Disclaimer: Blah-blah, don't own 'em and all that

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If hope was a thing with feathers, perched in your soul—as an old book of poems he found on the street once said—then passion was a tiny hand that wrapped around your throat and suffocated you during the night.

Itey would try to avoid it even though they shared a bed. He slept the opposite way to avoid Snitch's lithe frame with his beautiful waves of hair and the thumb corked in his mouth. He slept the opposite way so he wouldn't have to look at him and he only pretended to mind when his feet were in his face when he awoke. He'd rather have a mouth full of foot than have to see his luminescent blue eyes open and his mouth widen into a kitten-like yawn.

They spent all of their time together. They sold together and ate together and shared their bed. If he didn't want to be around him so much, Itey figured, he would avoid him. But it was their constant togetherness that tested him the most and Itey was determined to pass each and every test.

But it was hard a lot of the times. When it was just them, especially. He wanted to seize his narrow shoulders and throw him into an alley, covering his mouth with his. But it wouldn't work. No, it wouldn't. Snitch would shove him away and never speak to him again. Or worse, he'd tell the others and they'd kill him. To know that he wanted to bed men the way other men wanted to bed women was enough to set a malicious glare in his friends' eyes. He'd be rejected.

He knew about rejection. His mother left him on the stoop where his father lived. The man had raised him until he was killed in a bar fight by some drunken, Irish man. Itey had been there that night. Seen the little boy with the man, perched on the stool, watching with intense curiosity. The man had cracked the bottle and turned to the boy. Said 'Frankie, you watch this' and then killed his father.

No, he couldn't face that rejection again.

Despite the trying moments in their solitude, the need became greater when they walked with the masses of boys out of the distribution center. There was a large crowd, everyone bumping together and jabbering. The strong scent of boys hung heavily in the air as they surged towards the street. It smelled like sweat, feet, and that earthly, salty smell that every boy seemed to have. The smell that made Itey sneak outside and stroke himself before Snitch came.

They walked together, as always. He watched Snitch from the corner of his eye. His left thumb was corked securely in his mouth and his full, beautiful lips suckled on it every few seconds. His right arm, the arm closest to Itey, dangled freely. His papes were in the crook of his arm that led up to the thumb. His own papes were under his arm loosely. His left arm was tense, dangling so close to his.

They were nearly to the gate now. The small area of cobbled stone seemed to widen to a great birth and lengthen to a desert. Their hands brushed together, the knuckles meeting almost like a jigsaw puzzle in the hills and recesses. He mumbled an apology but the small brush gave him an idea.

There was safety in anonymity.

In the mass of boys, he reached out and only grabbed his fingers lightly. Snitch turned and gave him a confused look, his thick brows raised. He looked so much younger with his thumb in his mouth. It made Itey want to protect him. Both from the world and himself.

They began to walk again, their bodies moving slower this time, allowing others to pass them by. He gathered his nerves and reached out. He felt air for a moment but then a locking warmness and the sensation of palms hugging and fingers lacing. He glanced up, realization slowly dawning on him as Snitch grinned from behind his thumb.

He had been reaching for him as well.