Expiration Dates
The cashier at the grocery store had a theory; a theory that she had shaped, developed and molded through years of pushing groceries down a sliding belt and billing them. The theory stated that you could get to know a lot about a person by looking at their groceries.
That was why when she saw a pile of four packs of cigarettes, each one of a different brand, two bottles of chilled water, a lighter and a carton of milk, she had to look up.
The customer in question was a strikingly handsome man in his mid-twenties with a long, weathered dark trench-coat that looked as if it had faced every war in world history. Besides his pale face, everything else about him was black. His dark, untidy hair that fell into emerald eyes in thin spikes, his long shirt, jeans and the soft gloves he wore even though it was the wrong season for them: they were all black. He met her gaze without any care and couldn't have looked more lost and distracted even if he had tried.
She quickly billed his purchase, trying not to think of all those cigarettes and those toxins doing their unholy work in his flawless being. She had made her judgment about him.
He was a man who had been forced to live. And he hated every vile minute of it.
She was just counting his change when someone crashed violently into her customer from behind.
The man whirled around in surprise and thinly disguised fury but froze the next instant, his shoulders tensing and his expression draining away to nothing as he looked down at a slightly built teenager in a crumpled school uniform, with a black tie askew. The teenager took in the man's face with ethereal violet eyes and involuntarily gasped, backing up against the wall defensively.
"Subaru…I mean, sorry, Subaru-san-" the boy stammered out, his face stricken. Then, at a loss for words, he gaped up at the older man.
"I'm so sorry," he quickly muttered staring at his feet.
The cashier frowned, trying to connect the two of them. A father and an estranged son? Never. Their ages were too close. Unhappy brothers? Quite possibly true. Former friends? Could be.
If she only knew a fraction of who they really were and what they meant to her and the fate of her world…
She took in the fact that the man's face twisted in something like grief before he smoothed it over. Without answering to the younger boy's apology, he looked into the latter's trolley.
Chocolate bars, cake mix, a few scattered vegetables added as an after thought and a carton of milk. It was always a mistake to let a teenager go shopping for groceries alone. His guardians would learn that soon enough.
The moment was suspended above other earthly matters and the air between the man and the boy was electrified with tension, carefully suppressed emotions, restraint, fear…and longing.
From both of them.
Finally the man spoke.
"It's gone," he said softly in a mild voice that let out nothing significant. The younger one looked petrified. "I'm sorry?" he nearly whispered. The man, Subaru, picked up the boy's one carton of milk and held it close to the boy's face.
"It's expired," he explained patiently, "If you drink this, you'll become sick." True enough, the cashier saw to her embarrassment that the expiration date for the milk had passed four days previously.
Her supervisor would murder her for negligence if the man decided to talk to him.
But the discussion wasn't really about the milk at all, she realized.
The boy flushed in consternation as the older man placed the faulty one on the counter and gave his own to the boy, who took it awkwardly, starting in shock as their fingers touched.
"Thank you, Subaru," the boy said weakly, dropping the honorific after some hesitation.
Subaru surveyed him for a few seconds before reaching out to push a few strands of unruly back from the boy's moist forehead. He dropped his arm and pulled the boy's crooked tie straight for him, with a faint smile on his lips as if remembering a fond memory.
Don't worry. I'm not angry with you. I still care.
That was what his actions all said together.
"Take care of yourself, Kamui," Subaru said. And then, "I'm sorry."
He left the store without another word and disappeared into a grey afternoon. He'd said too much already. Kamui just stood there, hugging the milk carton he'd been given against his chest like it was the only thing anchoring his to this earth and this life.
He shut his eyes for a long moment before opening them again and walking determinedly out of the store, absently leaving everything else behind as he headed off in another direction.
Teenagers. So easily sidetracked. It was a mistake to entrust them even with things as simple as domestic chores.
The cashier let Kamui Shirou take the milk carton for free. She didn't have the heart to accost the sixteen-year-old who was weeping inside.
The End.