L's theory is flawless. It is wrong, but that hardly matters for its effectiveness. In one fell swoop he's covered everything: you don't remember being Kira (but then, you wouldn't, if Kira was controlling you and then had passed to someone else), but it's still important for you to be a suspect chained to Ryuzaki (because at one point you were acting as Kira). Still, you're innocent and he believes you were framed, just as you were claiming all this time—so he's not acting in some cruel and unusual manner against you. He's just depressed that his case fell apart; that Kira is this all-powerful and slippery. Furthermore, in this way L can be "wrong" without actually admitting that the way he interpreted the evidence was wrong. He is still right, still the unquestioned greatest detective in the world, he just got blindsided by something beyond human comprehension, an occult force. No matter how persuasive you are, no matter how much you convince the rest of the task force you aren't, couldn't be Kira, if they believe L—and why shouldn't they?—those character references mean nothing. Because at any moment you could still be possessed again and puppeted by Kira. This is the other reason Ryuzaki waited until you were both in Misa's apartment before laying out his thoughts: so that the rest of the task force would surely be watching.
And, unfortunately, he's only jumping off what you laid the groundwork for yourself when you begged to go into confinement. The absurd theory you'd concocted in order to heighten the doubt against you, that you were somehow subconsciously doing a shinigami's bidding. You and L actually agree.
It's a perfect move.
(But at the time, you'd thought you'd be immediately cleared of suspicion, not that the theory would continue to haunt you for months and gain in detail: why, why if Kira was someone who did not know your situation, did he stop killing the moment you were locked up? And if he did know your situation, if he was trying to frame you… who would have been in the position to do such a thing?)
Ryuzaki unwraps a granola bar with his teeth and chomps down, spraying oat-crumbs everywhere. You've finally convinced him to let you downstairs, by virtue of pressing the ground floor button the moment you got into the elevator. Ryuzaki had stared at the glowing button for a moment before seeming to decide he didn't really care to make an argument about it. So you'd finally gotten to play around with these computers, and even the fact that the table between you is a mess doesn't quite manage to dampen the thrill you feel.
These are the perfect computers to run a Kira Program from. The processing power and private servers are large enough to handle such a complex system, and the firewalls, you discover after poking around, are extensive enough that it would take even you a huge amount of time, energy, and resources to hack through it—and that would require Kira knowing there was something here, in what is apparently an never-opened upscale hotel, to search for in the first place.
Everyone on the task force now is someone handpicked by L himself, and there's only six people involved in the case, including you and Ryuzaki (though he's doing his level best to be completely useless). The chances of a leak from here are practically nonexistent.
But the chances of a leak from the previous system of hotels was hardly any higher… yet still Kira seems to have found out sensitive information… the thought is cold and heavy. You distract yourself with information, trying not to feel the tension in your limbs, like you could beat Kira here and now.
For a Kira Program to be really useful, it should draw from police radio and prison systems from all over the world, filtering for criminals who suffered heart attacks. No, not just that—it should also pull from major news outlets, because sometimes Kira kills criminals who are still at large, with an algorithm that scans through reputable online news sites.
A sudden tug on the chain makes your left hand go flying, and you turn angrily to the other detective. "Hey, Ryuzaki, cut it out," you say, pulling back on the chain. His wheelie chair, which had slowly been creeping further and further down the desk, comes jerking back in your direction, by dint of the fact that he grabs onto it in order to not topple right off at the sudden motion pulling his arm.
Ryuzaki blinks at you, like he hadn't even noticed what he was doing.
"If you're bored, why don't you actually do some work?" you ask, presenting him with a kind, enthusiastic smile.
Ryuzaki looks at that smile as though it had personally offended him, which only gives you more incentive not to drop it. You feel a lot more at ease in his presence after having punched him in the face, and there's a purplish bruise already forming on his cheek, reminding you of your satisfaction.
You don't look much better—in fact, your jaw is pretty swollen, the knuckles on your right hand are scraped and your left wrist is unquestionably black and blue, which makes your limb protest at any tug on the chain, no matter how gentle. But you find it easy enough to ignore; you've been in worse pain for longer. You have to be able to keep your hand on the keyboard to get any work done, however.
"I told you—" Ryuzaki says.
"You're depressed," you say. "Yeah, I heard. I'm sure sitting around doing nothing is really helping with that."
