Author's Note: Okay, so anyone who is also reading my other story, Three Lives Left, may have noticed that I mentioned I would be at Megacon last weekend and would probably be updating this story late as a result. I did not intend for it to be a whole week late. My apologies, guys—apparently, I should not be allowed to take care of myself, because what I thought was just a cold turned into a raging case of bronchitis because I didn't bother to go to the doctor when I started, you know, not sleeping or eating or breathing. I am a horrible excuse for an adult. I am now almost fully recovered, but I'm still exhausted and having trouble with the whole writing/editing thing. (Though I am several chapters ahead of whatever I'm posting—it's good to have a buffer. Especially after the third fucking time I rewrote Chapter Nine.)

Anyway, TL;DR-I'll try not to suck so hard in the future. I'm not thrilled with this chapter, and it's regrettably short, but I hope you enjoy. Next one will be longer. Also more awkward. Huzzah.

Disclaimer: I wrote stuff! But I still don't own Death Note or any of its bitchin' characters.

Chapter Three: Sunday

Ah, Sunday. Laziest of days. How Matt had waited for you.

The redhead stretched out the kinks in his back—the result of many an hour hunched over a computer or a game controller—and yawned loudly to announce his consciousness to the world. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was already early afternoon. The demon bitch that was the weekend morning had been successfully slept through. As god intended.

First things first, he needed to get his noms on. Preferably, he thought as his stomach protested fiercely, something with actual nutritional value. Last night's escapades had not been easy on him, but he would never turn down a challenge, and that pile of candy, chips, and Hostess-made food-adjacent products had definitely been challenging him. He liked to think he won, too. No matter what his stomach said to the contrary.

Peeking out into the hallway, he listened for any of the telltale sounds of his father being home—snoring, cursing, bottles clinking, whatever. There were none, so he headed down to the kitchen and started raiding the cabinets. Slim pickings, as per usual, but he managed to scrounge up a bowl of cereal (the least sugary option he could find) and some milk that hadn't quite turned yet, so he figured that was a victory. Taking his prize back to his room, he settled down at his desk, fired up his computer, and watched his three monitors blink to life.

He had solid plans to immerse himself in the sweet void of online gaming, but he decided to check his email first, as he hadn't bothered to do so at all on Saturday. As soon as he clicked on the icon, he realized that he had accidentally left himself logged into the phony account he had made a few nights prior… and then, before he could log out, he realized that he had a message. A response.

From Mello.

Staring at the subject line in bewilderment, Matt could practically hear the gears in his head whirring pathetically as he tried to comprehend what this meant. He'd known that Mello had read the message—the guy was one of those who always kept his inbox clean, unlike Matt who would oftentimes let things pile up—and he liked to think that the relative normalcy of their outing yesterday had been a direct result of his interference. But he honestly hadn't expected Mello to respond. He was so far above everyone else at school, at least in the wonderful world that was his own mind, that Matt had simply assumed he would deem this message, from someone choosing anonymity rather than having the balls to 'fess up in person, beneath his notice. That he would take the praise and be done with it.

Usually, Matt's assumptions regarding Mello were correct. He had known the blond long enough that his accuracy on all things Mello-related was unparalleled.

Not this time, apparently.

"Fuck," Matt muttered aloud, wondering how to proceed. He never would have sent the message if he had known Mello would actually do something about it. "Fucking brilliant, Matt."

Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. He would need to see what his apparently unpredictable friend had written before he could decide whether or not a total freak-out was necessary. After all, it could have been a straight-up rejection. That would be the most logical, most Mello response, right?

Taking a deep breath, Matt clicked on the message, opening it.

Wrong again.

The words, while not exactly encouraging, were not a complete refusal, either. And for Mello, that meant interest.

Balls.

Matt's head thumped down against the desk. "What the hell did I just do?" he asked himself in frustration. "What the hell do I do now?"

The steady hum of his computer was his only answer.

Sighing, Matt forced himself back into an upright position, thinking hard. He hadn't meant for this to go beyond one message, but if Mello was really feeling so down about himself that he would engage a complete stranger just for the ego boost (and Matt assumed that that was all it was, though his track record was apparently shit today), then it was his responsibility as his best friend to keep up the charade. Just for a while. Just to cheer him up. After all, he cared about his friend's happiness—probably more than was healthy—and he would not be responsible for crushing him, god dammit.

And hell, he realized he already knew the best way to derail the whole situation without hurting the blond.

Smiling with grim determination, Matt opened up a new message and started to type.

Dear Mello,

Has anyone ever told you what a charmer you are? I mean, really, questioning my looks, my intelligence, and my courage all in the same message? Be still my beating heart. If you were expecting me to be shamed into giving my identity away, I'm afraid that you're going to be sorely disappointed here.

To answer those questions, though: I am sex on legs, I am absolutely brilliant, and I don't always save my game before a boss battle, so obviously, I am one brave mofo. (At least one of these may be an exaggeration, by the way.)

In all seriousness, though, I was not expecting you to write back, which is a big part of why I went with anonymity when I contacted you. I am neither hideous nor a moron, but I figured you'd be too busy to be interested, and no one likes getting shot down in public when they can help it. The other reason I decided to stay anonymous–and I hope that this doesn't freak you out—is that I'm a guy. I didn't want you to think that I was trying to "convert" you or any bull like that, because I'm not. I just wanted you to know how great you are, without making you uncomfortable by having another dude mack on you and probably getting my ass kicked in the process.

So, sorry, dude—while I'd love to proclaim your eternal sexiness to the gods above, as I as said before, I am not an idiot. I know I don't have a chance, and I'm not about to risk the backlash for something that'll never happen anyway.

I figure I won't hear back from you after this one, and I know that this is probably the weirdest thing you've ever read, so I totally will not blame you. But I still think you're awesome, and even though I'm just some creeper on the Internet, I hope that means something to you.

Later,

-"Mail"

Reading over his message, Matt nodded to himself. That should shut this down pretty painlessly—and it wasn't even a lie, for the most part. He really did think Mello was amazing, and he really was a guy, so it all made perfect sense. He remembered Mello saying once that nothing makes a lie more believable than seasoning it with a bit of the truth—something he'd learned from that weirdo detective—and he hoped that the blond wasn't wrong.

Matt hit "Send" before he could overthink it too much, then sat back in his chair. Somehow, he already felt exhausted. He didn't even feel like playing his games anymore.

He wondered what Mello was doing.

Pushing that thought out of his mind, Matt got up just long enough to collapse back onto his bed with a groan. It was Sunday, so hanging with his best friend was out. Just as Sundays were sacred to Matt for reasons related to gaming, napping, and gaming some more, for Mello, Sundays were a day for studying, visiting freaky detectives, and pretty much nothing else. It had been that way for as long as Matt could remember, and he couldn't imagine him changing that now.

Though he hadn't exactly been predicting Mello's reactions right today.

And if Mello really was interested in a relationship, he would probably have to learn to be more willing to give up his precious study-time. Assuming he found someone non-male and, of course, real who was interested. But really, that was only a matter of time.

Matt wondered absently why he felt so bitter about that.

A crash came from outside his room, down the hall, and Matt winced. Sounded like his dad was home. Better go and check up on him before he hurt himself. Sighing, he stood up and headed for the door, steeling himself for the worst.

What had happened to his beautiful Sunday?

End Chapter Three

Author's End Note: Uh… Yeah. I'm introducing plot points here, I guess. I may have mentioned before that this thing has taken some interesting turns that I wasn't originally expecting. Yes, I'm introducing the cliché "drunk father" thing, but there's a reason for it. Just hang with me, guys. It's gonna be a weird ride.