The child is small, he notes. He's no expert on children, but he's seen enough ten year olds to know that this one is small, and scrawny. Inaho wants to know if it is genetic or the result of mistreatment. Is the child eating well? Is he eating nutritious food? Does someone take care in what is prepared for him? Or is he living on Paris bakeries, American fast food, Pizza delivery, and instant coffee? The thought is inherently disturbing, and does not ease his concerns in the least. It is already too much that the child is alone. Far, far too much.
Inaho tries not to let it bother him, but it is not easy. He focuses on the child. On the bob of his hair, on the downward tilt of those eyes, on the cute little cheeks that will give way as he grows, on the nervous worrying of his fingers. There is a lot to focus on, a lot to notice.
He picks up a pack of coffee beans, the best in the store from what he can see, and looks down at the child. "This is much better." Inaho states, as he shows the product to the child. For being such a young child, the boy dutifully takes the package from him, and looks it over with what Inaho calls a critical eye. It reminds him of many things, but he keeps that to himself, deep and buried in years of loss and loneliness. Now is not the time.
The child shakes his head diminutively, and looks up at him with skittish eyes that blink and divert quickly. "We don't have a coffee grinder, sir."
That is easily fixed. "I'm sure they have them here." Inaho states. He thinks how he should be looking for them, but his eyes are still on the child, as his blue-green eyes appraise the two things of coffee in his hands. "I'm sure they're close by."
The child doesn't meet his eyes, just shakes his head once more. "My dad wouldn't like something like that. He always drinks instant."
Inaho contemplates the answer, and finds it a suitable thing, though he has no concept of why any sane adult would object to owning a coffee grinder. He is also somewhat pleased that the coffee is for the father, and not the child. Children should not drink high doses of caffeine. It's bad for them.
He looks at the display of coffee, and picks out a better brand of instant coffee instead. He offers it to the child, taking the coffee beans away, and placing them back on the shelf. "For instant coffee, this is better."
The child nods his head softly, and takes the offered coffee. By this time, Inaho notices that the store attendant has started to hover around their isle. He doesn't really do anything, but he's sort of meandering one isle over, organizing things, looking at other things. There are plenty of reasons for this, but Inaho has a suspicion he knows exactly why.
It seems that he is a new variable. Just as the clerk at the bakery knew the child, this attendant also does. The child must be living close by, and likely makes a trip to these places rather often. This is a relief, because the probability of finding the child again is that much higher, but it also implies that the clerk of the store has a decent understanding that Inaho is new. That Inaho does not belong in this image. These are all likely silly paranoia on his part, but he won't take any chances. The last thing he needs is some stranger making accusations that might get them separated for a time. He doesn't even have the child's name. He needs that.
"It costs more..." The child's soft voice takes him away from his thoughts, and he once again has eyes only for the small child next to him. He wonders if his neck will ever get tired of looking down, before he answers that question with an aggressive no, no never.
Inaho cocks his head to the side just a little. He stays mindful of the store clerk, who's eyes are turned away, but who is no doubt listening intently. "That isn't a problem. I'll buy it for you so he can try it. He can decide if it is something he prefers."
The child looks up at him, his eyes generally disbelieving. "N-no thank you, sir..." the stutter is back. He has likely been too forward. The child probably doesn't understand. Probably because it doesn't actually make sense for a stranger to give things to him, but that's fine. It's all fine as long as the damned clerk doesn't call the police or haul him away before he gets a name. That is the most important factor here.
Inaho shakes his head once. "It's not an issue. It isn't expensive for me, and I am sure your father will prefer it. Is your father here so that you can ask him?" The answer is no of course. There are no supervising adults other than he, and the very nosy, suspicious store clerk one isle over. That irks him, that the child is left all alone, but it is something that he lets go for the moment.
The child shakes his head softly. "He's still at the hotel sleeping." A hotel. That solves a few more problems. He can calibrate where the closest hotels are, and cross reference their list of inhabitants. That's something he's capable of, but there is the possibility that the child will be gone within a day or so. It is not enough, but it is a start. He must narrow that search.
"And your mother? Surely she is awake already."
