Author's Note: This was originally attached to my other slightly crackish story, Cookies!, but I decided it would work better on its own.

Also, I don't own Death Note.

The knock on his office door both startled and annoyed Roger Ruvie. Knocks meant children, children meant problems, and problems meant work. It was Roger's goal to pass as many consecutive hours as possible without lifting a finger. He hoped to earn every penny of his retirement fund sitting in his Italian leather chair sipping expensive whiskey straight out of the bottle that he kept in his desk drawer.

Roger wasn't an alcoholic. He could stop whenever he wanted. Really. He just didn't particularly want to.

"Come in," he droned.

The door swung open to reveal Roger's least favorite orphan genius, one Mihael Keel.

He sighed deeply. "What is it, Mello?" Did you run out of your Paul Mitchell conditioner? Did you eat all of your bloody chocolate? he added mentally.

No, he reasoned. Neither one of those scenarios were very likely, as Mello had yet to burst into tears, and nothing breakable within his grasp had been broken.

"I… um…" the boy's normally strong (and obnoxious, Roger thought) voice faltered. "Can I sit down?"

Roger resisted the urge to hit his own pressure points and knock himself unconscious. He waved a hand at the hard, wooden chair in front of his desk (originally, the chair had been as lavish and comfortable as his own, but he decided that it was far too inviting and had it replaced with one of the chairs L used in interrogations,) indicating that the boy should sit down.

Mello scooted into the chair and clasped his hands together in his lap, staring down at them.

"Now, what's bothering you?" Roger asked flatly.

"I… I think I might be gay."

Roger blinked. "One moment," he said, ducking his head under his desk and fishing through his drawer for his beloved whiskey bottle. He took a swig, replaced the cap, and straightened.

Roger was not an alcoholic.

He cleared his throat. "What makes you think that, Mello?"

"Well," he looked up. "My hair is fabulous."

The boy's hair was just slightly more fabulous than the average orphan.

"I just used the word fabulous," he continued, counting off on his fingers. "I have an unnatural desire to emulate Madonna,"

Roger remembered well the three consecutive Halloweens that Mello had insisted on dressing up as the American pop artist. Pointed brassiere and all. He ducked under his desk again for another swig of whiskey.

Roger was not an alcoholic.

"And sometimes when Matt's asleep, I like to kiss his neck,"

Roger didn't even bother hiding it this time as he groped blindly for the whiskey underneath him, taking a giant gulp, and slamming the bottle on the desk.

They don't pay me enough for this. he thought.

"Well, Mello. It seems that you've..." Roger coughed. "Given this quite a bit of thought."

"It's been on my mind all week," the boy confessed. "Maybe that's why Near outscored me on Monday's assessment!" he exclaimed.

Oh, yes. That's definitely why. Roger thought sarcastically.

"And why," the hell "Are you telling me this?"

"I just… I don't really know what to do." Mello looked back down at his hands, still clenched tightly together in his lap.

"I suppose you should just accept it as part of who you are. Embrace it, if you will." Roger made note of having filled his useful advice quota of one piece of advice per week.

"So… there's nothing wrong with me, then?" Mello looked back up, hope sparkling in his blue eyes.

There are quite a few things wrong with you. "Not at all," Roger assured.

Mello grinned widely. "Thanks, Roger. You're not as much of a useless, stuck-up wanker as I thought you were," he said before dashing out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

"Bloody hell," Roger murmured, downing another large mouthful of his rapidly dwindling whiskey supply. He considered quitting, telling his oldest friend to shove it, jetting off to Boca, buying a condo…

His thoughts were interrupted by another knock on his door. Roger nearly threw his bottle at the door, but decided against it. He was going to need it to get through the rest of the day.

Roger was. Not. An alcoholic.

"Come in," he called.

A redheaded boy walked slowly into Roger's office.

"Take a seat," he sighed. "What's the problem, Matt?"

Matt took a seat on the wooden chair Mello had just vacated. He pushed his goggles over his forehead. Roger couldn't recall ever having seen the boy's eyes without the orange tint.

"Well… uh…"

"Just get on with it," Roger snapped.

"Sometimes, at night, when Mello thinks I'm sleeping he crawls into bed with me and kisses my neck."