Chapter Text
The supermarket is oddly scarce for an early Sunday morning...well, twelve p.m on a weekend is relatively early for an insomniac like Shouta. Still, he can’t help but notice the lack of people. Perhaps it has something to do with the farmer’s market opening for the day.
Well, whatever it is, Shouta enjoys the rare occurrence of silence.
That is until he hears a loud slap from around the corner as he walks further down the aisle, followed by a whimper that is accompanied by a click of a tongue.
“Stop whining!” Snaps a woman’s voice in irritation, “I told you not to touch anything! What if that was made of glass? They would’ve forced me to pay for something that you broke!”
Shouta’s eyebrows furrow at the drastic scolding of a mother to her child. He knows that children are clumsy at times but that doesn’t give any parent the right to hit or yell at their child, regardless of how tired of parenting they might be.
Quietly, Shouta listens in to step in if needs to.
“Wait here while I get the toilet paper. And don’t touch anything!” The woman instructs sharply to the child before making her way to aisle three - yes the insomniac has the supermarket memorized, sue him - and muttering about how annoying kids are.
Once he is sure that the mother is out of earshot, Shouta rounds the corner and searches for the boy.
The child is easy to find considering that he is the only one in the aisle. He has his head lowered, his blond bangs slightly covering his eyes. He is rubbing at his upper arm to soothe the pain where his mother, Shouta assumes, had hit him.
“Hey, kid. Are you alright?”
Shouta doesn’t mean to intervene, it is none of his business. But the disheartened display of the child tugs at his heartstrings and he can’t prevent the words from rushing through his lips.
Startled, the blond boy lifts his head and turns to face the source of voice.
Shouta is slightly astounded by the striking ruby colored eyes of the blond-haired boy, eyes glistening with unshed tears. As if the boy can read his mind, he quickly lifts his fisted hand and rubs his eyes, willing the unshed tears away.
“I’m okay.” He mutters quietly. But the slight quiver in his voice suggests otherwise. His eyes dart sideways, making sure that his mother can not hear them.
“Was that woman your mother?”
The blond says nothing but nods his head.
“Does this happen often?”
Shouta doesn’t mean to interrogate the boy - a leftover habit from his previous job as a police officer, though something deep within him urges him to do so. It warns him that this boy might be unwisely protecting his mother.
There are no bruises on display on the boy but Shouta can clearly see the pain and suffering in those ruby colored eyes. They speak loudly and they cry for help. He just doesn’t know how.
Silence meets Shouta’s ears.
Sighing, he reaches into his pocket and digs around for an old white card. It takes him a couple of seconds but he soon fishes out a crumpled white card with a name and phone number on it and slowly steps closer to the boy. “If something like this happens again, if you ever feel scared and need help, call this number.”
The boy stares at the crumpled card in his hand before glancing at Shouta.
The boy is uncertain of what to make of this situation.
Should he trust the complete stranger or not?
He has been told by his mother countless times not to talk to strangers and he knows that if he disobeys her, he will be in a lot of trouble. So, the logical thing to do is to decline the card being offered to him and walk away from the man to search for his mother. However, the sincerity in the man’s words and the kindness in his eyes has him glued to the spot.
Many adults have seen how he is treated by his mother and have done nothing about it. Yet this man is the only one who'd heard his mother hitting him and came to him to help him. Maybe he doesn’t need the card being offered to him, maybe his mother will get better when he starts growing into a big boy. Still, a voice in the back of his head advises him to take the card.
Biting his lip and scanning his surroundings, he delicately places his fingers on the crumpled white card and takes it from the older man’s hand. Starting down, he sees letters and numbers in gold.
Captain Toshinori Yagi. 550xxxxxx.
The boy looks up from the card and stares at the man.
“Call that number if anything happens. Tell him that you know Shouta.”
Upon hearing approaching footsteps, the boy’s eyes widen in alarm and he hastily shoves the card into his small pocket.
Hesitant to leave the boy on his own but knowing that he does not have concrete evidence that the child is being abused by his mother, Shouta’s grips on his shopping cart tightens, knuckles turning a nasty blend of yellow and red, before forcing his way to the cashier.
Though, something tells him that he will be encountering the blond haired boy with ruby colored eyes very soon. In his heart, he hopes that their next encounter will be a cause for jubilation, not agony. The churning of his stomach suggests the latter.