Jager. AU. First POV.

Just a reminder that I'm still alive and stuff is coming soon.

..

I carry him outside of the bar, his body battered from the fight because why the fuck not. He always wants to pick fights he never wins, and I can never talk him out of that. He's always so high from that cheap heroin he gets from his asshole of a dealer. He doesn't pay in money, he either punches them in the face until they give him what he wants or sleeps with them because he's that pathetic. But the dealer probably knows he feels good, and is probably of the queer kind. Or maybe he's also high like the fucking Empire States building all the time and he can't even tell a guy from a girl anymore.

He squeezes my arm, asking me to let him down without a single word, like he doesn't want me to carry him like this, like he thinks I don't know he wants this to happen, like I don't even notice his obvious half-ass effort to make me drop him. I refuse, keep walking to my car. He is fighting me now, face red from the cheap moonshine he can barely afford. His eyes are out of focus and halfway shut, so there's no way I'm letting him walk like this. I know he'll fall right after I let him down, so I keep carrying him, one hand supporting his back, another under his legs. People are starting to notice, but fuck them because I have a lot more to care about than just their stupid questioning stares because he is a dumbass when he is wasted.

"Stay the fuck down." I tell him, and he stops fighting. He always does whatever I tell him to, even when he's perfectly sober because he is obedient, and now he just looks at me with blurry black eyes. He stares at my chin, looking up to me like he always does because I'm the best thing that has ever happened to his pathetic fucking life. He chuckles, maybe his drunken brain has just thought of something hilarious. He breathes, the alcohol-filled puff of air hits my face, the stench of it find its way into my nostrils. I sigh and say nothing, because I've just realized how small he is when I carry him like this. He's always been smaller, and I never know it until now.

I let him down to open the car and he leans on me while I do it, soft black hair tickling my arm and his warm skin is pressed against the coolness of mine. I've come there in such a fucking rush that I forgot to wear a jacket, and if it wasn't for the bartender, he would have been dead by now. I guide him in the shotgun seat, where he always sits on my car, close the door, and move to the driver seat. Putting the key in, I restart the car and crank the heat up in the AC, part because I'm cold, part because he is going to be. I reach my hand to buckle his seatbelt, even though he never uses when he is sober. Carefully, I try not to touch the bruises on his face and the cuts on his cheeks. When I arrived, he was pinned against the wall, head bashed repeatedly in the concrete with a crowd cheering whoever it was beating him to a pulp. I didn't know how he ended up like that, and I'm not interested enough to know. I just punched that bastard square in the jaw and swept him into my hands to carry him out of the shithole.

I drive him straight to my house because there's no way I'm taking him back to that pathetic excuse for a father. That man is part of the reason why he is doing this to himself in the first place. He keeps his eyes shut, silent like he's sleeping on the way back to my place because he knows I understand how much he doesn't want to return "home". His forehead is pressed to the window and it slams to the glass painfully every time I accidentally drive on a speed bump. I mentally note it to not repeat, but I just can't seem to avoid the bumps. He looks okay with it, however, because he is okay with every decision I make.

I carry him to my room, careful not to wake the rest of my family, but it's not like they give a damn anyway. He fights back again, though I doubt he can make it up one flight of stairs without tumbling down at least once. I hold him tighter to me, telling him to shut up once in a while, in case the butler does wake up and decides to be a fucking snitch about my "midnight adventures". Of course he does shut up and just lets me carry him up because I know he likes it this way. I know he likes feeling protected, but he never says it. He gets drunk and gets into fights just to prove he can protect himself, but ends up losing and bruised up and I can't stand that. I can't stand that he fucking overestimates his own strength and I hate that he just does this to himself and wipes it off like it's nothing. But it fucking is something and I just don't want to see him like this.

I lay him in my bed and start bandaging him up, just hoping that there aren't any open wounds because it's two in the morning and I'm not good at stitching. After searching for a while, I let out a breath of relief because there's none of those. He seems to be up now, and is looking at me with hazy black eyes. I tell him to just keep sleeping, but he's trying to tell me something with his drunken slurs. His words are mixed up, and some of them don't even make sense, but he keeps talking. His voice gets louder, seems like he's in the emotional stage of being drunk, but I still don't get him. I can faintly hear my name, so I'm guessing it's one of his drunk confessions, the ones where he tells me all his feelings and that's why I know he wants me to hold him. He hides it so well normally, but in this state, he blurts everything out. He is getting louder now, almost to the point where he screams, and I have to stop him with the only way I can think of.

Of course I kiss him. Of course my mouth is pressed against his, and the scent of alcohol is invading my lungs. Of course my tongue is plunged deep into his throat, and of course there are trails of tears on his cheeks afterward.

Because Roger fucking loves me, and I'm fucking leading him on, and he fucking knows it.

I just hope he doesn't remember this in the morning.