Love is Always Write Anthology Bonus Volume

they want. I could have not-kissed Alan, but I was sleep-deprived and judgment-impaired and I didn't want to not-kiss him. So I touched his un-bruised cheek with my fingertips and his eyes widened but he didn't pull away, and I leaned to kiss him gently.
    His lips were soft and tasted of waffles, and 'gently' lasted all of five seconds. Then he grabbed my head and kissed back.
    It was electric. It was dizzying. It was Alan Lacroix kissing me. Fiercely. Recklessly, uncaring of his bruised face or the doors—
    But he let me go when the doors opened. He put out an arm to block them closing and stared at me, both of us panting.
    "Thank you," he said after a long moment, "for making me your first gay experience. Ready for your second?"
    "What—"
    He slugged me. Punched me right in the mouth and ran. I staggered back and let him go, because if I caught him I'd kill him or fuck him and neither was a good idea.
    I was halfway home before I calmed down enough to admit I'd completely deserved getting slugged. I'd been a freaking idiot , and he had every right to sock me one. If I'd kissed a girl like that, I'd have expected to get slapped— or punched, depending on the girl!— so what did I think he was going to do? I pulled over and texted I am so sorry. I'm an idiot , to his email, knowing he probably wouldn't even get it until Monday. I had to resist going back to tell him in person. It was an extremely bad idea, but if I'd known his apartment number I would have done it.
    If I'd known what floor he lived on, I'd have gone back and found him.
    When I got home I finished up my chores and took my camcorder out to the graveyard to get some footage. I tried to remember the stills Alan had taken so I'd be sure to get what he wanted, but I'd only glanced at the pictures nearly a week ago. I ended up spending two hours slowly panning about, occasionally moving the tripod to pan some more, trying to capture everything so he'd have whatever he wanted when it came time to edit.
    I drove over to the new church too, and got some footage of a harvest picnic in progress. We could edit out the people waving at me in post.
    Sunday afternoon I hit a few other spots Alan had put on the shooting calendar for the weekend. We all had copies of that calendar, but no one called me about getting the stuff done. I didn't know what that meant, but if I couldn't ask Alan I sure as hell wasn't going to call anyone else and explain why our director wasn't speaking to me.
    Monday morning Alan wasn't in class. Tuesday night he wasn't at the Mug Shot. I'd sat in his chair, so the first I knew was when Mallory smacked the back of my head coming in alone. She didn't say anything, though, just put her stuff down and got in line. When Tania came and asked, Mallory said that Alan wasn't feeling well. Tania asked me about my bruised lip. I told her I'd performed "an act of stupidity" and Mallory cocked her head, thinking. Tania rolled her eyes. We held a brief meeting where I told them what I'd got done and Tania handed more research to Mallory to deliver to Alan. Matt dropped by with a flash drive that Mallory also collected. Darren texted me that he wasn't going to make it but hopefully next week, and could I send him notes on what we'd done so far? I sent him the link to the wiki again.
    Wednesday Alan was in class. The swelling had gone down some, but a full third of his face was shades of black and purple. I tried to talk to him, but Mallory ran verbal and then bodily interference for him and I wasn't going to add shoving her to my list of stupidities.
    I went back into the classroom and asked Professor Nieman if I could talk to her for a few minutes about the possibility of switching groups. She said she would email me an appointment.
    Thursday I knocked on her office door at 2:15 and she called for me to come in.
    Alan was there, in one of the chairs in front of Professor Nieman's desk, his eye yellow and green. He glanced at me and looked out the window. He wasn't wearing a blazer, just a black T-shirt and jeans. He looked thinner. And miserable.
    Professor Nieman looked crisp as always. She waved me at the second chair.
    "My time is valuable, gentlemen," she said. "Who wants to tell me what this is about?"
    Deep breath. "I'd like to switch groups." I reached in my backpack. "I talked to—"
    Professor Nieman waved her hand. "I remember your request." She tapped the desk-pad calendar under her fingers. "Six weeks into the project, you both want to