Chapter Text
月
Light Yagami wakes up with a burning pain in his hip.
He doesn't even need to make the effort of opening his eyes to know what it is. This wasn't what he’d consider a random occurrence - his mark had given him trouble in the past. But the fiery stinging was new. Carefully, so not to rustle his torso too much, Light stands and makes his way to his mirror.
Usually, through his white sleeping shirt, Light can’t quite make out the shapes of the pale words on his torso. But today, with wide eyes, he can clearly see ‘L Lawliet’ in a deep, glowing red through the white cotton. This - this was definitely new.
Apprehensive, Light lifts his shirt, and stares down at the words. Each letter burned the color of fresh blood, and looked just about as painful as they felt. He prods at the first ‘L’ gently, and grits his teeth at the rush of pain. Somewhere downstairs, he hears his mother calling for him.
“I’ll be down in just a second, Mom,” he replies, doing his best to hide the waiver in his voice and pulling the shirt over his head. Quickly, Light makes his way into the bathroom and takes a roll of gauze out of the medicine cabinet and wraps it around his hips a few times in an attempt to hide the glowing letters. It hurts, God, it hurts, but it gets the job done and effectively hides his mark. It only takes him another minute or so to pull on his school uniform and fix his hair.
It takes Light a few extra moments to make his way downstairs, the slightly-too-tight gauze hindering his movement some. When he does, belatedly, arrive downstairs, his mother is waiting for him, apple in her waiting hands and smile on her face. He takes the apple and returns the smile as he bites into it, taking note of his mother’s own mark, the neatly written Kanji scrawled across her ring finger. 夜神 総一郎. Soichiro Yagami.
“Have a good day at school, Light! Work hard!” his mother says in dismissal, placing a gentle kiss on her son’s cheek before retreating to the kitchen. Light wipes it away and leaves through the front door, the image of his mother’s mark stuck in his mind.
The soulmate mark was something everyone had; it was the norm. It wasn't uncommon to be walking down the street and see people littered with names. On their hands, their wrists, their arms, sometimes on their neck or faces. The girls in his class chattered excitedly about the names on their bodies. The boys griped about being tied down. Despite being so normal, it seemed like it was all anyone talked about.
And despite the excitement and fascination around the world about the soulmate marks, they remained somewhat mysterious. How did they get there? Why are they there? Who, or what, decides the soulmate match?
Light had never heard of a soulmate mark burning, though. As he steps into the subway car, he recites all he knows about it in his head.
The soulmate mark is the name of your pre-destined soulmate, written somewhere on a person’s body. It is usually in said soulmate's handwriting. The soulmate mark appears on your 16th birthday, usually on a wrist, hand, or arm. It starts out pale, nearly invisible, but when your fate begins to intertwine with your soulmate’s, it begins to become more pronounced. When a person’s soulmate dies, the mark reverts back to its original pale appearance.
He thinks back to when he first saw his father’s soulmate mark. Light was quite young, maybe six or seven, and had seen a bit of ink poking out from his father’s jacket sleeve.
“Dad? What’s that?” Light had pointed to his father’s wrist. “Do you have a tattoo?”
His father had chuckled. “No, son. That’s my soulmate mark. You should have learned about it in school.” He rolled up his sleeve, revealing the full message. Light read it. Sachiko Yagami.
“Of course,” his father had said, looking down at it with a fond smile, “it didn't always say Yagami. It was your mother’s maiden name until I married her. Then it changed.”
“Where’s mine? I want to know who my soulmate is!” Light had said excitedly, checking his wrists and arms and pouting when he came up with nothing. Where was his mark?
His father chuckled. “When you're older, on a special birthday, you’ll get your mark, son.”
He still remembered said ‘special birthday’ - falling just below the two year mark, now - and waking up with the thought I get my mark today! running through his head. He’d woken up extra early for the occasion, and spent a good ten minutes checking every bit of exposed skin for his mark. He’d frowned when he came up blank. Where was it?
It wasn't until later, when he had stepped out of the shower and was wrapping a towel around his waist that he saw it; huge, thick lettering, written in what he was almost positive was English, though even with his exceptional comprehension of the language he could not read. The two words were in a blocky, hard-to-read font, that curved slightly at his hipbone and took up nearly half his lower torso. It took him a while to make out what the letters even were. L Lawliet.
When Light had gone downstairs, his parents and his sister, Sayu, were waiting expectantly. The two girls overlapped each other in questions and his father had been smiling proudly, saying something about how Light was becoming a man.
