Summary: Smalls harbors feelings for Benny, but the star baseball player is rather oblivious to his feelings. Or is he?

Rating: T

Pairing: Benny/Smalls

Genre: Romance/Drama/Angst

Disclaimer: Don't own it, never will.

The splintered bench pressed against his legs, its frayed texture grating against his skin. Scotty Smalls, who usually went by his last name, grimaced as wooden splinters raked across his calves. He dismissed the prickly sensation and waved it away. The bench seat was cool, and the awning above provided shade and relief from the sweltering afternoon sun. The splintered texture of the bench was a trivial matter- if Tommy ever heard him complaining, the boy would be sure to repeat it to the rest of his friends, even worse, to Ham, who usually had some scathing insult or witty retort up his sleeve.

Smalls tilted his head back and shifted his cap, beads of sweat trailing down his neck. He leaned further into the seat of the bench, jutting his legs out in front of him. It was a good thing he still insisted on wearing shorts, even though the others (mainly Ham) complained because they said it made him look more of a wimp than a rough and tough baseball player. He could sort of agree with them too. He scanned his cerulean eyes across the dusty field, noticing that Yeah-Yeah and Squints and the rest of his friends were clad in denim blue jeans.

Smalls should have been used to the heat by now, after all, he had been living in Los Angeles for almost four years, ever since he first moved to the blustering LA as that timid, awkward kid who couldn't catch a ball for the life of him. He smiled at the memory, his cheeks flushing in embarrassment. He was still that same shy kid from long ago, but he had integrated fairly well into the now tight-knit circle of baseball enthusiasts he liked to call his friends. Despite how rough it had been getting to earn their trust and respect, Smalls had it good. School had let out about two weeks ago and he'd be going into the 10th grade when school started up again, but for now, he couldn't think of any other way than to spend the summer playing ball with his friends in the Sandlot.

Sweat dripped in droplets down the sides of his face, prickling along the base of his neck, but Smalls made no move to wipe the offending liquid away. Summers in Southern California were hot and humid, occasionally dry if the Santa Ana winds rolled by, but Smalls had learned to deal with the heat. There was nothing a chilled bottle of Coke couldn't fix. Speaking of Coke…

Smalls straightened himself and groped for the glass bottle, his fingers wrapping around its slender form as he brought the cool bottle to his lips. He took one long gulp of the carbonated beverage and let it slide down his throat, a residual acidic burn tingling along his tongue. Ah, sometimes good things came in small packages.

"'Sup Smalls."

Smalls spluttered and choked on his drink, the syrupy liquid dribbling down his chin where it collected into a stain on the collar of his t-shirt. The blond continued to cough and sputter, trying desperately to get his throat clear enough to murmur out a hasty, "B-Benny, h-hey!"

The older teen had taken a seat beside him, thick onyx hair mussed about his head as sweat glistened along his brow. Benny's tanned face was flushed from the heat and the teen's breath was ragged and clipped, his tongue occasionally flickering out past his lips—Smalls' heart might have skipped a beat.

"Ha ha, sorry about that," Benny apologized, rubbing a hand through his hair. He let a lazy grin scrawl across his lips, before settling his coffee hued eyes on the bottle of Coke still clasped in Smalls' hands. "Hey, uh, can I get a swig of that?"

Smalls gulped and stared down at the bottle of Coke. He had no idea why he was hesitating; it shouldn't have been that hard of a decision. They all shared their food and drink with each other, there was no harm in it if you excluded the fact that they were swapping spit and germs (well, that was really kind of gross anyway, but he decided not to voice that awareness aloud). Smalls shook his head and gave a deft nod, passing the bottle into Benny's eager hands.

"Bitchin'," Benny beamed, bringing the bottle to his lips. He titled his head back, revealing the tanned skin of his throat, and Smalls couldn't help but just stare at the other teen's Adam's Apple as it bobbed up and down- Benny was practically guzzling down the entire beverage. Heck, Smalls didn't even care if Benny finished off the bottle, as long as he could continue watching- .

No. No, no, no, no, no, no. His thoughts were fast straying into uncharted territory, something he liked to call his forbidden-zone. He didn't feel like delving into the frenzied pit of his emotions, not today, not right now; not when Benny was seated right beside him. Not to mention that it was all sorts of wrong.

He tried to reason with himself: Benny's a nice guy, he's a really, really nice, chill guy. So what if Smalls often got nervous around the Latino, so what if his heart sped up and his face flushed an embarrassing shade of pink whenever the older teen did something especially endearing, like when Benny would ruffle his hair or give him a pat on the shoulder, or come to his defense when Ham was being especially scathing. They were friendly gestures, Smalls concluded, and the feelings they stirred were nothing but platonic.

Smalls was kidding himself.

"Thanks man, I needed that," Benny breathed, wiping his mouth off with his free hand. He handed the bottle back to Smalls, which was now half-empty, and before standing up and jogging away, Benny turned around and flashed Smalls a languid smile. Smalls could practically feel his heart flutter in his chest. Oh God, he felt like such a girl.

He stared down at the Coke bottle nestled in his lap, anchoring his gaze on the rim where Benny's lips had been just a few seconds previous. What if he were to take a swig from that same exact spot? Smalls frowned at the notion, his brow furrowing. It'd be just like a kiss, an indirect one, and the thought of it made him slightly nauseous, in a weird butterflies-in-the-stomach kind of way. Deciding he'd rather not barf all over his sneakers, Smalls tepidly set the bottle beside him on the bench and resumed watching the make-shift game taking place in the Sandlot.

Squints was busy re-adjusting his glasses, which were still too big on him if you asked Smalls, and Ham was busy perfecting his umpire skills of distraction. He could practically see the blue vein pulsing angrily along Yeah-Yeah's temple as he waited for Benny to pitch the ball.

And why was Smalls not out there on the field having fun with them?

It was simply too hot; he didn't care if they all called him a wuss afterwards.

Smalls tilted his head back and sighed.