To Build a Home

Chapter 24

The following week was a blur of buzzing alarm clocks, take-out dinners, and Stiles and Derek passing out before either one could mutter, goodnight, which is why Stiles was rushing to drop Isaac off at his Saturday t-ball game after the two had woken up late, the tires on his Jeep squealing as he turned sharply into the parking lot. He then waited anxiously to switch off with Derek after releasing Isaac to the field for the start of the game. The arrangement, a suggestion from Dr. Galler after the "hidden keys" incident, was supposed to give Stiles and Isaac a little more one-on-one time to make up for their busy schedule. Though it seemed to help his son, it only made Stiles' anxiety about getting to the Mother's Day sale on time worse; he found that he was reaching for his inhaler and taking puffs in front of people at the school now, something he'd refused to do even in front of his lacrosse team in high school. June, it seemed, and the end of the PTA, couldn't come soon enough.

Derek had run to the Glendale office to deal with some paperwork that morning but arrived just as Isaac's the referee was blowing his whistle to start the game. There was only time for him to share a quick kiss with his husband before Stiles gave his son a wave and jogged towards his car.

Derek watched preschooler after preschooler swing their bat and run around the diamond, the crowd supporting the players with cheers. The wind began to pick up about fifteen minutes in, dust from the field twirling in the warm morning air. Isaac was up at bat by then, the child's form nearly perfect as Derek watched the plastic ball soar towards third base. Derek shouted, "Go Ize!" and smiled until he saw Isaac's fingers from his right hand go for his mouth mid-run, a knot forming in his stomach as he watched his son slow down and lumber not towards second base, but off of the field towards him.

"Need my 'haler," he wheezed once Derek met him beside the fence, toddler on the verge of tears as he rubbed at his chest. Derek could feel the tight constriction growing in his son's lungs, his wheezing audible now that he was right in front of him.

"Daddy gave you your medicine before you left," Derek said, eyebrows knitted together in confusion and slight panic as he knelt down and went through Isaac's bag for his inhaler and spacer; he didn't want to overdose the toddler if he didn't have to, especially since he knew how sensitive he was to the side effects.

"N-no," Isaac whined as he shook his head, panting gaining the attention of nearby parents. "H-he...f-forgot."

"Okay, okay," Derek said when he realized there'd been a miscommunication, shaking the inhaler and quickly connecting it to the spacer. "Don't talk, baby. Here we go. Deep breaths," he coached as he secured the spacer mask around Isaac's mouth and nose and pressed down on the canister. He repeated this two more times, the toddler breathing the medicine in with the biggest breaths he could muster.

Derek then lifted his son into his arms with a coo and handed him his juice cup, Isaac leaning his head on his shoulder in exhaustion as he sipped. They waited a minute or so on the sidelines, Derek listening to Isaac's wheezing settle down before he let himself take an easy breath. "What do you say we grab some lunch and head home, kiddo?" Derek asked softly as he leaned down to grab Isaac's bag. The toddler nodded from his place in his papa's arms and the two headed for the parking lot, Derek feeling all of the eyes of the fellow parents on him as they walked away.

It was always like that during practices and games; peoples' eyes would follow him whenever Isaac was in his arms or holding Stiles and Derek's hands, their lips busy whispering. About what, Derek could only imagine; his anxious heart was thudding so loudly in his chest that it overshadowed his ability to hear their comments.

Maybe it was about the "two dads" situation, or how they were always "babying" Isaac because of his asthma. He suddenly remembered one of the mothers asking, "He's not really allergic to peanut butter, right? He just doesn't like it?" at practice a month ago, could still feel the anger surging through him at her ignorant remark whenever he thought about it. Derek wished that Isaac just didn't like peanuts or strawberries, that his coughing from the dust and pollen on windy days like today was just a cry for attention. Didn't they know how hard it was to keep him from wheezing when his peak flow was hovering between the green and yellow zones? What it was like to hear the beginnings of an attack through the baby monitor at three in the morning?