a/n: I have no part in the ownership of Death Note... anyway, this is a fanfic about Light as a renowned mystery novelist. He goes to speak at a high school, a high school attended by a very odd person. Please give it a chance, and tell me what you think!
The young author mused as he read the letter again.
"How do you feel about the success of your new book, Mr. Yagami?"
"Do you think it surpasses your first novel?"
"What do you have to say to your fans?"
In the midst of the cameras, Light Yagami smiled gently, pausing to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear.
"I think it's wonderful to have another best seller---my head is spinning. Quite frankly, I'm still in shock that At Midnight was actually published; and of course I appreciate anybody who has bothered to read either of my attempts at mystery…"
Yagami Light sat at his desk, watching the tape of his press conference from two years ago. The mahogany desk was littered with papers; remnants of pieces of ideas. Pens lay scattered and the drawers hung open, looking at the floor dejectedly.
A dog eared copy of At Midnight lay open in front of him. Beside it was its twin in used condition--- The Corpse lay under the Apple tree.
The first had taken him two weeks to formulate, and in two feverish months he'd been knocking on the publisher's door, manuscript clutched in hand. It was published and was soon in the mainstream world of popular fiction--- at seventeen his name was in Time and Business Week and being quoted on television.
His second novel came to him one day on the train, and it was the same sensation of sitting down and writing furiously for hours on end. This time the characters were sharper, rather than fresh, and his plot was less definite.
"What made you so interested in mystery, and what led you to write this at such a young age?"
Glaring at himself, Light shut the tape off in agitation. He drummed his fingers on the desk.
He was the leading voice in fiction at the tender age of seventeen. For a year, and then another, people over the world waited patiently for a new book to come. He did not write the idea that he had. It just wasn't good enough. They would publish it, yes, and it would be good---but it would not be great.
He was nineteen and, he feared, past his prime.
It was very depressing.
Light finally returned his attention to the invitation he'd received via e-mail: a request to go and speak for a day to an entire auditorium of high school students. Apparently, some devoted teacher had forced all his classes to read one of his books.
He shook his head---being forced to read things in school was part of what seized him to write something else. He felt halfway as if his noble purpose was being tarnished by the man's assignment.
The useless scrawls and the scraps of paper stared up at him. He shoved them away, looking at the bright screen of the laptop they'd been concealing. The date was over a month ago, and the scheduled day was tomorrow.
He shrugged. It wasn't like it could do him any harm.
I thank you for your invitation and accept. I hope my reply is not too late.
There. That should do it.
Light stretched, shoving himself away from the desk (where he spent most of his days and some of his nights) to climb the stairs to his small but comfortably furnished bedroom.
With the money he'd gotten from his bestsellers, he'd bought himself the quaint apartment in London.
He didn't have much to say about the choice, only that his parents and younger sister were stifling. Pressuring him to write the not-great book that was in his head.
Light turned off the lamp with its oriental shade. Flinging the covers aside; he mentally shrugged. Both times inspiration had hit him, he'd been shocked and surprised. It was sudden and could be triggered by literally anything.
Maybe his next book would come to him in his dream.
With that thought to comfort him, the young man drifted off to sleep.
The boy threw off his comforter in anger.
He brushed his teeth in anger.
He dragged the artful shirt across his torso in anger.
Most things he did were in anger; it was something he both knew and relished unconsciously. To the rest of the world, he was just one more teenager with a fixed scowl and matching glare.
On the school bus, eyes clamped shut and trying to block out the meaningless chatter of his classmates, he felt someone tap his shoulder.
"Hey---you---you got Watari, right? You read those books that were assigned?"
The angry boy opened one baleful eye. It fell upon the other boy's copy of some book.
He raised an eyebrow and pointed at the book. The other boy shrugged, "If you think you can read it before fifth period, be my guest."
He took the book, scanned the title and author:
At Midnight by Yagami Light.
He had forty five minutes left on the bus. Then there were ten minutes before first period. Five minutes between classes.
Seventy five minutes? For a three hundred page book?
He laughed. No way, that was impossible. Maybe some really smart kid, an honors student, could do that.
He started reading anyway.
It was five in the morning, and Light flipped through a couple "motivational speaking" books over a light breakfast of bread and black coffee.
What did he know about speaking to high school students? He'd gone to school in Japan, and been isolated there. But students here were less motivated, weren't they? They didn't take exams to get into high school, didn't go to cram school…
And these books weren't helping, Light acknowledged, and tossed them carelessly over his shoulder.
Maybe he should just try to talk naturally. He laughed. Him, talk naturally to another human being? No one he knew could keep up with his vocabulary and reasoning. He would leap from points A to Z and not a soul would understand.
It was this ability that helped him surprise readers, really. Leaping from A to Z. He liked the sound of that in his head, and scribbled it in the notebook of ideas he carried everywhere with him.
The notebook was black and very dear to him. The first plot sketches for both his novels graced its pages….
Something akin to sorrow washed over Light's skin as he thought of his works. He twisted his mouth in a savage smile, a startling contrast from the gentle curve he showed the public. The mystery novels, what were they really? He had no idea.
Light could only guess that they were the result of his intellectual frustration. There had been a time, back in Japan, when he was frightfully bored with life. It was a very dark time for him. The books….being struck by an idea, and having life flow from his brainchild through his mortal fingers into the realm of literature---that had saved him.
But after not writing for so long, Light could feel the boredom coming back.
It was terrifying.
a/n: I hope you enjoyed it! Once again, please review! (And check out my DN oneshot, if you'd like.)