A/N: Snitey fluff, written during a lecture about quadratic-linear functions. This is mostly about Snitch, but is also not-so-discreetly based on my best friend, who I am in love with. I think I love Itey more, though…

Disclaimer: If I owned Newsies, there would be no shirts. Ever.

I love you for your hands. They are beautiful; always tap-tap-tapping a story that none of us can read. Your fingers are so long and slender and inviting, and I long to weave them through my own, to connect us as one. The dip between each knuckle is a perfect valley that catches and twists shadows in a permanent sunset.

I love you for your teeth, large and horsey and pearly white; always sparkling in your wicked, impish, irresistible grin. Most everyone can coax your smile, but I'm the only one who is blessed with all thirty-two teeth after I tell you a dirty joke.

I love you for the hollow beneath your ankle bone and the splendor it possesses as you lace your boots.

I love you for the wrinkles between your eyes, the ones that only appear when you are worried or smell something distasteful, the ones I yearn to press my lips to before smoothing them away with a stroke of my hand.

I love you for the deep shadows under your endless cobalt eyes, betraying your previous night's antics and retirement hour to all.

I love you for your feet, your greatest weapon besides your nimble fingers. Your thieving is an art, a tango that cannot be replicated by any of Medda's best dancers. It's a marvelous thing, to watch you simply disappear—being everywhere, alive, poised, and yet nowhere at all—before slinging an arm around my shoulders and declaring that lunch at Tibby's is on you. Because your feet create this tale, this waltz between the rich and the clever, I never really mind waking to them in the morning.

I love you for your thin Southern blood that constitutes your dreams of summer and sweet grass and the twitter of mockingbirds, even though New York never quite comes up to scratch with Virginia. I love that every night from October through April, you need the warmth of two bodies to sleep into the morn, and so we spend the night wrapped in each other's arms, and I lie awake for hours, listening to your strong heartbeat and memorizing the scent of you and feeling the electricity radiate from every spot of contact between us.

But most of all, I love that on these nights I can sweep your dusky hair out of your slumbering face and kiss your sun-darkened forehead and whisper that I love you and be honest, for once.

Today, Snitch, you asked me why we love girls. What's so great about them. I wish I could have given you an answer, but I don't love girls. I love you, Snitch, and this is why.