"It is, actually," Ryuzaki says.
You roll your eyes. "Suit yourself," you say, dragging him a little closer with the give from the chain to hopefully head off any more sudden yanks, and then going back to plans for the creation of a Kira program.
/
You bring it up to Soichiro later in the day, as he walks by the computer table carrying a stack of papers. You turn your chair to face him and say, "hey, tōsan?"
"Yes, Light?" Your father stops, and gives you a tired expression. He's putting on a good front, but it seems obvious to you that he hasn't really slept in days. His eyes are heavy and bloodshot, and he's holding his papers in an unusually clutching grip, his hands shaking minutely. You find all your attention caught by that, and you stare as though baffled. It's not like you aren't aware about the possible physical effects of stress and trauma, but can he really have been that affected by what happened to you? You're sure his hands hadn't trembled when he'd held the gun. The way the image is seared into your mind—the way it plays over and over every time your mind wanders—you'd have noticed it. You remember something as hard as granite, something inescapable. You remember the click of the trigger, and the heat and then the sound—
And you're clearing your throat, your mouth dry, wrenching your gaze away from Soichiro's hands, meeting his eyes guilelessly. You paste on a smile that has never failed to convince anyone. "So, I've been thinking," you say. "These new computers are a huge possibility for the task force. If we could get some kind of program made that will allow us to collect data from all over the world and filter it, it could be really pivotal in solving the Kira case. I know we're trying, but I can't help but think there's just too many deaths to go over by hand."
"Yes, I agree," Soichiro says. "In fact, we were discussing the creation of such a thing right before Kira killed the FBI agents who entered Japan. Once so many people quit the task force, of course, the budget was cut," he continues, "and it was off the table. Not to mention the fact that there was a known leak that had to come either from someone in the previous task force, or from the NPA's system. It would've been counterproductive to try to push for something like that when we were skipping from hotel to hotel, just trying to stay under the radar."
"I thought it might've been something like that," you agree. "But in that case, now would be the perfect time to try to push for it again. It's not like you'd even be asking to use the NPA's systems, or their budget."
"Yes, you're right," Soichiro says thoughtfully. "Still, it would require a number of experts in programming that meet with the NPA's approval, and we'd need the cooperation of quite a few governments."
"Sure, but that's what we have Ryuzaki for, right?" you ask.
The man in question pauses in the middle of peeling a banana with his teeth, and glances over at you. "Hmh?" he says.
You carefully don't let your palpable exasperation show. It's marginally easier than usual, since you have the bruise on his cheek to remind you that even L sometimes gets what's coming to him. Ryuzaki finishes yanking the banana peel open and takes a bite, chewing obnoxiously with his mouth open and giving you a deadpan look the entire time, as though he knows exactly how much his actions make you want to punch him again, before swallowing and saying, "myeah. Yagami-kun is right. Even though I'm depressed, my money isn't, so feel free to use it for anything involving the case. And of course you'll find it easier to get international backing with my name behind you."
"Thank you, Ryuzaki. That will be helpful," Soichiro answers diplomatically. He turns back to you. "Light, since this is your idea, why don't you make the pitch to the task force? We should also work toward a pilot-version of what you're imagining, so I can have something to show the NPA when I ask for the go-ahead. Kitamura is a bit old-school and it'll be easier to make a case for the resources we need if we can prove it on a smaller scale first."
"I'm on it," you say with a reassuring amount of vigour, and Soichiro's expression seems just a little more cleared and focused than before. When he walks away, you stare back at the computer.
Make a pitch to the task force? It's everything you could've wanted, before… a true and undeniable place on the team. And yet even talking to your own father has put your heart in your throat, and you stare at the computer banks with absolutely no idea where to start. Create a test program? No problem, for Yagami Light, hardworking honors student.
You don't know where that child has gone. The scope of the idea looms over you, and you can barely think; it's like you're an impostor in your own skin.
You don't let it stop you. It takes a few solid hours of sketching out ideas on paper, but you're determined to come up with a working pitch by the end of the day. It's nearing nine when you're finally decided that it's as good as it's gonna get, and fortunately, everyone else is still hard at work. You awkwardly tell Ryuzaki, "I'm gonna show this to everyone, so you'll need to get up, okay?"
