It Was Just a Carton of Milk

It was just a carton of milk.

He went out for a carton of milk.

One goddamned carton of milk.

He hadn't thought anything of it. Sure, babe, see you soon. Because it was just a carton of milk.

A carton of milk isn't supposed to change your life.

It was Sunday. They both had the day off and He had declared it Pancake Day. But they needed more milk.

The store was less than a block away, just a few minutes down the street.

Damnit, we don't have enough milk for pancakes… I'm going to the store.

They didn't need pancakes, they could just have some French toast or eggs or something, there was no need to go to the store that early on a Sunday.

He had always been particular about His pancakes.

And His pancakes needed more milk.

Don't be ridiculous. You can't have French toast on Pancake Day. It's just a carton of milk. I'll be right back.

It was just a carton of milk.

He'd be right back.

He hasn't had pancakes in months. Hasn't had milk in months. He can't. Not after…

Sure, babe. See you soon.

A smile over the shoulder. A closed door.

A carton of milk.

I'll be right back.

Sure, babe, see you soon.

A smile.

No I love you. No goodbye kiss. Because He'd be right back.

And what could be more mundane than going to buy a carton of milk?

I'll be right back.

Sure, babe. See you soon.

It was just a carton of milk. The store was right down the street.

He should have said I love you. He should have kissed Him goodbye. He should have wrapped Him in his arms and never let Him go and whispered and shouted everything he loved about Him for the world to hear and kissed Him until they couldn't breathe but how was he supposed to know?

Bad things don't happen to people who go out to buy a carton of milk.

I'll be right back.

Sure, babe. See you soon.

Except the clock was ticking far too much without Him there and where was He and He probably got caught up in the donuts or the magazines or something again and he wanted pancakes dammit and where was He?

The store was right down the street.

He liked chocolate donuts. The kind with pink frosting and sprinkles. Sometimes He'd steal his powder donuts, and sometimes the powder would stick to His upper lip in a way that just begged to be kissed off.

Might as well make coffee in the meantime. Good thing he didn't mind it black. They really did need some milk.

One carton of milk.

I'll be right back.

Sure, babe. See you soon.

His hair was always a mess. Inky black curls that invited tangled fingers and tickled the underside of his neck when they lay on the couch and got in his face when they slept. He loved His hair.

He should have told Him that. Just that. As He walked out the door. Sure, babe. See you soon. I love your hair. I love the way it feels under my fingers, love the way it looks when you wake up, love the way it reflects your personality and your wildness, and even though I snap at you for it, I love the way you lose all my hair ties when you try to tie it back, love the stray hairs I find in the sink and complain about, love everything about you.

I'll be right back.

But the clock was ticking and where was He?

His hands were constantly covered in traces of art. Ink, graphite, acrylic, sharpie, He was always marked. He had a stash of crayons and children's books He liked to color in when He was bored. Never inside the lines. Because His lines sometimes blurred and what was life without a little rebellion every now and then and crayon was never meant to stay inside the lines anyways and how dare you try to dictate the way crayons choose to live their life, isn't that a little hypocritical, oh Mister Equality? And sometimes the graphite would transfer from one body to another, and sometimes the dried paint would chip off and he'd find it later on the couch.

Sure, babe. See you soon. I love that painting you did for our bedroom. I found your old sketchbook months ago, the one with all the pictures of me you never told me about. They were beautiful. You're beautiful. Beautiful and talented and I love your hands and their color stains and I'll love them even more after you've used them to make me those pancakes.

Twenty minutes. Who took twenty minutes to go to the store?

A carton of milk shouldn't take twenty minutes.

A carton of milk shouldn't change your life.

I'll be right back.

Sure, babe. See you soon. I know we argue a lot, but I love our debates. You become so alive and so passionate and your eyes become so much bluer and I sit there thinking I spent two days working on that argument, how did you tear it down so fast like that? I love the way you smirk when you realize you've got me stumped, and you're so smart and so amazing and I love your smile and your voice and the way you can't fall asleep on your right side and the Spiderman band aids you always keep in the cupboard and you're the Best Goddamn Thing that's ever happened to me, you hear me?