The child shakes his head again, but does not elaborate this time. The weight that comes over him, seems to imply that she is dead. Inaho knows how that looks, watched Yuki wear the same face for years and years. He regrets asking. It was impersonal. It doesn't stop him from asking the next question. "Are you in Paris on holiday?" The more appropriate question is why are you not in school, but Inaho does not ask that. Being too direct has gotten him little so far, he needs to make more prudent moves.
The child shakes his head again, but this time it is a bit more animated; it is not a sad gesture. "For my father's work." The child states, looking up at him more inquisitively than before. Perhaps the father is a neutral topic. Odd to consider, but none the less something he can work with.
"Then I will get you the coffee. A working man needs good coffee." He can see the child start to shake his head again, but before the child can object, he speaks again. "I insist."
And with that, it is simply so. The child doesn't protest, though he looks uncomfortable as Inaho takes the coffee in his hands, and the two of them travel to the counter to pay for it. The clerk eyes him suspiciously, but Inaho does not mind him. Inaho looks down at the child again. "How long will you and your father be in Paris?" He buys the coffee, and carefully pulls a folded canvas bag out of his pocket. It has 'The Eye Print Project!' stamped on it, along with the image of a blue eye who's color is nothing but rubbish compared to the splendor of its base. It was a marketing ploy to raise more funds, hatched up by one of his interns. It also has his name, scrawled in messy sharpie, on the inside. He puts the coffee inside it, and hands it to the child. It is perhaps to obvious, but he will deal with that when the time is necessary.
"Two weeks, I think." States the child, studying the bag for a few seconds, before he looks up at Inaho, and his eyes are even more inquisitive than before. "I read about this study in my dad's magazines." the child states. All Inaho can do is blink in surprise. "He gets lots of magazines for work. I like to read them. Sometimes, I don't understand everything, but I understood this one." The child is smiling at him. It is the first time the child has done so, and Inaho is finding it difficult to breathe. The child seems pleased that he knows something that an adult does. He is smart, Inaho realizes. Very, very smart, and Inaho is very, very happy. "It sounded like a book, or a movie, but it's real. It sounds really hard, finding one person. The world is really big, but it's amazing that someone is doing that." The child looks down at the bag again, his eyes rest on the blue of the eye printed on it. "The magazine said he's been looking for more then five years. That's a long time. I hope he finds who he's looking for." The statement is almost wistful, and it strikes him as strange to hear, from a child so young. There is a soft smile on his face, as if the child is also remembering something past his years. "The person he's looking for must be really important."
"He is." It is out of his mouth, before Inaho can rein it back in, before he can compose every cell and organism that make up the being that is him. He must compose himself. He should have expected something like this, but he didn't. Never in a million years would he have expected this blessing, and it leaves him stunned and reassured in the validity of all that is right with the world. Even though it took her away, it has given him this, and he has never been more grateful for this child.
Those eye are on him, those bright, inquisitive eyes that want to know what he means, that want to understand. He cannot do this now, he cannot fall to his knees in this market, with the clerk looking at him as if he is some sort of molester, he simply cannot, even if the world is spinning and his knees are weak, and his palms are sweaty, and he wants to just pick this child up and carry him home. It would all be over in a flash, one phone call, so he holds it all in. He diverts. "He has been, I mean. He has been looking for over five years."
The child's face does not drop, but he can see it calm. He can almost imagine this child, belly down on a hotel bed, leafing through scientific periodicals, speeding through library books, giggling and pondering and excited about all he reads. At this rate, he is going to go crazy. "It is a large project." He states it, because he must fill this with sound, with something, or it will become obvious that his heart is bleeding onto the floor like a fool. "It could take many, many years."
The child nods, and puts his items on the counter. The clerk continues to look at Inaho suspiciously, but rings the items up. "I understand." The child says, and he looks very far away for a moment, and it ages him more than it should. "My dad is working on a big project too. He's always had it." The child looks down at the oversized billfold gripped in his hands, and carefully takes out the money he will need for the exchange. "His friends say it keeps him busy." The child finally says, after what seems like a very long pause that only really lasts a few seconds.
Inaho knows how to read between the lines. "Is he always busy?" Inaho already knows the answer, but he decide to give this faceless man the benefit of the doubt. He isn't sure if fate has put them in this place together for any other reason, but he will discern that soon enough.
The child nods once, his eyes down and melancholy as he takes the change that the clerk offers him, and puts it in the large billfold. "Yes."
It is not a good enough answer.