"Okay," Ryuzaki says, and follows you like a slouching and unimpressed shadow as you move over to the glass table. You can't help noticing that the closer you get to everyone else, the more you stare into their expectant faces, the harder it is to think; your grip is sweaty on your papers and you spread them out and point to the different diagrams you've drawn to keep the attention on your idea and off of your presentation abilities, which seems like merely the latest in a long series of indignities. You should be the center of the room; you should be keeping everyone's interest just by having them watch you speak. You shouldn't need speaking aides just to keep yourself present in the here and now. When you've spoken, there's a round of questions, and surely these people didn't used to be this irritating. They're professionals. Good at their jobs. And no one's questions are in any way idiotic, even Matsuda's. In fact, he actually comes up with an idea to make the program more user-friendly, just by asking about what's behind the tree structure you've chosen.
It shouldn't be this stressful. It shouldn't feel like you're wound tightly to the brink of shouting at everyone, and you shouldn't be trying to hide gritted teeth behind your innocent expression. But that's what ends up happening. And when, finally, you've all talked it out to everyone's satisfaction and come up with a game plan, it's late, and you go straight upstairs at twelve thirty while everyone else seems to gain a second wind.
You use the time in the elevator to try to readjust; and you're glumly aware that the lack of people and the enclosed nature of the elevator make it immediately easier to think. In fact, by the time you and Ryuzaki reach your floor, you're actually able to view the situation with the pride it's due, and feel something close to satisfaction.
/
Yesterday morning you'd taken a shower at the hotel before driving here, and you'd skipped one this morning for a simple fact that hit you once you saw the shower in your new bathroom. It's a fancy, modern thing, with a frosted glass door that closes to keep the water in, instead of a curtain. Unfortunately, this means it will be impossible to actually use the damn thing, considering the chain.
Tonight, however, you're feeling somewhat bolder. "Ryuzaki, I'm going to take a shower," you say.
Ryuzaki, who has been staring aimlessly at his fiddling toes, looks up at you. "Very well, Light-kun," he says. He reaches to the towel rack where the leather strap that had bound your ankles in confinement is hanging on a hook, and you go through the whole handcuff ordeal with quick efficiency.
However, before Ryuzaki can put the key to the six-foot handcuff back into his pocket, you say, "the chain won't fit through the door. Why don't you uncuff your end and attach it to the showerhead instead?" It's a reasonable request. There's no way Ryuzaki could refuse this.
So, of course, he does.
"If I did that, Light-kun could do anything and I'd have no way of knowing," Ryuzaki says blandly.
"Right, 'cause I'm gonna somehow dig through the tiles and escape? Seriously, be reasonable." You open the door and turn on the water. As expected, it proceeds to drench the floor where you're standing, and Ryuzaki hops back to avoid the spray.
"It seems there was a design flaw," he mutters sadly, looking at the water droplets collecting on the tile.
You get into the shower and watch Ryuzaki consider the options for a moment. Then he reaches down and pulls off his jeans and boxers, leaving them in a pile on the floor, before joining you with his shirt still on. What the—? Oh. Of course. Because to take his shirt off, he'd have to take the handcuff off.
He stares up at the shower spray with a pathetic expression while his hair drips flat around him, his shirt getting soaked through within minutes and wrinkling on him. The water slides over his face and neck, and when he closes his eyes there are droplets on his long, dark eyelashes. With the bruise across his cheek, and his face tilted up, he should look vulnerable. But he doesn't. He looks like nothing can touch him; as though when it tries it only becomes part of his pathetic, noble display. His lips are slightly parted; the water is sliding down onto his collarbones and everything about it is arresting. You hate him so much you can't breathe. You hate how he's pushed you off balance again without doing a single thing, and you want to shove him to the floor. But—but that would be different than your fight earlier today, you understand that. It would be unwarranted. It would let him know he got to you, that he can manage to shake you up this much.
You watch him until he blinks and opens his eyes, and then he's meeting your gaze under the water, and his eyes are just as wide and deep as ever, just as grotesque, and something about that makes your heart calm, your hastening breath ease. Maybe he really has pulled you in, if you only feel safe in a void.
You turn away and begin shampooing your hair.
