Ryuzaki is playing Return of the Incredible Machine. Lying on his stomach on the bed with his legs kicking in the air, he's deep in concentration, setting off dynamite, moving pipes and pulleys around in order to create a complex machine that will vacuum up a mouse. Beside him, you offer critique. "Seriously, you'll never get it if you keep the dynamite over there. I think you should move it."
"But I've almost got the rocket…"
"You've 'almost got' the damn rocket for the past fifteen minutes."
"Patience is a virtue, Light-kun."
"Oh, give it here." You brush his hands off the computer and set up the dynamite to be blown sideways and float closer to the center when the machine starts. At the same time the rocket sets off, drifts, and finally bumps close enough to explode the whole thing. Problem solved.
You give Ryuzaki a triumphant grin.
He looks back at you, unimpressed, his thumb against his lip. "I would've got the rocket eventually."
"I win, Ryuzaki. Don't be a sore loser."
"Oh look, the next level."
"I win, Ryuzaki," you add in a "quiet" whisper.
"Did you say something, Light-kun?" he's moving a lever around, trying to get an eight-ball in the hole.
"Oh, just that I won," you say idly. "Nothing much."
Ryuzaki chuckles, and you frown at the screen as you see he's already solved this one. "You were saying?" he asks.
"That was an unfairly easy level and you know it."
"Now what were you saying about not being a sore loser?"
You're not a sore loser. Ryuzaki is. Which he already knows.
It's Tuesday, the 14th of September, and Ryuzaki is not your enemy. It's something you can't help but think about as you work on another puzzle (to save the mouse this time). You've felt oddly buoyant all day, and when Ryuzaki seemed unwilling to go downstairs, you didn't press the issue. After all, what would you really do down there? Interact with the task force?—that's the last thing you want to do. Search for the third Kira?—it can and does need to be done, but you can't say you're particularly motivated about that right now. I win.
Victory is so close you can actually taste it; like a change in the wind. It follows you on the treadmill, in defiance of the blue sky, it lingers around the food you eat. Although you can't say it does much for that aspect. Ryuzaki peels a kiwi with his fingertips, throwing the bits of skin on the kitchen table.
"That's disgusting," you say. "Just get a knife and cut it."
"I don't have a knife." He digs his fingers into the edge and pulls another furry piece off of the bright center, his fingers dripping with juice.
"So get a knife. Honestly Ryuzaki…"
"But then I would have to move."
You reach over with the edge of your spoon, grabbing the mangled kiwi and using the spoon to saw through it; it splits open leaving the white center exposed; the small, dark seeds.
Ryuzaki takes his own spoon and scoops a curl out of the creamy flesh.
"Sometimes I feel bad," he says.
"Okay."
"You don't want to ask me why?"
"Why do you feel bad, Ryuzaki."
He brings the spoon to his mouth. Pops the bite of kiwi between his lips. "Because you're innocent."
"Well, personally, I feel pretty happy about that," you say. "But I know. You 'wanted me to be Kira.'"
"It's not that. Or perhaps it is…" he reaches down again. Makes a swirling cut against the surface of the fruit, digging up a thin line of bright interior. "All the things I did… it's one thing if you're Kira, but if you're innocent, it's another thing."
"Funny, the way context matters," you say. He flicks a few drops of kiwi juice in your direction. "But I find it hard to believe you actually feel bad about it. Didn't you say you liked me better broken anyway?"
"I didn't say I felt bad about it."
"Yeah, you just did. Like two seconds ago."
"No, I said I felt bad because you were innocent. Because if you were Kira, everything would've been part of one game; the game where I defeat my greatest enemy, you know?" he says, casually.
"And otherwise?"
"I don't know."
"I think," you say slowly, "it's the game where you find your greatest ally."
That causes the edges of Ryuzaki's mouth to curl up, wryly. "Do you think you're my greatest ally, Light-kun?"
"Well, I'd better be your greatest something, Ryuzaki."
"You are," he says.
The simplicity with which he speaks surprises you. Distracts you, for a long second, from the contents of his words; but then, the taste of victory comes back clearer than ever. Sweet, like ripe kiwifruit. With a hint of astringency. A bitter aftertaste that lingers at the back of your tongue.
"What am I, then?"
"My greatest plaything." His dark eyes flick up to meet yours; calculating. "What, did the answer surprise you?"
"Of course not."
"But that's not enough for Light-kun, is it?" he asks.
"No, I—" you fall short. This is something you haven't prepared an answer to; you don't even know how you ought to respond. Say, no, you're wrong—that's enough? It isn't. And he knows it. "I guess you're right. It isn't enough. Not forever."
"And what if that's all you could ever be?"
Suddenly, his tactics open themselves for you; you feel a sudden relief and amusement that war within you, each one hating that the other has the gall to exist. "Why do you keep trying to convince me I'd be happier anywhere but here?"
"I'm not trying to convince you of anything," Ryuzaki says, unconvincingly. He looks down at his kiwi and scrapes another half-moon out of it.
"Does this have something to do with the others—about what happened to them? Do you think if you let anyone close to you they're going to abandon you? Is that it?"
"Psychologists have wondered many things about me," Ryuzaki says flatly.
