19. stand

NINETEEN

stand

Wednesday, April 2nd

Isaiah had no idea where he and August stood.

He hadn't even been able to talk to August since Monday. He barely answered his texts, and Isaiah never saw him during school. Especially at lunch; it was like he just disappeared. He asked Morgan, but she told him that it was nothing personal (Isaiah couldn't quite tell if she knew or not).

Isaiah found that hard to believe.

He was stressed and very much concerned, which wasn't a good combination when it came to playing a sport. He ended up dropping the ball Steve threw his way one too many times, and he wanted to slap himself. Stop thinking. Focus.

When the ball slipped from his glove once again, Steve sighed and made his way over, a deep frown settled on his lips. "What's up with you?" he asked quietly, placing the back of his hand flat against Isaiah's forehead. "You're not sick. Sorry for being blunt, but you're shit today. And we have a game."

Isaiah lightly shoved at his hand and shrugged. "Guess today isn't my day."

Steve scowled. "That is such a fucking understatement that I can't even believe you. What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Steve grabbed his arm and pulled on it gently, just enough to tell him that he wasn't getting out of this. "Just tell me," he whispered, and Isaiah blinked, momentarily stunned. "Dude, you've been acting weird for weeks. And at first I thought it was because of Marcus, but now I'm not so sure. We're worried about you."

"I can't."

"Do you not trust me?" Steve asked, brows furrowing. He looked genuinely hurt.

"No, no, I do," Isaiah quickly said, shaking his head. "I do. I just... I can't say it. Okay? It's hard. If anything, I don't trust myself."

Steve nodded slowly and took a step back. "Okay," he said. He ran a hand through his short hair, huffing, looking around at the other players on the field before his eyes landed back on Isaiah. He dropped his hand to his side. "Okay. Just... whenever you're ready, I'm here, alright?"

Isaiah cracked a small smile. "Alright."

Steve shoved his shoulder and hit him in the chest with his glove. "Now get your head in the game, loser."

"This isn't basketball. Or High School Musical."

"Fuck off. What I said still stands."

"Alright, Troy Bolton."

Steve rolled his eyes.

___

Isaiah couldn't get his head in the game.

It was nearly impossible to when all he could think about was August. If he was okay, why it felt like he was ignoring him, and so much more. He zoned out at bat and missed a perfect pitch that he could've sent flying, but instead he got his second strike. One more and he was out.

It didn't help that the other team was hollering, trying to distract him. As they always did, and Isaiah always ignored it, but this time it was making his already jumbled thoughts even messier. His fingers clutched the bat tightly and he kept his eyes on the ball, trying to focus.

Smack. A searing pain emitted from his thigh, and he flinched, jumping back way too late. The pitcher accidentally hit him, and instead of dodging and trying to minimize the pain, he let it fucking happen. Which was a good thing and a bad thing. He could run to first base without any problems, but he was also stuck with a limp, hindering his speed. He kind of wanted to cry from frustration.

He inhaled deeply and kept between first and second, hands on his bent knees. The ball sent a shock through him, scattering his thoughts, but he was sure they'd come back soon enough. He closed his eyes tightly, then opened them a second later, gaze sliding over the people in the stands.

Of fucking course he was looking for August, looking for that brooding face and head of blond curls. And there he was.

Isaiah's heart leapt in his throat, trying to crawl its way up through his mouth and to that stupid boy sitting in the stands. He wanted to set his heart in his hands, wanted to beg him to keep it safe and not to break it, but he wasn't so sure it was possible. Not when his heart ached terribly, all because he wasn't quite sure if August felt the same way or not. Because he felt ignored, almost as if he was being avoided.

"Out!"

Isaiah was ripped from his thoughts, and he straightened up, glancing over at the first baseman. He stood there with a smirk, a baseball settled snug in his glove, almost mocking. He wasn't paying attention, and the pitcher noticed, throwing a ball to first base and getting him out. I'm ruining everything.

The guy snorted. "We were all told to worry about you," he said, rolling his eyes. "Don't know why. You're shit."

The teams were switching places. Isaiah felt a familiar stinging sensation gathering in his eyes, and he thought, fuck, no. I can't cry right now, I can't. Don't be so stupid, don't be weak, you idiot.

"Isaiah." It was Steve. He turned his head and upon seeing the tears pooling in his eyes, Steve sighed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him back to the dugout. He sat him down and spoke quietly to the coach, gesturing at Isaiah every few words. Isaiah felt so ashamed. He had scouts looking at him before, but now they were probably thinking, who the hell is this kid? Were we really about to pick him up?