How was he supposed to know?

How was he supposed to know that twenty minutes would turn into 40 would turn into a text message would turn into a phone call would turn into a voicemail would turn to worry?

It's just a carton of milk.

I'll be right back.

Sure, babe. See you soon. I love you.

Even something so simple as that. Why didn't he say anything?

Because bad things don't happen to people going to the store to buy a carton of milk.

And worry turned into a second phone call and then a third and a fourth unanswered turned to fear turned into jamming sneakers onto feet and running out the door.

Black sneakers, ripped near the toe, coming away from the rubber soles, laces frayed, a little too big. They weren't his sneakers.

Feet pounding, chest heaving, I'll be right back, I'll be right back, I'll be right back, Sure, babe, see you soon.

Sometimes they would buy Chinese from the place around the corner and walk back, hand in hand, down this street to the apartment.

I'll be right back.

Sure, babe. See you soon.

They'd had their first kiss under that lamppost. He had cradled his face so gently, leaned in so softly, kissed him so tenderly, so much happiness, so much hope, so much love.

And he could feel the beginnings of a blister on his foot because they weren't his shoes and the socks weren't clean because he'd hadn't had time and He never washed the whites because he hated Sock Duty and He'd slipped on the last clean pair before going to the store and he wasn't supposed to need socks that morning anyways because He said that it was Pancake Day.

I'll be right back. I'll be right back.

And he skidded to a stop because there was the carton of milk and there were the last clean pair of socks and there He was but this wasn't exactly soon and why was the milk trickling down the sidewalk and why was it so pink?

He still can't drink milk. It's been months and he still can't drink milk. Can't even walk past the goddamn aisle.

And he pushed through the crowd and confusion turned into terror turned into panic and what happened to yous went unanswered and grasping fingers found no embrace and the blood was everywhere and He was so pale, so so pale but He was still warm and it was just a carton of milk.

I'll be right back.

Sure, babe. See you soon.

No. Nonono this couldn't be happening.

He went to the store to buy a carton of milk. He was going to be right back, He was going to make them pancakes for Pancake Day and they were going to wash the dishes together and maybe curl up and watch a movie and He wasn't supposed to be lying on the ground bent like that, bleeding and pale and oh God He wasn't breathing and he was screaming and somebody help, somebody HELP because the Best Goddamn Thing in his life went out to the store down the street to buy a carton of milk for Pancake Day and now His blood was all over his hands and He wasn't breathing and HELP.

And the sirens came and the voices spoke and he heard nothing because he never said I love you that morning and He left without a kiss and he didn't understand.

Bad things don't happen to people who go out to buy milk for Pancake Day on a Sunday morning.

Drunk drivers aren't a threat on Sunday morning trips to buy milk.

People don't hit beautiful, gorgeous, intelligent, witty, kind, caring, talented,amazing, inky haired men and drive away from His crumpled body on a Sunday morning.

I'll be right back I'll be right back I'll be right back.

Except He was getting cold and he heard them say the hospital won't be necessary and somehow it didn't seem like he'd be seeing Him soon at all and this was all wrong so wrong so so wrong because an hour ago He had been joking and smiling and flicking flour at him and this morning he woke up in His arms and He was so warm and soft and alive and now He wasn't.

He wasn't.

I'll be right back.

Sure, babe. See you soon.

How was he supposed to know? If he had known… God, if he had known…

It was just a carton of milk.

I love you I love you I love you I love you. But there was no smile, no response, and His lips didn't kiss back no matter how hard he kissed them and that was all wrong because there always always always was and they always always always did.

He told Him they didn't need to have pancakes that day but He'd insisted. He let Him leave without an I love you, without a goodbye kiss, without a goodbye at all.