Slowly, he had lifted his shirt, to reveal his mark. All three had fallen silent, burning metaphorical holes into the name. His mother and Sayu didn’t know even a word of English, and his father’s understanding of the language was average, at the very best - they were even more confused than he was.
“What’s wrong with you?” Sayu had asked, prodding at the mark with her finger, before their mother could shush her. He’d flinched at the words as his father stared at the words, the look on his face giving Light his very first taste of what the rest of the world would think of his unusual mark; weird, unsightly, ugly. Then, he'd yanked his shirt down, the action a bit too forceful to be considered casual, and left the house without a word.
16-year-old Light had seen the overwhelming disappointment written on his face as he went.
From his place on the bus, Light fought a grimace at the memories, the burning at his side just another reminder of how he was different. Odd. Weird.
It wasn't like Light wasn't used to standing out; he could say with the utmost confidence that he was the best, most diligent and hardworking student in Tokyo. Maybe even the entirety of Japan. He'd remained at the top of his class since primary school, always overachieving, always doing his best. Never a bad mark, even in the most insignificant of classes, like Physical Education or Home Economics. He'd even been the Junior Tennis Champion a few years back.
His physical beauty made him something of an oddity, too. He didn’t consider himself particularly vain, but the whispers he heard as he strolled through the hallways at school with grace that rivaled true royalty could not be ignored. Auburn hair that framed his face perfectly, never a strand out of place; eyes slender like like sliced almonds and the color of burning amber; skin the hue of honey melting off a spoon, showering him constantly in the Light for which he was named. Or at least, that was what he heard.
Regardless, he tried not to let it go to his head.
Light stepped off the train when it reached his stop and began the short walk to school. Checking his watch - a present from his father - absentmindedly, he saw he was running slightly later than usual, and picked up his pace a bit. He stopped for a moment to glance at one of the many large TV screens that decorated Tokyo, which was broadcasting the beginnings of a hostage situation involving some pre-schoolers and a handful of teachers. On the screen parallel, a female newscaster reported on an opening homicide report on a man found covered in blood. Another, the news of the arrest on murder charges. Light looked at it all, not masking a frown.
Day in, and day out, he thinks bitterly, thoroughly disgusted. The same thing over and over again.
Ridiculous, a phantom voice agrees, and Light casts it aside as the whistle from the wind.
This world...is rotten.
He blinks once to clear his mind, replaces his scowl with a content smile, and continues on.
He arrives at the front entrance of his school within a handful of minutes, and makes his way inside, heading in the direction of his locker. In the buzz of noise around him, Light hears the mention of soulmate marks, which immediately brings the hot pain in his hip to the front of his mind. He puts on his most dazzling 'happy perfect little genius' smile while biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood.
--
Near the end of the school day, Light finds his mind wandering.
It was his last class of the day, English, and he was stuck listening as the teacher washed, rinsed and repeated the same quotes from the same poems over and over and over, both in English and Japanese.
Despite the passage of several hours since he woke up, the burning in his torso hadn't stopped; if anything, it had gotten worse. All day, Light was driven crazy by the constant blazing at his side, never ceasing for even a moment. As the day progressed, he had started thinking it could be seen and heard, even through the tape and his jacket and over the noise of the school. His paranoia had him on edge, and he was aware of the way his body had partially curled in on itself in an attempt to mask the issue.
Beside him, a few girls chatter amongst themselves, discussing silly girls' things and what not. A group of guys complain about wasting money on a movie. A stray boy taps away on his gaming system. Even with all the noise, the pain was still at the front of his mind.
Rubbing his temples in a feeble attempt to ward off a headache, Light barely hears his teacher addressing him.
"Yagami? Would you please translate this sentence into English?"
Gritting his teeth in anticipation for the rush of pain sure to come, Light stands slowly, grimacing inwardly, and flips through the pages in his book. He quickly scans over the sentence, and it takes only a moment to find the right English words.
"Follow the teachings of God. Then the blessing of the seas will become bountiful, and there will be no storms." His articulation is perfect, the accent that accompanies his voice when he speaks his native language nearly non-existent.
The teacher spends a moment praising his flawless translation, and Light sits again, fighting a brief dizzy spell.
Around him, people continue to chatter, the volume seeming to rise at each tick of the clock. It was very near the end of the last period of the day, but yet the teacher continued on, speaking in broken and flawed English about rapidly decreasing animal populations.
Does he even care that no one’s listening? Or is he just that stupid?