/
Sleep comes no easier tonight than it had last night. Everything is still too big, and in the night, it's worse. You'd doused both your wrist and your handcuff in rubbing alcohol, because it's got abrasions from the fight and even a few shallow cuts, and you can still feel the sting of it, clean, against your skin. The handcuff is loose—L knows better than to potentially cause nerve damage through over-tightening, and so, theoretically, you could break your thumb and slip your wrist free… you can press your fingers inside the circle of metal, feel the pulse against your skin. If you were to do so, it wouldn't help you escape. You wouldn't be able to make it out the door, into the elevator, down to the front entrance past the checkpoints. Even a professional escape artist would probably find that a difficult task.
The handcuffs aren't to prevent escape.
Earlier today you hadn't minded. Or you'd pretended you hadn't. You'd even figured out how to use it to your advantage in the fight, and later on, to drag him around the way he liked to do to you. But now, in the darkness, you feel stripped raw, and the worst part is that when you think about slipping out of the cuff, you feel like you'd be slipping off a tether, pulled into a current that will sweep you to some unknown place in the distance beyond your control. The expanse of the room is so vast it can do just that.
Tonight Ryuzaki is sleeping. He'd started the night curled up, but at some point flopped around onto his stomach, and now his limbs are askew. He looks like nothing in the world can bother him. You stare at the faint rise and fall that indicates his breathing, and listen to the rain noises from his computer, somewhere on the floor. It is like the water has followed you. It is like you are already being swept away.
If L is Kira, his theory is still flawless. Only his motives would be different. Maybe he's depressed because he realizes it'll be harder to frame you. Maybe he's depressed because he designed Kira around you, and now he has to find someone else to "pass the power along to." Maybe he started the crime spree with you in mind, or maybe he only started with the vaguest image: Kira would be a high-schooler with connections to the police. Kira would be brilliant. Maybe he looked through pages of suspects, wading through information, maybe he put cameras into your room so he could decide if it was supposed to be you. And if L is Kira, then why—why were you chosen?
It couldn't be an accident.
It couldn't have been nothing but a twist of fate.
You'd been a perfect suspect, too. Even once you realized you were the only one L was considering. Maybe especially then.
You hate your past self. You hate the way your past self saw L and felt so drawn to him, and you hate that you still can't slip out of his game, his rules. You hate that when you think about doing so, you feel like you'd be slipping into oblivion… as though even if you could, by some chance, become nothing more than Yagami Light, college student again—you wouldn't.
/
You'd made do with your clothes from home in the hotels. The shirts you could still wear, though they hung off you, and as for the pants, you'd had to wear your belt around every pair to keep them from falling off. So perhaps it shouldn't have surprised you that the clothes in your new wardrobe are ones you'd never owned before, ones that fit; they're in your style and look like something you would have decided to buy.
But you didn't.
That part seems the most significant, when you slide a comfortable red sweater over your head. When you move into the kitchen, Ryuzaki turns on the coffeemaker as you make yourself breakfast, and by the time you're done eating he's poured two cups. He sits down across from you, the chain snaking across the small kitchen table. You lift the cup to your mouth to take a sip as Ryuzaki opens the lid of the sugar bowl and carefully spoons out cube after cube.
It's only one cup of coffee, it's fine. The thought floats through your head more out of necessity than because it had really been bothering you. You're tired, tired enough that you find yourself staring vaguely at the plop of sugar cubes into Ryuzaki's coffee like it's something of the most intense interest. You can tell already that it's going to be hard to get any work done today.
Even when you get downstairs, as you sit at the computer and mess around with plans for the Kira program you find it hard to keep paying attention, and sometimes stare blankly at what you're doing, knowing you know what to do next, and yet—the answer just won't come to you. You sigh, and rest your chin on your hand while you run a (very, very) basic test-version of the program again. Right now, you're trying to build a minimally functional algorithm that can interact with the database you already have. A flickering update shows where from another computer Mogi's connecting more deaths to the test program, adding tags and filters.
You stifle a yawn inside your hand and find your eyes straying to one of the colorful macarons sitting on a plate beside Ryuzaki's chair. If you were more of a fan of sweet things, you'd probably snack on it just out of boredom.
You notice that Ryuzaki isn't even pretending to work, though he's been clicking at his computer for a while. The top of the screen is showing stills of oddly-colored landscapes, while the bottom half of the screen is black, showing white text.
"Is that German?" you ask, finally giving up the pretense that you're doing something important.
"Hm? Oh, yes," Ryuzaki says.
"What's the game about?" There's no way to know, since you can't make heads or tails of the language.
