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The night after Light built a perfect trap into his desk drawer to hide the notebook, he went to bed at two and waited to go to sleep.
And waited.
And waited some more.
"Trouble sleeping, Light?" Ryuk said, from where the shinigami was lounging beside him on top of the covers. Light opened his eyes and frowned into Ryuk's grinning face.
"No," Light said.
Ryuk didn't answer him. And, since all of Ryuk's expressions tended toward the slack-jawed incredulous, Light could assure himself that Ryuk was not looking at him with any particular sort of skepticism.
"You didn't sleep much last night either," Ryuk finally continued, almost prodding.
"Last night I was busy writing 23 criminals' names into the death note," Light said. "Of course that was going to take some time." It had taken till four in the morning, and he'd collapsed into an exhausted heap on his bed after that, and hadn't dreamed.
"And the night before that?" Ryuk said.
"I was also writing 23 criminals' names. You know this, Ryuk."
"So it doesn't have anything to do with being worried you might have to kill your family?" Ryuk added. And Light narrowed his eyes. This. This was what Ryuk had been pushing towards. He wanted to sus out whether Light was willing to do what it took, or if he was having second thoughts. Ryuk was always like this. Just waiting for any moment of weakness. Fortunately, Light never had any to offer.
"That would only happen if I screwed up, Ryuk," Light said. "And I'm not going to screw up. I've planned it all out. No matter what happens, I'll take stock of my options and find the best one. That's just how I am."
"Okay," Ryuk said.
"If I can't sleep, it's just because staying up these past two nights has ruined my sleep schedule," Light continued. "I was writing so many names down last night, and the night before…"
"You didn't do that tonight, though," Ryuk pointed out.
"It was unnecessary. My message will already have gone through. Now I just have to wait while the police tear L apart. It won't take long."
Somehow, talking to Ryuk had made Light more restless, not less. He sat up, pushing his sheets aside, and let his bare feet press against the cool wood floor. He found himself looking toward his desk, where the trap was waiting. It wasn't any real danger. Light had made sure of that in the abandoned building; he had just enough gasoline to burn the drawer and the notebook without causing some kind of huge firebomb. The worst that could happen, if someone forced it, was maybe a few burns on their hand; if the fire was left to its own devices, of course, it would eventually spread to his room, his books, everything in here and eat it hungrily—but that would take far longer; there would be ample time to douse the flames before things went too far.
Tonight, Light had written only six names. Precisely within his usual amount. As Ryuk had pointed out, it took Light a while to find and research his victims. He didn't want to accidentally kill someone he shouldn't have, just because he didn't do his homework.
Light stood up and padded over to the drawer. He clicked on his desk lamp, opened the drawer so it showed its diary and the false bottom beneath it, and stared down at it. This trap—if he wasn't careful—he could lose all his memories of ever being Kira. He could lose the death note, forget that he'd ever been a criminal. He took the diary out of its place, until only the board stuck carefully in its place was left.
If he pulled the drawer out entirely—turned it over—no, what was he thinking? Light frowned, his fingers reaching instead for one of his ballpoint pens, unscrewing it to reveal the thin cartridge; he felt around on the bottom of the drawer until he managed to press it through the small hole and show the death note.
Somehow, looking at the innocuous black notebook eased the racing beats of his heart in his chest, and without really planning it, Light was reaching in toward the notebook, pulling it out, setting it on the desk and turning the pages. Just to look at the names he'd written. That's all.
He reached for another pen. Twirled it around in his fingers. But if he couldn't sleep anyway… one more name wouldn't hurt. He had a number of possibilities. These days, whenever he watched the news, Light found himself looking at criminals like they were part of a calculation, weighing the severity of their crime and their defences, if they'd been a repeat offender, if they were unrepentant, that sort of thing, always adding and subtracting from a pool of possible names. So it was no trouble to write a few careful strokes while imagining someone's face. And after waiting forty seconds, Light's shoulders eased, and he found himself sinking back into his desk chair, and suddenly berating himself. What the hell had he just done? The death note—he'd already done his judgments for the day. This man hadn't even been decided on yet, not officially—but why should Light feel so much better, so much clearer-headed, and like now, maybe, he'd be able to sleep?
Light looked at the death note uncomfortably, suddenly disgusted; he wanted to fold it up, put it back in its secret drawer, but he couldn't bring himself to touch it.
It's the death note's fault, Light thought. It wants me to use it. It's using me… no! I won't let it! I'm the one in control here, not it.
"Changed your mind?" Ryuk asked casually.
Light closed the death note, as quickly as he could, and shoved it back into the secret compartment. He replaced the false bottom of the drawer, and his diary on top of that, and closed the whole drawer. "Ryuk, does the death note influence humans?" he asked, although he did not want to know the answer. But not knowing… not knowing was worse.
Ryuk knew exactly what Light was getting at. Of course he did. "It's only a bit of endorphins," Ryuk said.
"You mean a drug," Light said. If that was the case, then how much of what Light was doing—had ever done—was real? Light crossed his arms. No, it couldn't be that; Light would've noticed some kind of symptoms. He wasn't some kind of addict.
"Nah, more like mindless entertainment," Ryuk said. "I know drugs. This? You won't twist yourself into a pretzel. I mean, you've taken a break before without any ill effects, remember? You barely wrote anything for an entire week since that L guy showed up on TV until three days ago."
"Yeah, I know," Light said. And he'd been bored stiff the entire time. But the death note wasn't just some way to stave off boredom. It was a way to mete out justice. It…
He really must be too tired. Light didn't need to justify himself. He was in the right. Everyone who opposed him was evil. That was all there was to it.
"You could get the same high from going on a run, watching wrestling on TV or playing a video game," Ryuk continued. "It just means you enjoy it."
"I don't enjoy writing in the death note," Light snapped. "It's necessary. It's the tool that will help me create my new perfect world."
Ryuk didn't answer. And Light rubbed his hand across his eyes, which were prickling with tiredness, and he got up and trudged back over to his bed. He would like to think that Ryuk had been convinced by what Light said, and that was why he didn't answer—but Light knew that wasn't true.
Well, so what? So what if he enjoyed it? He was Kira. He was a god. The rules of humanity didn't apply, and of course a god would enjoy his purpose. Light turned onto his side, pulled his covers up to his chin and closed his eyes.
And he fell asleep easily. Dark and dreamless, the lines of worry on his brow smoothing themselves out.
Ryuk watched Light. He didn't always. Sometimes it was boring, just staring at his human doing nothing; but sometimes it was the most interesting thing in the world. Well, he thought. There's more I didn't tell you; but I guess you don't really want to know the answer. It doesn't really matter, how small the amount of endorphins, dopamine or whatever, or whether you could get more of it in a different way, when by just writing down one little name, you'll get a guaranteed shot. People on the internet are working on stuff like that for social media, you know. They're calling it gamification. Which is a pretty word for that old pavlovian response.