Strong arms pried him off the still chest, words he didn't hear mumbled consolingly in his ear, but someone was crying, someone was screaming, someone needed help but wait that someone was him but he couldn't stop.

A smile tossed over a shoulder. How often had He sent him one of those throughout the year? If he had known… If he had known he would have counted each one, photographed them, memorized the way His eyes crinkled and His hair fell around His face, cherished each absentminded smile like the most precious treasure it was.

If he had known…

Memorized the way His lips curved around his name, memorized the scratch in His voice when He'd just woken up, the lazy smiles in the morning, the way His ears wiggled when He laughed, the scars on his Hands from vigorous art projects and bar fights, every different shade of blue in those blue, blue eyes. The way His hands felt as they ghosted down his chest, fisted in his hair. The way their lips fit together, His taste, His touch, His smell, the sounds He made when He stretched like cat after finishing a new painting, the way He scratched His neck when He was nervous.

How could he have taken it all for granted?

It was just a carton of milk.

This was never supposed to happen.

I'll be right back.

Sure, babe. See you soon.

So much red. Red everywhere. He'd always loved red. He used to paint him in red – red for fire, red for passion, red for love.

He never wanted to see the color red again.

And His eyes weren't as blue anymore, because the light behind them had gone out and how could this happen? He was the unstoppable force, the one who never gave up, the one who used His cynicism to fuel his hope. He was his guiding light, the crackling fire welcoming him back home when he started to lose his way, the sun when he started to lose his sight, the melting inferno when his heart started to freeze into indifference. He could look out into a crowd and see those blue, blue eyes and know but those blue eyes weren't quite so blue and it was all wrong and he couldn't see anymore because the world was covered in a layer of saltwater.

He went out for a carton of milk.

I'll be right back.

He never told him he loved him that morning.

He wanted to close his eyes, block out the image of Him lying so cold, so pale, so broken, so empty, so he could remember that smile, His voice, the way He said his name, the way He looked that one day on the beach, the way His stubble scratched against his skin. But maybe this was the last time he'd ever see Him again and he couldn't do that because sometimes goodbyes are final and you don't realize, you don't know, because how could you ever know and he'd never forgive himself if he wasted those last few moments with Him with eyes closed like an ungrateful coward.

How was he supposed to know?

He'd learned his lesson. He would not look away. Because he was so, so grateful. Because the man on the ground was the Best Goddamn Thing in his life and he loved Him with his every cell and nerve ending and half-formed thought and he couldn't be cowardly now. Because He deserved that.

He deserved that.

He deserved so much more. He deserved an endless supply of Pancake Days and Chinese takeout nights and kisses in the rain and sandcastles on the beach and paint stained hands and laugh lines and wrinkles and white hair and an endless stream of I love yous.

But he went out for a carton of milk.

He'd be right back.

But he wasn't.

He visits Him every day now. There are trees, grass, a playground not too far off. He can hear the children playing if he listens closely. There's a low wall nearby, with a beautiful, peaceful mural in soft blues and greens and it's calming and He would have hated it, but life isn't fair and apparently death isn't either and maybe He knew that and maybe that's why He was so cynical because that's a pretty shit deal if you ask him.

Here, he says everything. Because now he knows. He knows that bad things do happen to people who go out to buy milk for Pancake Day, that drunk drivers are a threat on Sunday mornings, that people are capable of hitting beautiful, gorgeous, intelligent, witty, kind, caring, talented, amazing, inky haired men and driving away from His crumpled body on a bright Sunday morning on Pancake Day.

He knows that each goodbye could be the last. That I love yous should never be neglected. That goodbye kisses are priceless, that goodbyes are precious.

So when he leaves, he is sure to whisper an I love you as he kisses the cool marble – and the irony is not lost on him, because now He is the marble, and now he is broken, shattered, glass.

I'll be right back, he whispers.

Sure, babe. See you soon.

A/N: I was feeling a little angsty... I love experimenting with stream of consciousness. Let me know your thoughts :-)