Coach crouched down beside him. The usually stern and red-faced man looked calmer, almost sympathetic. He patted Isaiah's shoulder roughly. "Carr, you're sitting out for the rest of the game. Alright? Turner is taking your place."

Isaiah's eyes widened. "What? No, Coach, I can play, I swear."

Coach scowled. "Don't lie," he muttered. "Better shape next game, alright? Don't worry about today. You can go sit with your parents in the stands, if you'd like."

No, that's embarrassing. "Yeah, okay." I don't want them to see me like this.

Coach nodded and stood up, standing by the edge of the door to watch the players practice. Isaiah hung his head and stared down at the sunflower seed riddled ground (don't forget the dried gum). Tears were threatening to escape, but he squeezed his eyes shut to hold them back. He hated crying. So, so much.

This was why he stayed away from things that didn't involve school and baseball. This was exactly why. He got distracted, he let this boy consume him, and now he was fucking up.

Who am I kidding? he thought bitterly. It's my fault, not his. I'm the one who's fucking up, I'm the one who is deciding to overthink. It's me, all me.

"Isaiah?"

God, no, go away. Please go away.

"Hey, excuse me, can I borrow him?"

Isaiah peeked through the gaps between his fingers. Coach glanced between August and Isaiah before nodding once. "Go ahead," he said. "If he wants to."

"Hey, Isaiah," August murmured, walking over to the bench beside him. He gently nudged their shoulders together. "You okay?"

No. Isaiah sniffled, turning his head in the opposite direction. "I'm fine," he said, but his voice wobbled and cracked near the end. He winced.

"And Trump is a good president," August muttered sarcastically. He slid his fingers over his elbow, squeezing gently. "Come outside with me, okay? Talk to me out there."

"I don't want to talk to you."

August's hold slacked. "Oh. Did I do something?"

No, he thought. It's me being fucking stupid. He didn't say anything. August sighed softly. And then his hand was touching Isaiah's cheek and turning his head to face him, and Isaiah shut his eyes immediately when his tear-streaked face was revealed. August exhaled deeply.

"You're crying, and you're pissed at me. I can only assume I did something wrong," August stated. "Please don't hold things like this back. Talk to me."

Isaiah opened his eyes and glanced at Coach, and he could tell he was listening. He sighed. "Outside," he mumbled, and August nodded, taking his hand in his and leading him to the back of the dugout. Isaiah refrained from pulling his hand out of his. No one's around.

Once they were somewhere away from everyone else, August turned and faced Isaiah with crossed arms. "What's wrong?" he asked quietly. "I know I've been distant lately, and if that's it, I'm sorry."

Isaiah clenched his jaw. Don't cry, idiot. "Why?" At August's confused look, he added, "Why have you been avoiding me?" I sound so clingy and pathetic. "Do you—"

"Do I what? Hate you?"

Isaiah avoided his gaze and nodded.

"God, no, dumbass," August answered, but he was smiling. "You're impossible to hate. You're right, I should've told you what was going on. But I was down in the goddamn dumps and didn't even think of anything but wallowing in self-pity. I'm sorry.

"I was feeling like shit for the past few days. Tuesday was the, uh, the anniversary of my—" He gestured to his leg. "—this. I was just being reminded of everything, and I wanted to be alone. I should've told you. I'm sorry I made you feel like I didn't like you and regretted everything, because I don't."

Isaiah rubbed at his forehead. "I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions."

"Hey, no," August chuckled, taking a few steps closer so he could cradle Isaiah's face in his hands. "Don't be sorry. You had every reason to believe those things, and I wish you hadn't had to. I do like you, okay?"

"Okay," Isaiah whispered back.

August brushed his thumb against his bottom lip, leaning forward to press their foreheads together. "Can I kiss you?" he murmured, tip of his nose brushing back and forth against Isaiah's. "Is that okay with you?"

Just as August's lips brushed his, Isaiah looked over the boy's shoulder to see a familiar face. A far too familiar face to be comfortable, standing a little ways away, staring straight at them. Isaiah gripped August's shoulder and pushed him away, other hand flying to his mouth. No, no, no. It's too soon. Fuck.

Jordan, go away.

___

Q: have you ever had a terrifying moment like that? (i.e, isaiah literally smooching the heck out of august only to see his sister like yikes)