harmful. Raito glanced at the phone on the kitchen counter on the way back to his room. Held under the corner of it was a folded piece of notebook paper, with Sayu's and his own name written on it.
The note bore his mothers neat, organized writing. 'Take out the trash. Your father won't be coming home tonight, and nor will I. I expect the house cleaner than I left it. Dinner is in the fridge, wash your dishes by hand; I don't want to waste water by using the washing machine for a few plates and forks. –Mom.'
Raito set the note back under the phone for Sayu to read; he wouldn't use any dishes anyway. Whenever his parents weren't home, he never ate. He didn't feel the need to... Or frankly, the desire to eat, either.
The teen sighed and went up to his room. Even though it was his own room, he felt no privacy there. Even beneath his clothes, there was no privacy. The only place he could... No. He couldn't afford to think about such things. It was still daytime. Sayu would be looking for him the moment she walked in the door for help on whatever assignment was confusing this time. He couldn't take care of himself until Sayu was fed, tutored, and asleep.
Raito sat down at his old desk, took out a ball-point pen, and used it to open the secret compartment under the fake bottom of one of his desk drawers. Inside were two items. One of them was an orange, bulky envelope. The other was an old notebook with mud stains on the cover, and yellowed, water damaged pages. He pulled out the notebook and replaced the phony drawer bottom, along with the unconcealed contents of the drawer.
A lot of effort to hide an old notebook, but there was good reason for the work. The notebook... It was his soul. It was his pain, and fear, and his anger, and it was his trash can. It was the place he threw away all of his dangerous emotions, so that no one could ever see them.
The first blank page he could find was too close to the back cover; he'd have to go buy a new notebook. Of course he couldn't just buy any notebook. It had to be thicker, with a blank black cover, and it had to be bound. A spiral notebook was just too...casual for something as important as this.
There was also the issue of money; he had no job, no way of earning an income. His parents would not pay him to do his chores, and he would be disgusting to ask. It was lucky enough as it was that they were not requiring rent of him. Occasionally, when they were running low on food at home and his mother couldn't go shopping yet, she would give him money for school lunches. He never bought any, of course, so he had a bit of money, added up with whatever he found on the sidewalks and in the hallways of school. Maybe, he might be able to get two notebooks. That would be...wonderful.
He put the tip of the pen down on the top line. The date appeared on the paper in vibrant blue ink, followed by the time. Raito started to feel peace calm him. Writing always soothed him. He went down to the next line, indented, and began to write.
Nothing horrible happened today. A good day, I suppose. If anything could be 'good' anymore. Kira is still on the loose. I didn't see him today...
Raito closed his eyes and shook his head. He wanted to stop writing now, but he knew it was better to keep writing. If he bottled everything up, it hurt. So he continued to empty himself out onto the awaiting page.
Does that mean he's sick? Or was it a signal to me? Does he want to meet up? I don't want to see him. I don't want to go, in case that's not what he meant, and I wait there all night, looking stupid. But... even worse... what if I were to go... and that is exactly what he wanted me to do? What if he's there... waiting for me?
My father is a policeman, and yet, he doesn't know that anything is wrong. My mother is supposed to know everything about her children, instinctively. But that woman knows nothing, at all. She senses none of what I feel. Is it because I empty my heart into these pages, so that my feelings are safe, locked away? Or is it because she doesn't care? Or that I do not really feel anything?
Nobody ever notices anything. Not that I barely eat, or that I rarely sleep. I've shut myself up in my room more and more. Gone out with friends, if they are truly friends, less often. What else is there to do, than to die? Up here, in my room, alone, with this paper serving as my heart? (Does that mean anyone could scribble out what I've written, and change it, so that the truth never existed?)
Who would notice one more night, out there, with him? Why does it hurt me alone, when no one else can feel it? Am I really, truly, that alone in the world? Am I really?