Love is Always Write Anthology Bonus Volume

away.
    "Goddamn fucking son of a bitch Batman," Alan's voice said. "Got a fucking lock-pick on your belt?"
    The room was dark after the hall. I could see the lighter square of the window, the brick outside lit up from below, but little of the apartment. I closed the door and pocketed the key.
    "Mallory's really worried about you," I said. My eyes sorted him out, curled up on the bed-thing without a shirt, his pale skin catching the light.
    "She'll learn," he said.
    I remembered where the light switch was and flipped it on.
    "Ow, fuck!" Alan yelped, covering his face. His nails had only specks of black polish. He wore limp jeans and nothing else, and as he moved his ribs stood out. The room looked like my brother's after a bad week, except for the computer on the coffee table, carefully covered by a sheet. The screen-less window was wide open, and the room was colder than outside. On the floor laundry lay scattered like before, but now it was joined by a few fast-food wrappers and empty bottles. With my brother they'd be soda, but these were booze. The shelf behind the bed held an over-flowing ashtray and a carton of cigarettes and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
    Crap.
    "Yeah, I'm a fucking drunk," he said, his eyes having adjusted enough to follow my gaze. "Go the hell home to your gorgeous house and your marvelous aunt, asshole."
    "What happened?" I asked.
    "Nothing happened!" Alan jerked upright. "This is me!" He waved at the mess. "I just got fucking tired of trying, okay? So here I am, the real me— a fucking slob and a drunk and an abomination. Don't let the door hit you on the way out."
    "Now who's talking in clichés?" I asked, advancing into the room with careful steps. No telling what was hiding under the laundry.
    "Oh god." He fell back, clutching his hair. "What does it take to make you go away?"
    "You're my friend," I said, leaning over him to take the whiskey bottle. "Nothing is going to make me go away."
    I half-expected he'd fight for the alcohol, but he didn't. He just stared at me, eyes wide and confused.
    " Why? "
    "I'm stubborn." I put the lid on the whiskey and put it under the kitchen sink. I emptied the ashtray and returned it to him. He sat in the corner of the couch and stared at me, his hair standing in spikes from when he'd grabbed it. I brought him a glass of water and he took one sip and bolted for the bathroom. I went after him. Not because I wanted to watch him puke, but because people who are drunk and upset are unpredictable, and I didn't want him alone in a room with sharp objects and a door he could lock. Especially with how Mallory had told me not to let him do anything stupid.
    He was, of course, bent over the toilet. As he heaved I stroked his back and wondered how much weight he'd lost to have his spine stick out like that. Finally he came up for air and groaned that he'd thrown up on his pants.
    "Easily fixed," I said. I turned on the shower and lifted him into it.
    "Fuck! It's cold!"
    "That's to be expected." I spun him around and pushed him under the spray. "Rinse off, Alan. You reek."
    "Aaaaaahhh!"
    Alan struggled as much and as effectively as Javert. I let him get good and wet, then pulled him out and wrapped him in the towel hanging there and kept my arm around him. He stood huddled against me, gasping and dripping with makeup running down his cheeks. I washed his face as best I could.
    "I'm sorry," he mumbled from under the cloth. "I keep making you rescue me and I'm sorry. I'm an idiot."
    "You're worth it."
    "You're an idiot." He let his head fall to my shoulder. I held him quietly though I wanted to know where the "abomination" thing came from, and then I wanted to take my anti-theft club and pay someone a visit. Under my arm he shivered, and I remembered the damn window was open, it was November, and I'd just doused him. I walked him back into the living room and found a sweatshirt and a pair of pajama pants that didn't look too bad on the floor.
    "Put these on," I ordered, and went into the kitchen.
    The "pantry" was a small cupboard behind the table, and it was a sorry sight. The refrigerator was both sorry and scary. I found a packet of hot chocolate, though, and I washed a cup and fixed it, took it in the living room where he sat huddled miserable on the couch and handed it to him.
    "…thanks."
    "My pleasure." I reached to close the window.
    "Don't," he said. "I hate smoke."
    I didn't suggest the obvious, I just handed him his comforter from the floor. "Then