"I think I went back in time," Ryuzaki says.
"You think…?"
"Well, I don't read German," Ryuzaki admits.
"But… this is a text-based game."
He gazes at the screen, tilting his head a little.
"Ryuzaki, can you read any of it at all…?"
"Bits and pieces," he says. "I'm sure I'll get it eventually." He types something, and the screen changes to another scene.
You frown. You feel very strongly that there's something to complain about here, but you've already pointed out (rather vehemently) that he's decided to slack off the case. You're not going to start another fight, though to be honest, it might actually make you feel better…
Still. You're in the work room of the task force headquarters, and everyone else is here too, busy on one thing or another.
Matsuda's off somewhere with Misa, but Aizawa and Mogi are working in the reference room off to the left, and you can hear the murmur of their voices and occasionally see one of them passing by the open doorway. Soichiro's sitting on one of the couches behind you, tiredly going through the latest printout of Kira kills.
You're on edge. It's the noise, or the presence of so many people, the wide open space, or something—but you can't leave. You're so tired of this. Of being so minutely attuned to this stuff. Who cares how big the fucking room is?
You have half a mind to load a game onto your own computer, but if you did that, then Kira would never be found. Only you and Ryuzaki can think on Kira's level, and right now, Ryuzaki's refusing to even try.
You used to be able to talk easily with Ryuzaki for hours, on more than just the Kira case, even if it always seemed to come round to that or revolve around that in the end. But since your release from confinement, the world has seemed strangely filled with silence—and then, when it's not, you resent it. When others talk it makes you feel irritable and angry. When Ryuzaki talks it also makes you irritable and angry, though that's understandable. But still… even you used to talk, and you enjoyed it. You remember that distinctly. You used to enjoy speaking, no matter what the subject was about. You used to enjoy reading things aloud, explaining concepts that others had trouble grasping, you used to enjoy conversation, even when it wasn't the most thrilling subject, just because the back-and-forth of it was something you could do well, something you were good at.
You don't feel good at it anymore. In fact, you feel as though something has broken and slipped away, leaving only trivialities and a suffocating silence behind. You hate the silence, but the most basic mechanics of conversation seem to have a bewildering difficulty to them. (It's probably just because you're over-tired. It has to be.)
Surely, you haven't really lost such a fundamental skill, as though it was something you could just set down and walk away from by accident…
The next few days are no better. You move through creating a test version of the Kira program at a snail's pace, and at the same time painstakingly create a document comparing known kills in the weeks before and after his two-week gap. You still have difficulty sleeping. One night you can't fall asleep at all, as though you've been infected with Ryuzaki's chronic insomnia. Another night, you fall asleep at last, but it doesn't help. It's not a restful sleep, and you keep finding yourself back in confinement, realizing you'll be here forever, that you've been left behind and these four walls will be the last thing you'll ever see—and then jolting to wakefulness. The more it goes on, the more irritable you get, until finally, close to dawn, you manage to get some prolonged rest. Even though you sleep for hours after that, you wake up feeling unsettled, and muggy, as though your brain is out of sync with the rest of existence.
Two nights into this pattern, you find something snapping. It's probably your control, your patience, but it feels like your mind itself. Ryuzaki is lying on his side, clicking his tongue distractedly even though the rain noises are already playing.
"Ryuzaki, tongue," you say tiredly, turning toward him.
He falls silent with an abashed expression, but doesn't protest when you scooch closer to him. Tonight, even the chain doesn't seem to be holding you down far enough. And you aren't making calculations or predictions when you press up close to him, tucking your head under his chin just to feel the heat of something living, and you let out a shaking breath that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.
You disgust yourself. You should be better than this.
You're not.
"Light-kun…?" Ryuzaki asks carefully. "...Are you okay?" He's lying with stiff awkwardness, like he's trying to remain as still as possible. But he's not pushing you away.
"I'm tired," you say plainly. That's it. You don't even know how to verbalize the anger, fear, and terror that have been battling through your body for almost two weeks, half because of what happened and half because you haven't been bouncing back as fast as you should be. Because you're afraid maybe you never will.
It's a horrible fear, and so you push it as far back into your mind as you can, but in the night, it crawls up through your body again, and you can't stop it, can't distract it with anything else.
Maybe this.
You don't know whether to call it a blessing that in this manner, you finally get an almost-dreamless sleep.
.
.
.