He stumbles into an alleyway, cowering in the shadows, his hands linked in the dark wet tendrils of his hair. The entire world seems to be in black, white and shades of gray; possibly because of the stormy sky above. Lightning dances across the sky in quick flashes that illuminate the darkened alleyway for seconds at a time. He crawls to one of the walls and sits with his back to it, hugging his knees to his chest. The only way you can tell he has been crying is the red shade of his face and the dried mucus under his nose and lower lip, and the corners of his mouth. Dry sobs are still cavorting through his body, making him tremble helplessly. He rests his chin behind his knees, so that only his eyes and forehead are visible, and slowly he slides his fingers out of his hair. A thrusting sob runs through him and he shuts his eyes against it's strength, praying to God that the crying will stop soon, and maybe he'll die, and that wouldn't matter, because his life has been hell anyway.

Racing shadows run past the entrance to the alleyway and he quails in his shadows, hoping beyond hope that they don't find him, not after what he said, not after what he did. He chews on his already broken lip, tasting but not tasting the salty copper-flavor of blood on his tongue.

Just when he thinks the last of them have passed, another shadow runs by, stopping dead center in the opening of the alleyway. His eyes widen. It would have to be him, wouldn't it? The one to find him would have to be him, the dark-haired, dark-eyed center of the entire problem, wouldn't it?

He flattens himself against the wall, but to no avail. He is discovered, and the boy at the entrance walks forward.

"Why are you hiding here?" His discoverer asks, his voice tinted with the lightest of Spanish accents.

"Don't kill me, Bumlets." He pleads. "Please don't kill me."

"Who said I was going to kill you?" Bumlets questions, eyebrows raised. He looks honestly shocked.

"Nobody had to say nothin'. I just knew."

Bumlets leaned forward and kissed his bleeding mouth, wringing out his curls with strong, bronze fingers. "You don't know anything, Snitch," Bumlets says softly, his breath warm on Snitch's lips, smelling of spices and jalapenos, things Bumlets has an abundance of. "You don't know anything."

Snitch stares at the Hispanic boy, still trembling dangerously. "Don't play with-"
"I ain't playing. Now get up." Bumlets kisses Snitch again, then slides an arm around the younger boy, lifting him to his feet. "Let's get you to the Lodging House and cleaned up."

Snitch can only stare in wonderment at Bumlets, not quite believing what is happening. Not twenty minutes ago, he had stupidly said his feelings for the Hispanic boy out loud, for the entire Lodging House to hear. Embarrassed, he had run, sobbing with fear. He knows very well how boy-kissers are treated in this neighborhood. He had expected a severe beating, at the very least, leaving him a bloody pulp in the alleyway, pleading for death to come and come quick.

He hadn't expected this.

But that doesn't mean he's not happy with it.

***AUTHOR'S NOTE***

I just wanted to write something. **shrugs** This is crap. **throws things at it** But I'll post it anyway 'cause I just need to post something.

As for it being Bumlets/Snitch, I just wanted a strange pairing, and have wanted to write Bumlets/Snitch for a while. That's all. Back to my other stories I go. Chow!