You throw up your hands. "Well I wouldn't have to wonder if you'd just tell me things, instead of only creating test after test!"
"He killed himself."
"Who?"
"The first one. I wasn't even there. I still don't know why. If I don't know why, Light-kun, how can I stop it…"
"Sometimes you can't, Ryuzaki," you say. "Sometimes people just…" you shrug. "Sometimes the world…"
"The world," Ryuzaki says. He laughs shortly, and presses his hand over his eyes. After a second, you hear him breathing; a slow, ragged breath.
He puts his hand down, and you reach out; twine your fingers in his. They rest, gently, on the tabletop between you. For a second you try to put yourself in his shoes, with a focused intensity that you bring to every problem that needs solving; and, in the same instant, you feel that uncanny mirroring of sensation in your own body. You don't care; not by nature; but you can choose to care. You can feel that helpless frustration, that dragging weight of grief; though it isn't yours and never can be. I can choose this.
I can choose this.
"Is it easier for you, that way?" you ask quietly. "If I'm just a plaything?"
"There's no 'just' about it," Ryuzaki says. "The entire world and everything in it is my plaything. I've never found anything that mattered more to me than my own amusement. And it's not for lack of trying," he says.
Do you even understand who you are? you think. Yes; of course your own amusement matters to you, but it's not the most important thing. Even I know that.
"Well, if that's true," you say, "then I'd be honored to be yours."
/
"'Hello again Matsuda-san. I still think that you visit my big brother sometimes. If you do, please tell him I think of him all the time, and I hope he and Misa-san are well.'" It's September 15th; a Wednesday; and Matsuda finishes his recitation of Sayu's latest letter before stepping forward to hand it to Ryuzaki. The pile of "evidence" is five letters high by now, and all you can deduce from it is that Sayu is a lot more persistent than you ever realized. If only she'd spent half as much time paying attention to her schoolwork…!
Of course, you know why she didn't. It didn't interest her. And, being the second child, and a girl, the baby of the family, she could get away with it. You've never resented her for that; and, distantly, you even feel sorry that the weight of the family's responsibilities will now fall on her. But you have long since ceased being Yagami Light, and there will be no more evenings helping her with her algebra homework or listening to her prattle on at the dinner table about her friends and the latest fashions or whoever her newest celebrity crush is. Strangely enough, you can't even remember what your last words to her had been; you feel like they must have been absent-minded; a "bye, Sayu, see you soon," or something even less memorable than that. You hadn't wanted her or anyone to know you were going to disappear, though you'd been planning to ask for confinement since Misa was locked up. For three days you'd floated on a coracle of your ordinary life, gazing down at the choppy water beneath; and you'd known that the only way to slide under would be to wait until no one was watching anymore. Strange; to think of that again now. You sit on your chair in front of the computer screen and watch Ryuzaki take the paper between his fingers; creasing it slightly as he glances over the words. You watch him fold it up, tuck it into his pockets, and you quietly say nothing. The rest of the task force idly disperses.
In the evening, Ryuzaki meditates. Legs crossed, hands loosely clasped before him. In the darkness, a shadow that breathes slowly; in and out. You sit, leaning against the side of the bed with your legs outstretched, and watch his closed eyes; the statuesque placidity he seems to inhabit. His face, without the definition of daylight, looks even younger; but more inhuman than ever. There is a sharp, untouchable aura about his loveliness; like swamp-things growing uneasily among the dead.
/
In the night, you wake. The air is stale; but the space on every side looms. You do not remember your dream, but for an instant, you are longing for the uncomplicated surroundings of your cell. There is no shame in that either. Ryuzaki's Light has none.
You look over. He's awake; but drifting; it takes you reaching toward him for him to focus, turning toward you and saying softly, "couldn't sleep, Light-kun?"
"Nightmare," you say.
"Mm."
"Don't you think you should comfort your plaything, Ryuzaki, if he's in distress?" you ask idly.
"Do you need comforting, Light-kun?"
"No. But maybe I want it."
"Then of course I'd have to oblige." He holds up the covers, gestures slightly and you move closer to him, until you can rest pressed against his side; the cold uncertainty of your unremembered dream fading into the warmth of another body. You close your eyes. Let your heartbeat slow. Across your skin, your sweat prickles.
/
There is no one way to build something. Whether it be a machine from scissors, boxing gloves, and balloons; or a piece of art. Even brokenness, in itself, can become a technique. Just as a shattered tea bowl can be pieced together, its seams and spaces filled with tree-sap lacquer, left to dry, and then painted with gold. If Ryuzaki needs to see these imperfections in you, you'll find as many as you need. Because you will win.
There will come a time when even Ryuzaki, with all his mazes and fortress walls, allows you too close to ever unstitch yourself from the fabric of his own soul. He's so careful precisely because he knows this; because the few people he chooses to care about stretch behind him, a line of the dead like his own shadow, forever to haunt his steps.
Every man protects himself against his enemy. And the truth is, a man will even protect himself against his allies and his friends. Because allies can become enemies, and friends can betray you. But what you possess and control is yours to keep; and very few men ever think to guard against that.
.
.
.