Casting his glance to the window to his left, Light watches as a few birds fly by. Leaves were swept across the ground by the wind. Sunlight filters in through the spaces between buildings. He settles his gaze on the way the light seemed to dance as the wind blew a large tree, casting shadows across the cement ground.
If Light was any less perceptive than he was, he might have missed it. But, with his impeccable eyesight, he catches the motion of something small and black slowly fluttering to the ground, falling as if in slow motion.
A notebook? he asks himself, watching as the thing lands on a patch of grass. How odd. Had someone thrown in from a window? Perhaps it had been dropped from a ways away, and the wind had carried here. Today’s gusts were certainly strong enough.
Light’s watch of the notebook is only interrupted by the bell signalling the end of the school day, and he stands, silently hissing at the sudden pain the motion caused. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder and casting the notebook - which was still there - one more glance, he leaves the classroom.
Several minutes later, when Light had gathered all of his homework for the day and left the building, he casually searches the area for the notebook, and finds it exactly where it had landed, partially hidden by the shade from one of the taller parts of the school. Looking around briefly, he bends forward and picks it up.
As his fingers come in contact with the black binding of the book, the pain at his side flares up again, and Light screams, loud and fierce and pained. God, the pain. The burning at his hip was so blinding, so white hot and everywhere that he falls to his knees, the sound of his cry reverberating off the walls of the school. A few students look at him oddly but don’t stop to help, obviously wondering what on Earth the brightest student in the school - the country - was doing on the ground, screaming. The majority of his focus was on the fact that he can hear the letters at his side sizzling, like water on a curling iron.
The slight pressure of his dress shirt and jacket on his mark is agonizing, and desperately he claws at his uniform to get it out of the way. With trembling hands he undoes the buttons on his jacket, and roughly untucks the white shirt from his pants. The words L Lawliet glitter and shine, as if freshly branded onto his skin. The last of his breath leaves his lungs, and his scream lapses into silence.
After a few moments, the pain began to recede, the red and burning leaving the mark slowly, like how cool molasses drips from a jar. It takes a few minutes, but eventually the pain leaves entirely, the only evidence of something changing at all the both darkened and thickened letters on his hipbone. The bolded black stands out against Light’s skin, and he eyes the changes with both fascination and hesitancy. He touches the single letter L gently, prods at it, and finds there is no pain. Still clutched in his free hand is the notebook.
He sets the thing down gently, suddenly apprehensive of looking away from it. It was the thing that had triggered what had to be the most painful few minutes of his life. Not letting his eyes move from the notebook for even a moment, Light tucks in his shirt and rebuttons his uniform jacket. Once he is more presentable, he looks at the words on the front of it. The words are in English.
Death Note, the cover reads, printed in white ink against the black cover in a font he can't place.
Light chuckles, rather amused by the whole idea despite the scary effect it had on him, and flips the notebook open to the first page. How to use it, the top of the page boasts, written in the same font as the cover. Below are several bullet’s followed by a sentence or two. Light only bothers to read this first.
The person whose name is written in this note shall die.
He has to read it again, to confirm the words on the page. The person whose name is written in this note shall die? Light huffs, significantly less amused, and shuts the book with finality. He sets it back on the ground gently, leaving the words Death Note facing towards the sky.
Stupid, he thinks, rolling his eyes and turning around.
What a sick idea for a joke. Death was not something to be taken so lightly. Briefly, he thinks back to this morning, to the hundreds of reports of death and murder being broadcast. So many people died each day. Why would that be funny?
It’s hardly different from a chain letter, he decides, scoffing at the idea of a notebook of death again. He repeats the first “rule” in his head again. The person whose name is written in this note shall die. C’mon!
Light rolls his eyes and picks the thing up again.
Even when briskly walking to make up for the time spent on the Death Note, Light ends up missing his train. So with a resigned sigh he walks home, the notebook tucked into the waistband of his khakis. Perhaps he could use the exercise.
At least the burning had stopped.
But at this point in time, that was hardly his main concern. The focus of Light’s brilliant mind was on the notebook, heavy against his side like a weight. Even without anything physical hindering him, Light found it difficult to walk at an appropriate pace.
Something must be the matter with me.
--
The rules of the notebook seem to stare up at Light as he reads them all, silently challenging him, trying to call his attention over the sounds of his television set. Try me. Try me! He ignores it, and continues to read.
This note will not take effect unless the writer has the person’s face in their mind when writing his/her name. Therefore, people sharing the same name will not be affected.
