Warning: Mentions of alcohol
A/N: They're 16 here, because a 12-year-old child drinking whiskey is ridiculous.
Roger Wriedt was wicked. He was unsympathetic, sadistic, bitter. And yet you loved him. You felt a love most sinful yet sweet, a stirring in your bosom every time you set your gaze on him. Why did you love him? You didn't know. Was it because of his devilishly handsome features? Your curiosity as to his distant demeanor? The lack of a loved one in your life? Perhaps.
You thought of him almost everywhere you went, and at this particular night, you happened to have snuck out of your house to visit a plain, unpretentious bar, its looks disguising a surprisingly large menu. You downed glass after glass of Sangria, apathetic as to its cost upon your savings. With a jolt, you realized that Roger was sitting on the barstool right next to yours, cradling a glass of whiskey.
You stared at him. He stared back. You broke the silence by slurring, "Hi, R-Roger." "Hi," he responded.
"Roger, there's something I've gotta tell you."
"What is it, (Y/N)?"
"I l-love you," you mumbled. "A lot."
"So do I." He leaned towards you to kiss your lips, and you trembled with giddy anticipation, but the moment your lips made contact, he vanished into thin air. You snapped out of your drunken stupor, realizing with bitter disappointment that you'd just imagined all of that.
Oh well, you thought, your spirits lifting a bit, that was pretty enjoyable. And, hey, maybe you'd tell him how you felt tomorrow. Maybe he'd like you back.
After all, almost anything is possible.
