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Navigating the grocery store any time between just before Halloween until right after Valentine's Day is, objectively, a nightmare. All Keith wants to do is go in, get his usual bare minimum of groceries and a few snacks, and get the hell out before some middle aged lady with a bee-hive hairdo runs him over for standing in front of her gluten free pie crusts.
He's caught more shade here just trying to navigate the sea of scrabbling humanity with his basket than he ever had in the years spent in an overcrowded foster system. It's almost impressive how aggressive these blue-haired ladies can be when it comes down to the last honey ham, and he's not even trying to reach for the same food.
So really, nobody can blame him when he finds himself slinking around the store like a skittish cat, waiting to get rammed in the ankles by someone's impatient aunt because he's taking too long picking out which flavor of instant noodles he's going to splurge on this time. To make matters worse, they've been blaring the same terrible Christmas music for the last six weeks, and he's about ready to go on a rampage if he hears the opening bars to Santa Baby one more time. He's even taking to shopping with ear plugs in a vain effort to drown it out – but really all it means is that he can't hear the old bats snipping at him behind his back until they're hip-checking him out of the way in the canned goods aisle.
Which is exactly how he finds himself in his current predicament.
The first muffled strains of Last Christmas come on the PA and he shoves the earplugs in deeper with a scowl, hunching over the basket on his arm as he peruses the cans of soup, trying to find the best deal. There's a squawk behind him, indistinct but sharp in tone, and he shuffles closer to the shelf just in case.
Apparently, this was not the desired action.
One gnarled hand finds its way to his elbow, moving him roughly as a lady as old time itself scowls at him. Her lips are moving, jowls flapping in her agitation, but he can't hear a word. He shakes his head and points to his earplugs.
“I can't hear y-”
She leans hard onto her cart, ramming it into his shins and sending him hopping backward with a shout of surprise, which of course sends him into another scowling woman who elbows him off, spinning his momentum until he's tripping over his own feet and careening head first into the giant snowman made of different stacked boxes of cookies.
At least they're made of cardboard soft enough to break his fall.
He barely gets his free arm up in time to shield his face before the whole things comes crashing down on him with a clatter that he knows is cacophonous even through the earplugs. Cookie boxes rain down on him for what feels like hours, bouncing off his head and shoulders as he tries to curl into a defensive ball. He can only hope that the packaging keeps them all safe... he really can't afford to pay for all of these if anything is broken.
Finally silence – save for the muffled warbling of the PA. Keith cracks his eyes open, lowering his protective arm to evaluate the fallout.
It looks like a battlefield, dented cookie boxes strewn four aisles in every direction and a crowd of sneering old ladies judging him, like they weren't the ones that shoved him into the display in the first place. The whole thing is a loss, except the items in his basket that he'd managed to curl over – a package of soup and some bread to go with the milk and apples. Still, he has a feeling that they're not just going to let him check out and slink home after this.
The sudden hand on his shoulder nearly gives him a heart attack, making him whip around wide-eyed to catch the sympathetic grey eyes of an employee. His lips are moving around a pained smile, but Keith can't hear a word.
“What?” he asks, probably too loud judging by the man's wince, then remembers to yank his earplugs out with a blush. “Sorry, uhm... shit... I'm so sorry, I didn't catch that-”
“It's fine, you're good.” The man's hand squeezes before moving to help Keith stand in the middle of the wreckage. “Are you hurt at all?”
Of course, he's probably worried about litigation – making sure Keith didn't slip and die and won't come back to sue them.
“I'm fine,” Keith sighs, grimacing at the mess around him, “just my pride and a bruised elbow.”
The man's face twists in concern. “Do you need an ice pack, or... I dunno, anything?”
“Nah, I'm just...” Keith shakes his head, trying to push down the rising panic that lumps in his throat. “I don't know how I'm gonna pay for these or-”
“Don't worry about that,” the man assures him, waving away the thought as soon as it's spoken, “that wasn't your fault at all... and I know that some people can be awfully aggressive this time of year.”
The man scowls into the aisles, effectively shaming the flock of gawking hens into minding their own business for once. Keith can't help but be appreciative – not only of the understand he's shown, but of the broad shoulders and trim waist that his apron accentuates.
“Yeah, thanks man...” Keith brushes himself off, thankful that he showered before he came here, even if he's now dusted in a light coating of cookie crumbs. “I owe you one I guess... sorry you have to clean all this up.”
“Not a problem at all.” The hand on his shoulder falls away before the man offers it out to shake – Keith almost startles at the metallic sheen, it had been so warm and responsive, he never would have guessed it was anything but flesh and blood. “My name is Shiro, by the way, if you need anything.”
“Keith.” He takes the hand and gives it a pump, enjoying the way Shiro's fingers tighten around his own. “I can help though, I mean... I wasn't doing much today besides getting a few groceries.” He gestures down to the basket, and then around at the mess with a shrug. “I feel bad.”
“You're not the one that should feel bad about anything.” Shiro's firm tone sends a shiver down Keith's spine, and he's glad the scowl isn't directed at him. “Frankly I'm more appalled at people's behavior with every passing year.” He shakes his head with a sigh before turning back to smile at Keith. “But enough of my soapbox... really, don't worry about a thing... in fact, I'd like to get your groceries for you as an apology.”
“Oh, no!” Keith shakes his head, eyes wide as Shiro looks at him, painfully earnest. “It's nothing, I mean... it's no big deal, I'm good, I'm not gonna sue or anything.”
“It's not about that,” Shiro insists with a stubborn set to his jaw, “consider it a holiday gift from a friend, then.” He glances down at Keith's meager basket again. “And maybe we can get you a little more than the stop-gap necessities.”
“Really, that's super not necessary,” Keith squeaks, even as Shiro curls an arm around his shoulder and leads him through the blast radius of cookie detritus, “I'm fine, and you don't even know me, you really don't have to-”
“Consider this the start of our friendship then, Keith.” Shiro beams down at him, like a man who knows exactly what he wants out of life and currently has it tucked under his arm. “Now, lets get you some groceries and on your way... I think you deserve it after dealing with these people.”
“Oh, okay... well...” Keith blinks up at him, finally letting the shy smile that he's been holding back creep across his face at the man's enthusiasm. It doesn't hurt that he's boyishly handsome and exactly Keith's type... and having a friend doesn't sound like the worst thing in the world. “Sure... help me pick out something then, and maybe I'll make you a 'thank you' dinner tonight? Since you've been so helpful...”
“Sounds like a plan, Keith.” The hand around his shoulder squeezes as Shiro leads him toward the noodle aisle. “How do you feel about mac and cheese?”
Keith leaves the grocery store with a cart full of food, a number in his phone, and butterflies in his stomach.
Maybe this time of year isn't entirely shit after all.