“How considerate,” Light mutters with an eye roll. The pranksters were at least thoughtful.
If the cause of death is written within 40 human seconds of writing the person’s name, it will happen.
If the cause of death is not specified, the person will simply die of a heart attack.
After writing the cause of death, details of the death should be written in the next 6 minutes and 40 seconds.
“Hmm,” Light says aloud to himself, mulling over the rules. “You can let someone suffer or kill them peacefully.” Interesting. “Pretty intricate, I have to say. It’s alright, I guess.” Moving from his position at his desk, Light makes his way towards his bed and unceremoniously flops down, splaying his arms and legs out.
“Write their name and they die, huh...” he muses, thinking the possibility over. The chances were essentially none. Why was he even considering it? “So stupid!” he announces, and whether the statement is to himself or to the Death Note is debatable.
But the temptation was so strong to try it, just once...Light was unnerved by it. Despite the sheer impossibility of it, Light considers the idea that there was something supernatural within the notebook that pulled people in, that peaked a person’s curiosity to the point of insanity.
Regardless, he finds himself at his desk yet again, pen in hand and staring down at the first page with a calculating look on his face.
Wait a minute, he tells himself, and he chews idly on the cap of the pen. He immediately pulls it from his mouth. If someone actually dies...Will I be a murderer?
No way, the rational part of him reasons, scolding him mentally. It’s impossible. All in good fun.
The sound of his television rouses him from his thoughts. Light looks to the TV. “It has been several hours since the assailant who killed six people yesterday at a busy shopping district in Shinjuku took a day care centre, filled with both children and teachers, hostage this morning. We can confirm that the perpetrator is forty-two-year-old Kurou Otoharada. Negotiations have thus far proven unsuccessful, but the police will continue contact.” The name flashes across the screen, with a face underneath it. Light studies the face closely, memorizing it. The reporter sets up a transition and the camera shifts to two different newscasters.
Light makes up his mind, and carefully writes down the name. Kurou Otoharada.
“A heart attack in forty seconds, huh?” Light says aloud, and lets his eyes stray to his watch, the sounds of the newscasters discussing the hostages and the quiet, rhythmic ticking of his watch the only sounds filling the room.
At the forty second mark, Light casually lifts his gaze to the television screen, and sees the newscasters discussing the situation calmly. He sighs, as if disappointed (but honestly, what had he expected?) and shuts the notebook.
Oh well, nothing happened. Honestly, what was he expecting? Light had known the whole thing was nothing more than a silly prank from the beginning - why had he tested it thinking any differently? At least it was done now, and the temptation to use the notebook was gone. He flips the switch on his desktop lamp and shuts it off, reaching for the television remote next. He looks once more at his watch. It’d been over a minute, now.
“Just a minute!” the female newscaster announces, and the image on the screen flickers to the daycare center, where two teachers and several small children were running out. Light feels his eyes widen at the sight. “The hostages are coming out! They all seem to be unharmed!”
Light watches incredulously as the hostages are swept out of the way, and many heavily armed policemen storm the building. He leans forward to get a better look, and has to grip the desk until his knuckles are white to keep from falling in disbelief.
“Has the suspect been arrested?” The newscaster on the scene only pauses for a moment. “Yes! We have just received word that Kurou Otoharada has died inside the daycare center!”
Light hears the gasp escape his lips. He’s dead? Coincidence, it’s gotta be!
“The suspect is dead! One hostage claims that he just ‘collapsed to the ground’!”
“Dead?!” Light says incredulously, voice practically a hiss. He slams open the notebook and eyes the single name on the page. Suddenly collapsed. The first rule springs into his mind. A heart attack?
No way. It’s not possible. Y-You can’t kill someone just by writing their name! It’s absurd! It defies every notion of logic and reason. And yet...
“And yet,” Light repeats aloud. “He’s dead.”
Coincidence, something deep inside of him says nastily, as if disgusted by his lack of reasonable thinking. It’s got to be a coincidence-
“Light!”
The teenager physically jumps at the call of his name, but forces himself to calm down. Mom. “It’s nearly 6:30, Light! Don’t you have your prep courses tonight?”
“Yeah, Mom,” he replies, hiding the waiver taking quite a bit more effort than he’s willing to admit. “I’m getting ready now.”
Quickly, Light takes his bookbag from the floor, placing the Death Note inside with the carefulness he might use to handle a small child. He looks at the cover once more as he zips up his bag.
If it’s real, it’s worth testing again.